Sabra Zoo Read Online Free PDF Page A

to him.
    I sat down next to Youssef, stretching out my legs. I was thirsty. The smell of week-old excrement sought us out. The marble floor was cool to the touch. We watched Eli walk to the other end of the corridor.
    â€˜You like her, yes?’ Youssef said in English, his eyes still on Eli as she stood to face us, gesturing for Youssef to come to her.
    â€˜Yes, of course I do, don’t you?’ I said, knowing what was coming.
    â€˜No, I mean you love her.’ He giggled. ‘You want to fickety fick her?’
    I felt my ears grow hot. Was I that obvious? ‘Shame on you,’ I said. ‘She’s married, with a son as old as you.’ The marriage bit was no longer true, according to Samir, who’d heard it from Liv, but I wasn’t getting into that with Youssef.
    â€˜I can’t walk all that way,’ he said, switching to Arabic and pointing down the hall at Eli.
    â€˜Try to go just half way then,’ I said.
    â€˜Not even half way.’ He folded his arms and set his mouth hard. I shook my head at Eli and picked Youssef up, carrying him back to the ward and placing him in his bed.
    â€˜We’ll try again tomorrow,’ Eli said, smiling at Youssef.
    I took Eli aside. ‘I’m not sure how useful I can be, I’m just an interpreter,’ I said.
    â€˜And I’m just a physiotherapist,’ she said. ‘Anyway, he’ll do better with a male influence.’
    â€˜If you think so.’
    She smiled. ‘Yes, I do.’
    I wanted to ask whether I was going to see her that night but Youssef was grinning and winking at me and I left before he said something embarrassing.
    On my way out an English surgeon in sweat-stained scrubs collared me. He wasn’t one of my usual charges. He was tall with fair stubble and eyes bloodshot with tiredness or alcohol. I nodded, looking at my watch. I had to do a fake ID run in a couple of hours. We entered the post-op area and stopped at the end of the bed of a beefy man with bandaged eyes and hands. He was propped up, his face and chest peppered with small fresh wounds. There was dried blood on his pillow and no one by his bedside.
    â€˜This man is a cluster bomb victim, picked the fucking thing up to get rid of it and it exploded in his face.’ The doctor took a deep breath. ‘We operated on his eyes but we haven’t got a decent eye man here.’
    I looked at the doctor for a moment and felt my armpits prickle with sweat.
    â€˜Are you telling me he’s blind?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yes, and he doesn’t know yet.’
    â€˜Where’s his family? I usually give bad news to the family, I don’t usually do it straight to the patient.’
    â€˜You’ll be fine, the other interpreter, the girl, would be here but she prefers the glamour of working with a TV film crew.’
    I smiled to myself; I’d turned down the opportunity to interpret on the film the British crew were making about the hospital. Now I had to pay the price.
    We approached the bedside; I needed a drink of water.
    â€˜Sir, can you hear me?’ I asked the man in Arabic. The bandaged head turned towards me. ‘I’m with the doctor.’ I realised that I didn’t know the doctor’s name. ‘I’m with the doctor who operated on you.’
    The man nodded in recognition. ‘Dr Boulos,’ he said, the Arabic for ‘Paul’. Dr Paul placed his hand on the man’s forearm.
    â€˜Dr Boulos operated on your eyes but there is a problem, I mean it was difficult, the eyes are delicate and …’ I paused, trying to think of the right words to tell him. The bandages turned towards me again. The doctor’s hand was clenched round the man’s wrist. ‘How does one say?’ I said to myself.
    â€˜You have already said it,’ the man said.
    â€˜I’m sorry.’ I was apologising for my own ineptitude rather than the fact that the man was blind. ‘Do you