Free Cemetery of Swallows by Mallock;, Steven Rendall

himself, at least until the young intern on duty announced that he had decided not to let the patient leave without removing the infamous pin. He must have been short of them. Without worrying about anesthesia, before André’s incredulous eyes the intern grabbed an ancient drill, plugged it in, and attached the chuck to one of the extremities of the pin. Then he simply pushed the switch. Miraculously, the electricity wasn’t working.
    André immediately attacked. With all the diplomacy he had left in his big orange body, and smiling constantly, he explained to the intern that it really wasn’t necessary, that they were very grateful for his trouble, but that they had to leave because the ambulance was waiting. Then he asked him for a simple piece of cotton with a “dab” of alcohol. He was planning to give Manuel a shot of analgesics as soon as they were in the ambulance, but didn’t have anything to use as a disinfectant. The little drop of alcohol took a quarter of an hour to reach them and cost André the last of his bills.
    Twenty-five minutes later, they were finally in the ambulance. The two soldiers, three police technicians, and the two mustaches with riot guns had followed them. A kind of elite commando, they played their part. But oddly enough, they seemed to believe in it, their fear even making them sweat heavily. A local tradition or an excess of zeal?
    Mallock, quite wrongly, decided not to pay any attention.
    Another miracle: the all-white ambulance was there, where it was supposed to be. Manuel, who had emerged from his lethargy, had begun to moan. André decided to give him an initial shot in the hospital’s parking lot, before the ambulance’s bouncing around on the Dominican roads made this operation more dangerous.
    While he was preparing the anesthesia, he turned toward Mallock.
    â€œDo you really want to go with us? Personally, I don’t see what’s in it for you. You’re going to waste your time in Puerto Plata. When we get there, he’ll be taken straight to the operating room. It could be quite a while before . . . ”
    â€œNo problem, I’ve seen enough hospitals for one day. Could you try to reach Mister B . . . Jean-Daniel, so he could take me back to Cabarete?”
    Just as Mallock was turning around to get out of the ambulance, Manu sat up on his stretcher and screamed: “The ogre’s belly! You can’t understand. And his teeth . . . my God, his teeth!”
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    When the ambulance finally left for the private clinic, five motorcyclists and two police cars followed it. Five short minutes went by before Mister Blue arrived at the Santiago hospital’s parking lot. Good timing. His mauve minivan, his nice face and smile were a blessing. It’s often like that, when one is on foreign territory, the slightest familiar face quickly becomes a friend.
    The way back to Islabon and Cabarete ran between the Yásica and Jamao rivers. Surfaces carpeted with red earth, damp and rich. Vegetables, fruit trees, and grapevines grew there effortlessly. Even the logs used to make barriers along the road were rooting and becoming trees again. But here, too, the villages were mere jumbles of corrugated metal, billboards, mud, and rubble.
    â€œThey’re really poor.”
    â€œProbably,” Jean-Daniel replied, without much conviction. “But that doesn’t excuse everything.” And he added, in his colorful language: “You don’t shit where you sleep!”
    Down deep, Mister Blue loved this country and its people. But like a demanding father, he was not prepared to excuse their weaknesses without a fight. He left that to right-minded tourists.
    On the side of the road, a barrier consisting of three policemen in gray uniforms signaled to them to stop. Mister Blue drove on without slowing down. When he was alongside them, he shouted something accompanied by a smile.
    â€œThey’re just