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“I had a Hungarian aunt.”
“He’s mostly German and Hungarian, with a little Mexican thrown in,” Kocian said. “Tell us about…what was the name of that drug in Argentina, Karlchen?”
“Bupivacaine,” Castillo furnished.
“Tell us about bupivacaine, please, Doctor,” Kocian said.
The doctor shook his head.
“What do you want to know about bupivacaine? And why?”
“I’m an old man. Indulge me. What would have happened if the housepainter’s hypodermic had been loaded with bupivacaine and he had succeeded in sticking it into my rump?”
Dr. Czerny smiled.
“You’re amused?” Kocian demanded, indignantly.
Dr. Czerny nodded, then explained: “Your rump would have gone numb for, oh, two hours or so. Bupivacaine is a drug commonly used by dentists to numb the gums.”
“You’re sure, Doctor?” Castillo asked.
Czerny nodded.
“If you’re ever going to be a decent journalist, Karlchen, you’re going to have to start checking your facts,” Kocian said, triumphantly. “And, of course, stop plagiarizing.”
“The doctor in the German hospital in Buenos Aires,” Castillo said as much to himself as to them, “told me it was bupivacaine.”
“That’s something else you should keep in mind, Karlchen. Never trust what a doctor tells you. They only tell you what they think you should know. Isn’t that right, Czerny?”
“My father used to say you were the most difficult person he had ever known,” Dr. Czerny said, smiling.
“How long are you going to have to put up with him, Doctor?” Castillo asked.
“Well, once he regains his sanity, there’s no reason he couldn’t leave here in a day or two.”
“His general sanity? Or is there something specific?” Görner asked.
“When I walked in here this morning, I thought he was having a heart attack,” the doctor said. “But what it was, he was on the telephone and Air France had just told him they would not carry that animal to Buenos Aires.”
“Aerolineas Argentina will be happy to accommodate Max,” Kocian said. “But I’ll have to take the damned train to Madrid. They don’t fly into Budapest. And Max doe
sn’t like trains.”
“I have no idea why he wants to go to Argentina,” Dr. Czerny said. The implication was that it was one of the reasons he doubted Kocian’s sanity. “And he won’t tell me.”
“That’s because it’s none of your damned business,” Kocian explained.
“What is my business, Eric, personal and professional, is that you’re getting pretty long in the tooth and you have just been shot—twice—and I’m not going to stand idly by while you go halfway around the world, alone and in bandages. And with that damned dog.”
“Your father, may his soul rest in peace, Fredric, could call me by my Christian name. I don’t recall giving you that privilege,” Kocian said. “And don’t call Max ‘that damned dog.’”
“I beg your pardon,” Dr. Czerny said.
“Doctor, for the sake of argument, supposing he could get someone to go with him to Argentina,” Castillo asked, carefully, “and stay with him while he’s there, would that be all right? I mean, could he stand the strain?”
“In a couple of days, why not?” Dr. Czerny said.
It was clear that Dr. Czerny had concluded that Castillo had come up with a way to calm Kocian down and that Otto Görner had concluded that Castillo had lost his mind.
