and suspicion.
‘You are tired,’ he said. ‘Let my staff show you to your quarters. When you’ve rested, we’ll meet again.’
And with that, he pressed the button for the door to be opened. A young soldier glanced nervously into the room, confirming with a quick head count that both the president and the surgeon were, at this stage, still alive.
The dictator was not expecting to see Mrs Sampras again until the next day. Despite the cancer inside him, he was confident that he was not one of those weaklings who would die in seven days, but rather that he had the full half-year. He did not understand statistics and the law of averages, but he had often achieved what experts considered impossible and would no doubt do so again.
To help himself be patient, he visited those rooms within the government building where information was collated. Happily, he found an information collation session in progress, and urged the collators not to feel inhibited just because he was watching. An hour passed, then it was time for a meal.
Late in the afternoon, the dictator was surprised to learn that Mrs Sampras was ready to see him again. She’d had plenty of rest, she said, and the sooner the preparations for the operation were underway, the better.
In the golden afternoon light, Mrs Sampras looked subtly different. She had changed her clothes, washed and groomed her hair. The overcoat was gone, and she looked every inch a woman.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘you understand there are grave risks in any surgical operation.’
‘Of course,’ the dictator said. ‘For the surgeon no less than for the patient.’
‘More for the patient, I would have thought,’ suggested Mrs Sampras.
‘Oh no, I’m sure the risk is equal,’ the dictator begged to differ. ‘A death affects not just the person him or herself, but spouses, children … It’s a … what is the word I’m looking for? A knock-on effect.’
Mrs Sampras was tired of standing. She half-perched on one corner of the great desk, crossing her long legs over each other.
‘What is your blood type?’ she enquired coolly.
‘Blood type?’
‘Yes. A, B, B positive, O …’
‘How complicated,’ the dictator smiled. ‘I have a man’s blood.’
‘Nevertheless I must know its clinical type.’
The dictator shrugged and spread his hands, open-palmed. Such knowledge was a luxury too rarefied for one whose only concern was the good of his nation.
Mrs Sampras opened her satchel and extracted the disposable hypodermic.
‘I must take a sample of your blood from you,’ she said, motioning him to bare his right arm.
He tried to push the sleeve of his suit jacket up, but it was too stiff. So, he removed the garment, hanging it carefully over the back of his armchair. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Despite the unhurried deliberateness of his exertions, Mrs Sampras noted he was breathing heavily, his lips paler and bluer, his nose more purple.
Seated once more, the dictator extended his naked forearm across the desk towards her. She took hold of it with her warm, dry hands, testing the elasticity of his mottled flesh. She applied a leather tourniquet, and stroked a vein, encouraging it to swell up for her.
‘You have a touch like velvet,’ the dictator said. ‘And beautiful fingers.’
Mrs Sampras removed the plastic sheath from the needle of the hypodermic.
‘Just a little prick,’ she said.
The next morning, the dictator’s blood had been tested and the result made available for Mrs Sampras to peruse. She could not recall, in her days as a state surgeon, such speed and efficiency being possible. Either the country had modernised since she’d been removed from its mainstream, or heaven and earth had been moved for the great leader.
‘You are B positive,’ she informed him.
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Common, very common,’ she said.
‘Good,’ the dictator beamed. ‘That means the hospital will have it in plentiful supply, yes?’
‘In
‘You are tired,’ he said. ‘Let my staff show you to your quarters. When you’ve rested, we’ll meet again.’
And with that, he pressed the button for the door to be opened. A young soldier glanced nervously into the room, confirming with a quick head count that both the president and the surgeon were, at this stage, still alive.
The dictator was not expecting to see Mrs Sampras again until the next day. Despite the cancer inside him, he was confident that he was not one of those weaklings who would die in seven days, but rather that he had the full half-year. He did not understand statistics and the law of averages, but he had often achieved what experts considered impossible and would no doubt do so again.
To help himself be patient, he visited those rooms within the government building where information was collated. Happily, he found an information collation session in progress, and urged the collators not to feel inhibited just because he was watching. An hour passed, then it was time for a meal.
Late in the afternoon, the dictator was surprised to learn that Mrs Sampras was ready to see him again. She’d had plenty of rest, she said, and the sooner the preparations for the operation were underway, the better.
In the golden afternoon light, Mrs Sampras looked subtly different. She had changed her clothes, washed and groomed her hair. The overcoat was gone, and she looked every inch a woman.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘you understand there are grave risks in any surgical operation.’
‘Of course,’ the dictator said. ‘For the surgeon no less than for the patient.’
‘More for the patient, I would have thought,’ suggested Mrs Sampras.
‘Oh no, I’m sure the risk is equal,’ the dictator begged to differ. ‘A death affects not just the person him or herself, but spouses, children … It’s a … what is the word I’m looking for? A knock-on effect.’
Mrs Sampras was tired of standing. She half-perched on one corner of the great desk, crossing her long legs over each other.
‘What is your blood type?’ she enquired coolly.
‘Blood type?’
‘Yes. A, B, B positive, O …’
‘How complicated,’ the dictator smiled. ‘I have a man’s blood.’
‘Nevertheless I must know its clinical type.’
The dictator shrugged and spread his hands, open-palmed. Such knowledge was a luxury too rarefied for one whose only concern was the good of his nation.
Mrs Sampras opened her satchel and extracted the disposable hypodermic.
‘I must take a sample of your blood from you,’ she said, motioning him to bare his right arm.
He tried to push the sleeve of his suit jacket up, but it was too stiff. So, he removed the garment, hanging it carefully over the back of his armchair. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Despite the unhurried deliberateness of his exertions, Mrs Sampras noted he was breathing heavily, his lips paler and bluer, his nose more purple.
Seated once more, the dictator extended his naked forearm across the desk towards her. She took hold of it with her warm, dry hands, testing the elasticity of his mottled flesh. She applied a leather tourniquet, and stroked a vein, encouraging it to swell up for her.
‘You have a touch like velvet,’ the dictator said. ‘And beautiful fingers.’
Mrs Sampras removed the plastic sheath from the needle of the hypodermic.
‘Just a little prick,’ she said.
The next morning, the dictator’s blood had been tested and the result made available for Mrs Sampras to peruse. She could not recall, in her days as a state surgeon, such speed and efficiency being possible. Either the country had modernised since she’d been removed from its mainstream, or heaven and earth had been moved for the great leader.
‘You are B positive,’ she informed him.
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Common, very common,’ she said.
‘Good,’ the dictator beamed. ‘That means the hospital will have it in plentiful supply, yes?’
‘In
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