I was not there. But quite apart from me, some distant, seemingly separate part of myself was observing my surroundings. I was keenly aware of the deceptively pristine white walls, the pastel greens of the carpet, the plants with broad, meaty leaves behind the glass of the reception, and at the sight of it all, something inside me slowly continued to shrink. Butterflies, - not in my stomach but somewhere in my throat, their broken wings beating against its back and making it tighten, so that I could not utter a word.
After a few minutes that appeared to stretch into ages, Marco emerged again from a small door beside the reception desk.
'Come with me.'
We followed him into a white corridor, illuminated somewhat dimly by the suffuse light that came from round, flat white lamps fixed to the ceiling. The thick gray carpet we were walking on drowned out any noise. The brown doors on either side of the corridor all had steel plates with the numbers of the wards on them, and were, judging by their looks, very heavy and possibly bulletproof. The keyholes were a strange triangular shape, and there was a rectangular patch of black plastic above each. The exceptional sterility of the place surprised me and made me a little uneasy. There was not even the usual medicinal, spirituous scent common to many hospitals, but rather, only a total lack of any scent altogether.
We walked in silence. There was nobody in the whole building, it seemed, and only once we met a nurse in a white coat and cap who hurried by, nodding distractedly at Marco. We went up one flight of stairs, and came to a room whose door was somewhat smaller and darker than the others had been. 'Room 22', read the steel plate. Here, Marco stopped and produced from his pocket an oddly shaped key with a small black plastic pad attached to it.
I touched his arm, motioning him to wait a bit before unlocking the door.
'How is she, Marco?' I asked in English, so that Jim could also understand what we were talking about.
My question apparently made him uncomfortable, and I could see he was trying to evade having to give an answer. He looked away, into the darkened depth of the corridor, and pretended to examine something he had seen there.
'We are doing our best,' he said after some hesitation, in an evasive, uncertain tone that made me even more concerned.
'Do you mean she is worse?'
Marco looked down at the keys in his hands, and turned them this way and that.
'We are doing our best,' he repeated. 'You can be sure she is going to get well.'
He pressed the plastic pad to the black patch above the keyhole. There was a beep, and the lock clicked. Marco put the key into it, turned it twice, and with some difficulty pulled the heavy door open. He held it for us while we entered, and then closed it behind us, so that it slid back home with a soft metallic clang.
The heavy black curtains were drawn together, and there was a deep twilight in the room. When my eyes got used to it, I made out the white sheets of the hospital bed, and the still form of a woman in white and with jet-black hair on it. I could see her breast heaving heavily, and each breath came and went with a wheezing sound that was painful to hear, and all the more prominent in the total silence of the room.
Behind us, Marco turned some switch, and the light that came made me wince. I could see now that there was thick black padding on the walls and underneath our feet. Beside the bed, there stood several chairs and a compact metal bedside table with three drawers, while further away, by the wall to our left, there was a tall metal cupboard. All the furniture, including the bed itself, was screwed fast to the floor. Stumbling, I and Jim walked over to the bed and sat down at my sister's side.
Silvia was lying supine, her hands resting on top of the quilt. Her face was, if possible, even whiter than the pillow, and it contrasted sharply with her black hair, which was loose and scattered over the bed. Her eyes were closed, and she looked serene, yet wasted, like one who is finally having some respite after prolonged suffering.
'Silvia,' I called softly and touched her cheek. 'Silvia, hon.'
I wondered if she was sleeping. If that was so, it was a good thing; it meant that either the pain had subsided enough to allow a peaceful sleep by night, when she did not have to sleep due to her new nature, or she had somehow managed to fall asleep in spite of it, and could forget her torment for some time.
'Silvia,' I said a little louder. 'Can you hear me?'
Slowly, Silvia opened her eyes, and when I looked into them I was speechless. They were just like the sky. Within them, there was an infinity of the brightest, most immaculate blue; they were brimming with a special inner light, and the soft whitish haze that dulled them, ever so slightly, only made it more striking. She looked incredibly surprised at seeing me, and happy beyond words, - only was it me that she saw?
'It's me, Ursula. Look, I've even put on the sky-blue you've always loved.'
I looked down at my clothes, ran my hand over the side of my jacket and smiled. Light blues did not suit me, and I usually avoided them, up until recently. But sky blue, along with white, was Silvia's color, and she loved to see me wearing it. So, since the onset of her illness, - all those times when I came with Jim to the hospital hoping to be admitted to see her, - I wore a bright azure suit I had made for someone else and did not manage to sell.
'I'm here, with you. I love you lots, and I'm going to stay with you no matter what. So is Jim. Look, he's here, at your side.'
Jim had clasped her hand in his, and now I saw it tighten reassuringly, as if telling her without words that all was going to be well. She must have felt it, for her gaze shifted slowly to him, the gladness in it growing, her lips parted as in profound amazement. She looked as though she had just beheld a miracle.
Jim spoke, in English as usual, and his broad, open, soft Texan twang somehow added to the soulful warmth of his voice. It seemed to tell one there were places still were things are ordinary and cozy, and just as they ought to be, places where you can be safe in the care of those who love you and will never let you be harmed. It reminded one of home.
'We need you, dear. You just have to make it through this, - and I'm sure you will. Just hang in there. You are becoming part of a world which is beyond us, - beyond me and Ursula alike, - and a being whom we may never come to truly understand; and I can never hope to understand what you must be going through now. But I want you to know we're here for you, the two of us. We're willing to share your suffering, whatever it may be, and to feel joy when you do. There...'
