YOU ARE MY MAIMONIDES.”
“Who?”
“Maimonides. The Jew who looked after Saladin whenever he was in Cairo.”
Natalie was silent.
“I meant it as a compliment. I owe you my life.”
Saladin closed his eyes. It was late morning. The circle of light from the oculus had only just begun its slow journey across the bare floor, and the room was still pleasantly cool. After regaining consciousness, he had passed a restful night, thanks in part to the dose of morphine that Natalie had added to his IV drip. At first, he had objected to the drug, but Natalie had convinced him it was necessary. “You cannot heal properly if you are in pain,” she had scolded him. “For the sake of the caliphate, you must.” Once again, she could not fathom that such words had passed her lips.
She placed the stethoscope to his chest. He recoiled slightly from the cold.
“Am I still alive?” he asked.
“Be quiet, please. I can’t hear properly if you speak.”
He said nothing more. His right lung sounded as though it had regained normal function; his heartbeat was steady and strong. She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around the upper portion of his left arm and inflated it with several quick squeezes of the bulb. He winced.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Do you have more pain?”
“Not at all.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“The arm,” he said after a moment.
Natalie released the air pressure, removed the cuff, and tenderly probed the arm with her fingertips. She had noticed the swelling last night and had suspected a fracture. Now, with the assistance of a conscious patient, she all but confirmed it.
“The only thing I can do is immobilize it.”
“Perhaps we should.”
Natalie applied the cuff to the right arm.
“Pain?”
“No.”
His blood pressure was at the low end of normal. Natalie removed the cuff and changed the dressings on his chest and leg. There was no visible sign of infection in either wound. Miraculously, it appeared as though he had come through surgery in an unsterile environment with no sepsis. Unless he took a sudden turn for the worse, Saladin would survive.
She opened a package of fiberglass casting tape and commenced work on the arm. Saladin watched her intently.
“It’s not necessary for you to conceal your face in my presence. After all,” he said, fingering the white sheet that covered his otherwise nude body, “we are well acquainted, you and I. A hijab is sufficient.”
Natalie hesitated, then removed the heavy black garment. Saladin stared hard at her face.
“You’re very beautiful. But Abu Ahmed is right. You look like a Jew.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment, too?”
“I’ve known many beautiful Jewesses. And everyone knows that the best doctors are always Jewish.”
“As an Arab doctor,” said Natalie, “I take exception to that.”
“You’re not an Arab, you’re a Palestinian. There’s a difference.”
“I take exception to that, too.”
Silently, she bound his arm with the fiberglass tape. Orthopedics was hardly her specialty, but then she was not a surgeon, either.
“It was a mistake,” he said, watching her work, “for me to mention Abu Ahmed’s name in front of you. Names have a way of getting people killed. You will do your best to forget you ever heard it.”
“I already have.”
“He tells me you’re French.”
“Who?” she asked playfully, but Saladin did not rise to the bait. “Yes,” she said, “I am French.”
“You approved of our attack on the Weinberg Center?”
“I wept with joy.”
“The Western press said it was a soft target. I can assure you it was not. Hannah Weinberg was an associate of an Israeli intelligence officer named Gabriel Allon, and her so-called center for the study of anti-Semitism was a front for the Israeli service. Which is why I targeted it.” He fell silent. Natalie could feel the weight of his gaze on her while she worked on the arm. “Perhaps you’ve heard of this man Gabriel Allon,” he said at last. “He is an enemy of the Palestinian people.”
“I think I read about him in the papers a few months ago,” she answered. “He’s the one who died in London, is he not?”
“Gabriel Allon? Dead?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe it.”
“Be quiet for a moment,” Natalie instructed him. “It’s important that I immobilize your arm properly. If I don’t, you’ll have problems with it later.”
“And my leg?”
“You need surgery—proper surgery in a proper hospital. Otherwise, I’m afraid your leg will be badly damaged.”
“I’ll be a cripple, is that what you’re saying?”
“You’ll have restricted movement, you’ll require a cane to walk, you’ll have chronic pain.”
“I already have restricted movement.” He smiled at his own joke. “They say Saladin walked with a limp, the real Saladin. It didn’t stop him, and it won’t stop me, either.”
“I believe you,” she said. “A normal man would never have survived wounds as serious as yours. Surely, Allah is watching over you. He has plans for you.”
“And I,” said Saladin, “have plans for you.”
She finished the cast in silence. She was pleased with her work. So, too, was Saladin.
“Perhaps when your operation is complete, you can return to the caliphate to serve as my personal physician.”
“Your Maimonides?”
“Exactly.”
“It would be an honor,” she heard herself say.
“But we won’t be in Cairo. Like Saladin, I’ve always preferred Damascus.”
“What about Baghdad?”
“Baghdad is a city of rafida.”
It was a bigoted Sunni slur for Shia Muslims. Natalie wordlessly prepared a new IV bag.
“What’s that you’re putting in the solution?” he asked.
“Something for your pain. It will help you sleep through the heat of the afternoon.”
“I’m not in pain. And I don’t want to sleep.”
Natalie attached the bag to the IV tube and squeezed it to start the flow of fluid. Within a few seconds, Saladin’s eyes dulled. He fought to keep them open.
“Abu Ahmed is right,” he said, watching her. “You do look like a Jew.”
“And you,” said Natalie, “need to rest.”
The eyelids dropped like window blinds and Saladin slipped helplessly into unconsciousness.