is no need. It is straightforward, and there will be no complicat—' He stopped, and, still holding my handbag, I looked up at him. 'Perhaps you would choose another doctor?' His expression had closed.
He couldn't see the great guilt I carried. It was so heavy. And ugly, like the scar.
'I can recommend one of my colleagues. Even to have a second opinion. This is natural, Miss O'Shea.'
I didn't want to be here. The antiseptic smell of the hospital, the sounds of the nurses' rubber shoes on the floors, the occasional quiet cry from behind a door . . . it was too real. I never wanted to come here again. I just wanted to go home, and stay within the security of my own walls.
'I'm not afraid,' I said. My voice was a little too loud, my words a little too fast. Did he hear it, know that I was lying? I sensed he was very astute. 'I just don't know if it's worth it — the time and energy — to bother with. It doesn't matter to me, and it surely doesn't matter to anyone else. I have no vanity, I can assure you, Dr Duverger.'
His eyebrows rose. 'You don't feel you are worth it, Miss O'Shea?' He waited for an answer, but I was silent until he eventually shrugged. 'If this is the case, of course it's your right.' He stood. 'I'm only sorry you care so little for yourself. To carry this mark for ever is not necessary.'
He left then, and I stayed where I was. After some time I lifted the hand mirror and again studied my reflection. Eventually I put the mirror back on the desk, and went outside to Mr Barlow's truck.
There was no way to explain to the doctor that while yes, part of the reason I didn't want the minor surgery was because I really was afraid — not of pain, but of the horrible memories and feelings the hospital brought back — more importantly, the scar would be my reminder. A reminder of the kind of person I was, and what my stubbornness had wrought. It was necessary to carry it.
SEVEN
I spent a week in Tangier.
It was quite clear that word travelled quickly throughout the twisting alleys and bustling souks, for apart from Elizabeth Pandy, I had mentioned only to Omar — the boy who had carried my bags to my room my first day in Tangier — that I was looking for someone with a car to take me to Rabat. But almost immediately a seemingly endless array of men came to the front door of the Hotel Continental. They were stopped by the doorman, and not allowed inside the grand lobby. They waited until I was called and came to meet them.
Most of them immediately proved unsuitable, for they didn't possess a car. They assumed I would provide it, but I explained, either in French, or through Arab translation provided by Omar, that I did not wish to find a car and attempt to purchase it.
I needed a driver and a car, I stressed over and over.
During those first days I learned a great deal about the North African attribute of persuasion. Some said they had a cousin with a car; others said they would find me a car. One arrived who said he didn't yet know how to drive, but surely, once he was actually in a car, he would figure it out. A few did own a vehicle, or had at least borrowed it. But when they showed me the automobile, always with considerable pride, I politely and firmly thanked them but told them it would not work out.
Some of the cars were so rusted they had little floor left; most had no doors or roof. The tyres on all of them were dangerously flat. One enterprising fellow had hitched two donkeys to the front of a car with no engine.
The early summer days were warm and fragrant, the scent of orange blossom everywhere. But I was overcome with frustration and anxiousness. Each day I didn't leave for Marrakesh was another day wasted, and when I couldn't bear to sit in my room or the lobby for another minute, I distracted myself by going to Le Grand Socco — the Large Square. I was told by the concierge that while it was safe for me to walk about the main streets during the daylight hours, I would be better off not to
He couldn't see the great guilt I carried. It was so heavy. And ugly, like the scar.
'I can recommend one of my colleagues. Even to have a second opinion. This is natural, Miss O'Shea.'
I didn't want to be here. The antiseptic smell of the hospital, the sounds of the nurses' rubber shoes on the floors, the occasional quiet cry from behind a door . . . it was too real. I never wanted to come here again. I just wanted to go home, and stay within the security of my own walls.
'I'm not afraid,' I said. My voice was a little too loud, my words a little too fast. Did he hear it, know that I was lying? I sensed he was very astute. 'I just don't know if it's worth it — the time and energy — to bother with. It doesn't matter to me, and it surely doesn't matter to anyone else. I have no vanity, I can assure you, Dr Duverger.'
His eyebrows rose. 'You don't feel you are worth it, Miss O'Shea?' He waited for an answer, but I was silent until he eventually shrugged. 'If this is the case, of course it's your right.' He stood. 'I'm only sorry you care so little for yourself. To carry this mark for ever is not necessary.'
He left then, and I stayed where I was. After some time I lifted the hand mirror and again studied my reflection. Eventually I put the mirror back on the desk, and went outside to Mr Barlow's truck.
There was no way to explain to the doctor that while yes, part of the reason I didn't want the minor surgery was because I really was afraid — not of pain, but of the horrible memories and feelings the hospital brought back — more importantly, the scar would be my reminder. A reminder of the kind of person I was, and what my stubbornness had wrought. It was necessary to carry it.
SEVEN
I spent a week in Tangier.
It was quite clear that word travelled quickly throughout the twisting alleys and bustling souks, for apart from Elizabeth Pandy, I had mentioned only to Omar — the boy who had carried my bags to my room my first day in Tangier — that I was looking for someone with a car to take me to Rabat. But almost immediately a seemingly endless array of men came to the front door of the Hotel Continental. They were stopped by the doorman, and not allowed inside the grand lobby. They waited until I was called and came to meet them.
Most of them immediately proved unsuitable, for they didn't possess a car. They assumed I would provide it, but I explained, either in French, or through Arab translation provided by Omar, that I did not wish to find a car and attempt to purchase it.
I needed a driver and a car, I stressed over and over.
During those first days I learned a great deal about the North African attribute of persuasion. Some said they had a cousin with a car; others said they would find me a car. One arrived who said he didn't yet know how to drive, but surely, once he was actually in a car, he would figure it out. A few did own a vehicle, or had at least borrowed it. But when they showed me the automobile, always with considerable pride, I politely and firmly thanked them but told them it would not work out.
Some of the cars were so rusted they had little floor left; most had no doors or roof. The tyres on all of them were dangerously flat. One enterprising fellow had hitched two donkeys to the front of a car with no engine.
The early summer days were warm and fragrant, the scent of orange blossom everywhere. But I was overcome with frustration and anxiousness. Each day I didn't leave for Marrakesh was another day wasted, and when I couldn't bear to sit in my room or the lobby for another minute, I distracted myself by going to Le Grand Socco — the Large Square. I was told by the concierge that while it was safe for me to walk about the main streets during the daylight hours, I would be better off not to
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