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Yuri's make-believe mother had had a fabulous jewel in her possession. A giant ruby which the maharaja must have back. But his mother had hid it in a safe-deposit box in Rome, and when the murderers strangled her and threw her body in the Tiber, she shouted with her last gasp of breath to Yuri that he must never tell where it was. He had then hopped into a little Fiat automobile and made a spectacular escape from his captors. And when he got the jewel, he had discovered the most amazing thing. It was no jewel at all but a tiny box, with a spring lock and little hinges, and inside lay a vial of fluid which gave one eternal health and youth.
Yuri stopped suddenly. A great sinking feeling came over him. Indeed he thought he was going to be sick. In a panic, he continued, speaking in the same voice. "Of course it was too late for my mother; she was dead and gone into the Tiber. But the fluid can save the whole world."
He looked down. The man was smiling at him from the pillow, his hair matted and damp on his forehead and on his neck, his shirt soiled around the collar from this dampness, his tie loose.
"Could it save me?" asked the man.
"Oh, yes!" said Yuri. "Yes, but..."
"Your captors took it," said the man.
"Yes, they crept up behind me right in the lobby of the bank! They snatched it from my fingers. I ran to the bank guard. I seized his pistol. I shot two of them dead on the floor. But the other ran with the jewel. And the tragedy, the horror, yes, the horror is that he does not know what is in it. He will probably sell it to some peddler. He does not know! The maharaja never told the evil men why he wanted my mother brought back."
Yuri stopped. How could he have said such a thing...a fluid that would give one eternal youth? And here this young man was sick unto death, maybe even dying, unable to move his right arm, though he tried again and again to lift it. How could Yuri have said it? And he thought of his own mother, dead on the little bed in Serbia, and the gypsies coming in and saying they were his cousins and uncles! Liars! And the filth there, the filth.
Surely she would never never have left him there if she had dreamed of what was going to happen. A cold fury filled him.
"Tell me about the maharaja's palace," said the man softly.
"Oh, yes, the palace. Well, it's made entirely of white marble..." With a great soft relief Yuri pictured it. He talked of the floors, the carpets, the furniture...
And after that he told many stories about India, and Paris, and fabulous places he had been.
When he woke it was early morning. He was seated at the window with his arms folded on the sill. He had been sleeping that way, his head on his arms. The great sprawling city of Rome lay under a gray hazy light. Noises rose from the narrow streets below. He could hear the thunder of all those tiny motorcars rushing to and fro.
He looked at the man. The man was staring at him. For a moment he thought the man was dead. Then the man said softly, "Yuri, you must make a call for me now."
Yuri nodded. He noted silently that he had not told this man his name. Well, perhaps he'd used it in the stories. It didn't matter. He brought the phone from the bedside table, and, climbing on the bed, beside the man, he repeated the name and number to the operator. The call was to a man in London. When he answered, it was in English, what Yuri knew to be an educated voice.
Yuri relayed the message as the sick man lay there speaking softly and spiritlessly in Italian.
"I am calling for your son, Andrew. He is very sick. Very. He is in the Hotel Hassler in Rome. He asks that you come to him. He says he can no longer come to you."
The man on the other end switched quickly into Italian and the conversation went on for some time.
"No, sir," Yuri argued, obeying Andrew's instructions. "He says he will not see a doctor. Yes, sir, he will remain here." Yuri gave the room number. "I will see that he eats, sir." Yuri described the man's condition as best he could with the man listening to him. He described the apparent paralysis. He knew the father was frantic with worry. The father would take the next plane for Rome.
"I'll try to persuade him to see a doctor. Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Yuri," said the man on the other end of the line. And once again, Yuri realized he had not told this man his name. "Please do stay with him," said the man. "And I shall be there as soon as I possibly can."
"Don't worry," said Yuri. "I won't leave."
As soon as he'd rung off, he put forth the argument again.
"No doctors," said Andrew. "If you pick up that phone and call for a doctor, I'll jump from this window. Do you hear? No doctors. It's much too late for that."
Yuri was speechless. He felt that he might burst into tears. He remembered his mother coughing as they sat together on the train going into Serbia. Why had he not forced her to see a doctor? Why?
"Talk to me, Yuri," said the man. "Make up stories. Or you can tell me about her, if you wish. Tell me about your mother. I see her. I see her beautiful black hair. The doctor wouldn't have helped her, Yuri. She knew it. Talk to me, please."
A faint chill passed over Yuri as he looked into the man's eyes. He knew the man was reading his thoughts. Yuri's mother had told him of gypsies who c
ould do this. Yuri did not have this talent himself. His mother had claimed to have it, but Yuri had not believed it. He had never seen any real evidence of it. He felt a deep hurt, thinking of her on the train, and he wanted to believe that it had been too late for a doctor, but he would never know for sure. The knowledge numbed him and made him feel utterly silent and black inside and cold.
"I'll tell you stories if you will eat some breakfast," said Yuri. "I'll order something hot for you."
The man stared again listlessly and then he smiled. "All right, little man," he said, "anything you say. But no doctor. Call for the food from right here. And Yuri, if I don't speak again, remember this. Don't let the gypsies get you again. Ask my father to help you...when he comes."
The father did not arrive until evening.
Yuri was in the bathroom with the man, and the man was vomiting into the toilet, and clinging to Yuri's neck so that he did not fall. The vomit had blood in it. Yuri had a time of it holding him, the wretched smell of the vomit sickening him, but he held tight to the man. Then he looked up and saw the figure of the father, white-haired, though not so very old, and plainly rich. Beside him stood a bellhop of the hotel.
Ah, so this is the father, thought Yuri, and a quiet burst of anger heated him for a moment, and then left him feeling oddly listless, and unable to move.
How well-groomed was this man with his thick wavy white hair, and what fine clothes he had. He came forward and took his son by the shoulders, and Yuri stepped back. The young bellhop also gave his assistance. They placed Andrew on the bed.
Andrew reached out frantically for Yuri. He called Yuri's name.
"I'm here, Andrew," said Yuri. "I won't leave you. You mustn't worry. Now let your father call the doctor, please, Andrew. Do as your father says."
He sat beside the sick man, one knee bent, holding the man's hand and looking into his face. The sick man's stubbly beard was thicker now, coarse, and brownish, and his hair gave off the smell of sweat and grease. Yuri struggled not to cry.
