BENEDETTI WAS ALREADY CLOSE TO home. On the streets dark at night, but empty for the first time, he drove his spare car while trying to use the phone. There was still no signal.
When he got home, he laid the boy down, who was fast asleep, on his bed and immediately went to the home phone. He made a few calls, trying to convince Tony's special doctors to see him at his home. After harsh refusals, he decided to change his tone to something more "convincing". The conversation could not be of the type: "do me this favor" , no one would come for that. The ideal method used was: "do it or you will regret it".
After some resistance and a: "Don't screw me over! ", the doctor answered his call.
— Where is the wounded man? — asked Dr. Robinson when he saw Benedetti opening the door.
— It's in the room. — replied the old man with his cigarette in his mouth.
— I don't know what condition he's in, but if you want him to get better, you'd better not smoke here. Besides, this house seems to be made of nicotine...
— You can't imagine how long I waited to have that drink. — Benedetti replied with a jocular smile.
— Let's see him soon. — insisted the grumpy doctor.
The doctor left his suitcase on an armchair next to Benedetti's bed, where he liked to spend his time reading his newspapers or watching sports on the television in the room. With some asperity, the doctor examined Martin's body and took a good look at his injuries.
—What did it say in the medical records? — asked the doctor.
— Well, I don't know, I only looked at the basics, I didn't have time to look better. — Benedetti replied.
Clearly irritated at being there, after a grunt, he replied:
— From what I can see, he suffered several concussions and lacerations, but nothing too serious. Probably a car accident, I'd say. His stomach is the worst, something got in there, see? Judging by the bandages, I'd say it went a little beyond the epidermis, but it didn't reach any organs. He'll live.
— Well, that's what I hope...
— Was he under the influence of any medication?
— He had some kind of serum.
Dr. Robinson took a bag of serum from among the things he brought with him and applied it to the injured man, with a drug.
— This is an anesthetic, it will ease your condition. The wounds have already been properly treated, but if you need it, use this. — and he gave a spray and some pills into Benedetti's hands.
As he organized his instruments in his beloved case, Dr. Robinson asked him, albeit in a disinterested tone.
—What made him change like that?
— Me, change? — Benedetti asked, letting out a hollow laugh. — What are you talking about?
— You never cared about anyone but Tony, if you saw one of those lying on the floor you would still step on his balls.
— I haven't changed — Carl replied annoyed. — I just stumbled into all this. As soon as he can walk, I'll send him away.
— People change, Carl, and you have changed. And what makes this a fact is that I am here in your house taking care of a stranger. — saying this, he closed the suitcase, already packed.
— Clay vase, once it dries all that's left is to break it. — Benedetti replied in a monotone, going to the door to open it.
— Take care. — said the doctor, saying goodbye.
"Stay alert, doctor," Benedetti said. "I might end up calling you again." Frowning, the doctor left.
Carl Benedetti brought another cigarette to his mouth, he was quite curious about what he had heard.
Me, changed?
An old man like him would at least be petrified by the stories of his own life. On the verge of rest after so much boredom, why wish for change?
He went to the small kitchen that shared space with the not much larger living room, grabbed a bottle of cheap wine and sat on the sofa. He alternated between sipping the wine and puffing on his cigarette, while he waited for the boy to give some sign of life.
Changed, me?