I stay on Doc's side during the entire final of Waste Paper Basket Ball; he's the official doctor and I'm his hands and feet because he's not able to save lives when he's in a wheelchair. It's frustrating. It's frustrating to see how Luxembourg loses, it's frustrating to waste my time here, doing nothing while I have such an important mission waiting, and most of all, it's frustrating how today's game absorbed all my attention, so I forgot to visit Manny and ask him what he knows about that drug G.O.D. he talked about yesterday in the bar.
After the medal ceremony, I return Doc to his room. He has a guest room in the hospital, one of those rooms for family and friends of terminal patients on the seventh floor, the patients who are medicated with morphine and the love of their loved ones for the rest of their lives.
"Tomorrow, I have office hours from 10:00 AM until 12:00 AM. After that, we have to be present at the Shopping Trolley Race at the supermarket. Please, study the rules of the game this time, Bugs. You can't interrupt the semi-finals by jumping on the field because one of the players acts like he's badly hurt after being hit by a crunched sheet of paper."
"He was hit by a coffee mug, Doc, wrapped in paper and thrown with full force. That man was bleeding."
"According to the rules, the referee decides when the medics enter the field, Bugs. If you want to do this work, study the rules. Those rules aren't there for nothing, you know. What would happen if everyone thinks: «those rules only exist for the others, not for me»?"
"Yes, Doc. You're right, Doc. Sorry, Doc."
Lack of sleep, caused by working three jobs simultaneously, is no excuse for making mistakes. The rules are the rules and they have to be followed. One rule says: all information about employees is confidential. Therefore, Mister Kurzawa locks his hospital-employee file cabinet, and his office too. The good news is there's nobody around at night. I pick the locks with my spy tools and take my time to read Tong Au's file. It's a short story; there isn't much to read. Tong Au's recommendation comes from Doctor Yun-Fat Chow of the Macao University of Science and Technology Hospital. It looks authentic, but when I check the Macao hospital's website, there is no Toxicology and Chemistry department, and Doctor Yun-Fat Chow doesn't exist. The only other document is a labour contract with the hospital and the European Games for one month, no salary, just food and lodging. No copy of a passport or any kind of ID like in every other file. No home address of the employee or bank account. Not even a phone number or an email address. Strange…
My next stop is the Intensive Care wing, where Tong Au is being monitored. The guard at the door tells me only doctors and nurses have permission to enter.
I have one last stop before my night shift starts: Manny's room. When we brought him in, 24 hours ago, he was positive on every drugs test they tried. The doctor in charge ordered to take Manny to the Closed Department and to make sure he stays there. In France, the usage of drugs is reason enough for an arrest, followed by up to one year of imprisonment and an obliged treatment to kick the habit. After yesterday's trip, Manny won't be going anywhere for a while.
The room is locked, but this is a hospital and not a prison: the key is in the lock, on the outside of the door; it's not to avoid others coming in, just to avoid Manny getting out. I find him fast asleep. What do I do? Come back later? Wake him up? I need info from him. I slap him in the face a few times: "Hey, Manny. Wake up."
Even when I hit him with my shoe on his head, it doesn't work. He's faster asleep than Sleeping Beauty, and also a lot uglier, so I won't wake him with a kiss. When I turn to leave, I see the exit blocked by a nurse, and WHAT a nurse: forty-two, thirty-nine, fifty-six, nineteen stone of muscle, black skin and bone, a head taller than I. They couldn't find a uniform with sleeves wide enough for her arms, so they took them off (the sleeves, not the arms). At the end of those arms, one of the huge hands raises a finger at me: "What are you doing here? Why are you slapping my patient?"
The tag on her uniform tells me her name is Rosie. The way she looks at me tells me she's angry.
"It's not what you think…"
"How do you know what I think?"
"My name is Bugs. I brought him in yesterday. I'm just checking if he's alright…"
"By slapping him in the face and hitting him with your shoe? If you brought him in, you should be aware he's been using narcotics, a whole lotta them. We've given him tranquillisers and keep him asleep until the worst part is over. Why did you want to wake him up? Do you need a shot too? Is he your dealer?"
Rosie looks at me, looks through me, now even more suspicious than before: "It's the other way around, isn't it? You're his dealer. You sold him the drugs. Now, you want to make sure he won't give your name to the police. You came here to kill him…"
"No, I just…"
Rosie doesn't take «no» for an answer: "I wanna tell you a story, and it ain't no fairy story: half an hour ago, five kids came to me, telling me about a man who dressed up like a doctor, a man about your size. «He ain't exactly pretty, and he ain't exactly smart.», they told me. That man gave them pills, drugs, so they would win some silly game they had to play, basketball in an office or something stupid like that. They were afraid they were poisoned, or perhaps even addicted to something horrible, feeling hot and cold and shivering and afraid. Were you that man? Should I grab you by the neck and drag you to them so they can confirm if I'm right? Do you know the laws in France for selling drugs? Five years in prison, and ten years if you sell drugs to minors. One of those girls is under 18."
Rostov! I'm just trying to do my job… Why is everything going wrong? Is it because I'm not a real spy? Is it because I'm exhausted? I try to defend myself: "You don't understand. I work here…"
"You work here? I don't believe you. You don't care…"
Suddenly, I understand everything. Rosie cares. She's a nurse. She has a patient here, and she cares for him. It doesn't matter why this patient is here; it doesn't matter if he's the victim of an accident or a fight, or if he's here because he tried to destroy himself. He's her patient and she cares. She does whatever she can to save him and make him better. She doesn't care about the rules, she doesn't care if it's a criminal, and she doesn't care if it's her job or not: she just cares.
