City of Dreams by Beverly Swerling Page B

Lucas had never seen it done, had never even seen a drawing of it in a book. He had only heard the story at age sixteen from surgeons he wasn’t supposed to be listening to, since he was an apprentice barber.
    “Dear God, Turner,” Stuyvesant’s voice was a harsh whisper, “I’m begging you. Don’t let her die.”
    Lucas still had his arm behind Judith Bayard’s frail shoulders. He could feel her agony as if it were his own. Her fight to draw breath was becoming a death throe: her face was turning blue. There were only moments left.
    Lucas flung the pillows aside and lowered her head. “My instrument case! Over there by the door!”
    Seconds later the small lancet was in his hand.
    Stuyvesant had thought to bring the candle as well. He held it above his wife’s head. Lucas used his free hand to draw the skin of her throat taut. He heard yet another of the woman’s high-pitched, wavering attempts to breathe. His blade hovered over the depression between the throat and the clavicle. For the first time ever he could remember, his hand trembled.
    Nonetheless, he cut.
    The blood oozed. He had not, thank God, severed any of the major arteries that lay so dangerously close to the trachea. The wheezing stopped. Lucas dropped the knife on the bedclothes and used both hands to spread the wound. Four air bubbles, one right after another in rapid succession, then more, in a slow but steady rhythm.
    “What’s happening?” Stuyvesant’s voice was weak. “Judith,” he whispered. “My dear … Englishman, is she gone?”
    “Your wife is alive, Governor. And a little more comfortable.” The light of the candle grew brighter as the other man leaned forward. “Look right there,” Lucas said. “Between my fingers. Those air bubbles. They are caused by her lungs taking in air directly through the windpipe.”
    “God in heaven. It’s a miracle.”
    “No, Governor. Distemper of the throat chokes the patient to death. I have bypassed the throat and opened another airway. The lungs are designed to take in and expel air. They will do so by whatever passage it arrives.”
    “Then,” Stuyvesant said softly, “I repeat: the design is a miracle. A gift from Almighty God.” He put a hand on his wife’s forehead. “She is much cooler.”
    “Indeed. It was the breaking of the fever that caused the crisis.”
    “Barber, this opening in her throat … Must she always breathe so?”
    “No, of course not. We will close the wound in a few days. When the distemper has passed and the mevrouw is fully recovered. For now I must find some way to keep the passage open. Severino, the Italian who devised this technique”—Lucas was speaking more to himself than to the Dutchman—“they say he designed as well an ivory tube to insert … Governor, send someone to fetch me some of the tall reeds that grow over by the waterfront. The ones with hollow centers.”

It was Anna Stuyvesant who saw Lucas to the door. “We are once more in your debt, Englishman,” she said quietly. “On behalf of my brother and my sister-in-law, I thank you.”
    “I am glad I was able to help, mevrouw.”
    “So am I. Now you must tell me the fee for your services. That way we can have it ready when you return tomorrow to attend my sister-in-law.”
    He thought of asking for sixty guilders. But he knew he wouldn’t get it. The most he’d ever been paid for an operation was two. “There is no fee.”
    Anna Stuyvesant raised her eyebrows. “Yes, there is.” A suggestion of a smile, but she didn’t allow it to form. “We have experience of your ‘free’ services, barber. Will you tell me what you wish to have, or will you wait and discuss it with my brother?”
    “I’d as leave tell you, mevrouw. If you promise to pass on the request.”
    “Of course.”
    “The hospital. I wish to—”
    “The governor will not put the hospital under your charge, barber. To be frank, I suggested it earlier. After the leeches ki— After the Widow Kulik died. The