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“Look, lady, you don’t seem to understand. This is important.”
“Sir, I told you before,” Mrs. Dubinsky said, her pale skin coloring, “that Dr. Payne is not on the ward, and that I have no idea where she is.”
“I got to get a message to her.”
“What is it?”
“Who are you? This is private, personal.”
“My name is Dubinsky. I’m the nurse-in-charge.”
“There’s no doctor around there?”
“You want to give me the message or not?”
“Let me talk to a doctor,” Cassandro said.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Mrs. Dubinsky said.
“Let me talk to a goddamn doctor!”
Mrs. Dubinsky again replaced the handset in its cradle.
And two minutes later, the telephone ran again.
“Seven-C.”
“Look, lady, I’m sorry I lost my temper. But this is really important.”
“I will try to get a message to Dr. Payne. What is it?”
“I need to
talk to a doctor. Could you please get one on the line?”
“I told you, sir, that’s just not possible.”
“Jesus Christ, will you get a goddamn doctor on the phone?”
Mrs. Dubinsky again replaced the handset in its cradle.
And two minutes later, the telephone rang again.
“Seven-C.”
“You might as well get it through your goddamn head that I’m gonna speak to a goddamn doctor if I have to call every two minutes until the goddamn sun comes up!”
Mrs. Dubinsky, her facial skin now blotched with red spots, started to replace the handset in its cradle again, but at the last moment instead laid it on the plate glass on her desk.
Shaking her head, she got out of her chair, left the nurses’ station, and walked down the corridor to her left, where she entered a room about halfway down. She walked to the bed, where a very small, thin, brown-skinned man in a medical smock was sleeping under a sheet.
She gently pushed his arm, and when he showed no sign of waking, pushed harder.
“Doctor?” she said.
Juan Osvaldo Martinez, M.D., opened his eyes and sat up abruptly.
“Sorry,” Nurse Dubinsky said.