His hand pressed hers again, telling that which had remained unsaid.
Slvia reached out with one thin, white hand, and ran her fingers, very carefully, down along the side of my face, brushing away the loose strands of hair. Light seemed to be coming from every cell of her being; it transfigured her face, melting its mask-like motionelessness, and presently, a strange, ecstatic smile broke over it. It was like the last evening light bursting out of the clouds after a storm, when it is still raining, but the streets are shining, and each falling droplet is like a tiny sun. She gave a little nod.
I remembered the clusters of yellow flowers basking in the bright sunlight. Keys of gold. Keys to those days we spent together, which were more dear to me than anything else and which would not come back...
I wanted to say so much more, but the words were getting stuck in my throat. They seemed redundant anyway; Silvia's eyes conveyed more than they ever could, and when she nodded at me, I was sure for one brief moment that she just understood, silently, the way she always had when she was fine. I glanced at Jim, and he let go of Silvia's hand, and I clasped it, tears rolling down my cheeks, hoping that she would draw out everything I had not said in images. She held my hand tight, then closed her eyes and, still holding it and smiling serenely, sank back onto the pillow.
Afterwards, when we were out of the ward, back in the sterile corridor, Jim was composed and thoughtful, and seemed consumed with something that had been on his mind all along. I was still weeping in spite of myself. But, worst of all, underneath there was a cold, sickening horror that kept growing on me. I had begun to understand why - why the boundless, innocent wonder that had made her look exactly like a newly born baby, why the muteness, and I feared it could not be reversed.
'What's the matter with her, Marco?' I asked as I watched him lock the door again. 'How long has she been like this?'
'We fear she is sinking into a coma. The tests indicate extensive brain damage as a consequence of the transformation. As you are probably aware, the changes that occur in the body mean that the central nervous system is affected most of all, which in turn may result in severe damage to the nervous tissue. Presumably, this has been the case here.'
It was just what I had feared to hear. The horror was growing; inside me, there was a great sucking hollow that made the dim lighting and the obscure whites and grays even dimmer, and the butterflies were fluttering in my throat, tingling it, and I had to try to swallow them in order to speak.
'Then it means the chances are slim.'
'We cannot say anything definite yet. She may or may not wake. If her body is able to recuperate while the transformation is still taking place, she may recover. However, if the damage goes deeper, and will be present at the point where her body freezes forever in its current state, she may not.'
I was silent for a while. Something else was bothering me, and I wondered how to word it.
'There's something else I've been wondering about. Last time I saw Silvia, her pupils were very dilated, so that her eyes looked black. As far as I know, this is the way they ought to be during the course of the change. But a couple of minutes back, she opened her eyes while I was speaking to her, and they were as blue as they'd always been. The pupils had shrunk back to their normal size, or even less than that. They were pretty much like pin points.'
'The size of the pupils is closely linked to the state of one's nervous system. Their shrinking might be attributable to the brain damage she has suffered.'
'Don't you give her medication? I got the impression she was drugged into a semi-comatose state. Maybe you give her something else apart from the painkillers, - perhaps some strong tranquilizers or something?'
'Depending on the circumstances, we might be obliged to keep her under sedation. She may be violent and thus dangerous to herself and others. Remember how strong she is becoming.'
'I wonder if it is good for her. The sedatives might make the impairment worse - and then, what do we know about the transformation and its mechanisms just yet? How can you be sure the drugs won't harm her, in her changing state?'
'It might be necessary.'
'I was only wondering whether something is happening to her that I and Jim do not know about.'
We followed Marco back to the reception room. I reflected on what he had said, and could not help feeling something was badly wrong. He was too civil, the way one usually is during some official event, and as slippery as an eel, and I did not like this a single bit. All the more that to me, he was not Dr Digiacomo, MD; he was Marco, my workmate and buddy with whom we used to drink coffee after work and chat for hours.
When we were about to leave and had started for the door, Jim turned to Marco.
'Dr Digiacomo,' he said calmly, and when he continued, I was struck by how his words chimed in with what I had been thinking all that time. 'You loved her once. Or you said you did. I hope you don't forget that.'
With that, he turned and walked through the glass doors. When I followed, I nearly bumped into Dr Tanaka, who was just coming in. He stepped back, waiting for me to come outside, and motioned me to follow him.
'Just for a few moments, signorina Alesci.'
I waved my hand at Jim in a gesture meant to tell I would only take a moment, he should stay where he is, and faced Dr Tanaka again.
'Do you remember Gianni Banti?' His calm brown eyes were studying me, waiting for me to understand something. 'He was treated at this same hospital.'
'What do you mean?'
'Just that. Oh, and ask Dr Sansino what is Sempraxa.'
I watched Dr Tanaka disappear in the doors, and returned to Jim. I wondered. Gianni Banti had disappeared without trace two years ago. He had been captured and changed, but managed to escape; after that, he continued to work as usual for a few months, either having hidden the change while it was not yet obvious, or having been ordered to go on as if nothing had happened. Then he left work one day, and never reached home. The official version was that he was captured once more. But now that I was hearing about it again, I was beginning to understand what may have really happened, and the hollow, sick feeling grew.
'I'm afraid things are very serious,' I told Jim. 'So serious I do not know what to do.'