She waited until she could see well again. “Thank you, Dottor. Okay, I’ll start the cut here because—”
* * *
Bedmar had been perhaps the only man in the room not to gasp. Where all others seemed to think a desperate emergency had arisen, because they focused on the frightening gout of blood, the cardinal had been watching the woman’s face before it struck. That small, expectant smile.
He could not see the smile itself, to be sure, because of the mask the woman was wearing. But he did not need to. Something in the calm dark eyes, the set of the jaw, the poise of the body, made it obvious. If anything, it was accentuated by the mask.
It was quite amazing, really. Bedmar was reminded of Diego Velasquez’s The Adoration of the Magi. Not the wise and solemn face of the black king but the serene face of the Virgin. It was said that Velasquez had used his wife, Juana, as the model. The cardinal could well believe it, now. The serenity in that Virgin’s face was not the usual ethereal business. Just a young woman’s calm acceptance of God’s miraculous handiwork. Whatever the Child’s conception, after all, pain and labor had still been needed to bring Him forth.
Quietly, without fuss, the cardinal left the chamber. He would return on the morrow, to see after Sanchez’s welfare. That the Catalan would survive this day, Bedmar had no doubt at all. Not any longer.
And he had other matters to consider. Much greater issues that were still murky to him, but less so after this day’s instructions. That hidden but so obvious smile, like the blazing sun, had been another challenge from his God.
A warning, it would be better to say. Sixty-two years of life God had now granted Alphonso de la Cueva, once the marquis and now the cardinal Bedmar. God, he suspected, was beginning to lose patience with him.
As well He might. A life of stature, wealth, comfort and considerable ease. Also a life slowly ebbing away in frustration and self-pity as Bedmar watched his once-glorious nation fade in its colors and become frayed in its fabric. A frustration which, over time, had become its own seductive melancholy.
Vanity, all it was. In the end, just vanity. Whose only distinction from pride was perhaps its sheer stupidity. But the cardinal was fairly certain that God would not accept a plea of stupidity as an excuse for one of the seven mortal sins.
Especially given that Alphonso de la Cueva was very far from stupid.
So, it was finally time to think. The cardinal believed in a personal God. He also believed in personal damnation.
Far better, he thought, to while away a limited number of millennia in the company of such as Ruy Sanchez. Even in Purgatory, the disrespectful Catalan was bound to make jokes.
Good ones, too.
* * *
It was over, finally.
“Two hours and nine minutes,” Stoner announced. “I am genuinely impressed.”
“Vital signs?”
“They’re all okay. I’m not going to say ‘good,’ of course. But if he doesn’t catch pneumonia or something down the road, this tough bird should live about as long as he would have.”
Sharon winced a little.
“Oh, come on, Sharon,” Stoner scolded gently. “Under these conditions, not even your dad would have tried to resect the spleen. Besides, I doubt if Ruy Sanchez was destined to die of old age anyway. Him? Be serious.”
“Is something wrong, Dottoressa?” asked Fermelli.
Sharon shook her head. “Not . . . really, Dottor. I considered at one point attempting to repair the spleen rather than remove it. The problem with having the spleen removed is that it helps protects the body against infection.”
She looked down at the patient. For some reason, he was starting to look like Ruy Sanchez again. Odd, really, since nothing in his appearance had changed except he had a large new scar to add to an already impressive collection.
“So, Ruy—ah, Señor Sanchez—will be more susceptible to such things as pneumonia from now on. He’ll just have to be more careful, that’s all.”
Ha. Weren’t you the one making speeches on this subject not so long ago?