I don't care. I have a boss who tells me it's important for my country that 'we' win a gold medal, and I come up with the brilliant plan to fool innocent people, to let them cheat and win. Did I care about those people, or the rules, or anything? All I cared about was winning, about being the best spy ever.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I didn't realise… He's your patient. I could have asked."
Rosie puts her hands on her hips: "You could have asked. I'm always here. The people who are trying to make this world worse aren't taking a day off. How can I? And what was so important?"
I look at the clock of my spiPhone; I have half an hour left until my night shift starts: "That's a long story. If you allow me to invite you to a cup of coffee, I'll tell you everything. I'm not a drugs dealer; I'm the one who's after the drugs dealer. Manny here might help me. He mentioned the name of a new drug we're after: G.O.D. I need to find out what he knows about it."
Slowly, Rosie loses her suspicion: "You're a narc?"
I put my finger on my lips: "Not here. Manny might wake up and hear us."
We step outside. Rosie locks the door behind us. There's a coffee machine at the end of the corridor, next to an empty waiting room where we can sit and talk.
Rosie explains: "G.O.D., Gee Oh Dee, that's slang. It stands for Great Over Dose, the only way out for the ones who fall back after the treatment to kick the habit. The problem with addiction is not what it does to your body. The problem is what it does with your mind. After a certain moment, the Point Of No Return, most users are convinced they can't live without the habit. During the treatment, we try to convince them that's a lie: they lived and were happy without drugs before they started taking them. It's just a matter of training and conviction to return to that state. Intelligent people understand the truth and change. Stupid addicts trust the lie and die. We can cure the intoxication in a matter of days, a few weeks at the max, but to cure the mental state of the mind…"
I agree: "Intelligent kids understand the danger and say «no» to drugs, but how do you explain reason to stupid people? Humans are animals. We learn through experience. Every day, we read about drugs, so we can't say we don't know the dangers, but we also live in a society where drinking alcohol is encouraged socially. Experienced and responsible leaders warn us with prohibition rules to protect us, but we don't trust them. We trust our own judgement better, and try everything to find out."
Rosie is intelligent. She understands we're on the same side: "Society doesn't teach us to be patient and modest. Society shows us how only extremes lead to happiness: more, faster, live at the max. What's dominating this week's news? Those silly European Games. It's not enough to know who's the best at running or cycling or swimming. We also need the best teacher, the best housewife and the best nurse. Extremes… All our interest goes to finding out who's the best. These games teach our kids that second best is terrible, so they take drugs and become the number one."
I try to explain: "These games are meant to motivate us. They help us get the best out of ourselves."
Rosie disagrees: "Have you seen the rules of the Best Teacher Contest? They take fifty classes of twenty children each, fugitives, kidnapped from the Jungle in Calais. Every teacher gives his group thirty hours of English class plus ten hours to do their homework. When the class scores best on the final test, their teacher wins the gold medal. They drill those children to do what they're told, and to work as hard as possible. Children should learn initiative, creativity, social skills and happiness, but here, they force kids into the mould of perfect consumers. The gold goes to the one who's best at giving the orders. Is that how you teach affection for the English language? Or is it how you train efficient robots?
» Do you know how they find the Best Nurse? It's a race. Teams of four give injections to dummies, feed dummies, take dummies to the bathroom, clean sheets, and transport dummies on stretchers. They do it with dummies because real patients would never accept such treatment. For me, the best nurse is someone who cares. For them, the best nurse is the one who does her work faster than all the others. Nobody cares. It's a training to be more efficient. The faster the nurse, the cheaper the service. The European Games teach us profit economy, not health care. Did you see what these girls have to wear? Did they buy those uniforms in a strip club? If I'd walk around with a plunging neckline like that, my patients would suffer heart attacks and high blood pressure."
I feel ashamed. Rosie's right. Doc also mentioned how these games are only about money. With a positive message about teamwork, they show us how handicapped Sally Simpson motivates millions, but between the lines, they sell us pizza, beer and cheap entertainment. In return for our daily bread and circus, the Emperors of Economy brainwash us to work harder. They teach us to be deaf, dumb, and blind consumers, who happily gamble for success against the owners of the casino. What's it worth to be the best in throwing a wad of paper into a wastepaper basket?
Rosie seems to read my thought: "What's it worth to be the best nurse? What motivates us? Is it the attention? Is it the gold medal? Is it the money? Some people earn millions, shooting a tiny white ball with a curved stick into a hole in the ground. I simply don't understand. Money can't buy life. Can you explain it to me? What motivates you? What turns you on? I mean… what experience gave you the most satisfaction in your life? Was it getting drunk? Was it what you felt when you finally got your diploma after all those years of study? Was it the moment you got your job? What turns you on?"
A deep question… I think it over while sipping my coffee: "I think… My job motivates me. I like to be part of a team, of something bigger than myself, contributing to a higher goal, something like saving the world, which would be out of reach if I would try it by myself, but by working together, it can be done. But… A few days ago, a new sensation made me feel better than ever before: I saved someone's life. I'm not sure if I really saved his life or if the merit was for the one who prepared the medicine I injected him with, but I keep telling myself: he was dying, and survived thanks to me, doing the right thing at the right moment. I have other fulfilling and satisfactory memories, but this was special. Every time I think about it, I feel proud of myself. It's my job to save the world, but saving someone's life was a great motivation to go on and never give up…"
Rosie looks me in the eye. A full minute. She looks right through me. Finally, she says: "Here in the hospital, they call me Sister Morphine. I get all the heavy cases: junkies, alcoholics, you name it. I save lives every day. It's my job, and even the law obliges me to save the lives of my patients.
» Motivate me to go on.
» Why should I save your friend Manny's life? Within a year from now, they'll find him dead in some obscure corner. I know. I've seen too many victims of the pleasures of our modern society. Most of them don't make it out of the hell they chose voluntarily. Do you know why? Motivation.
» Lack of motivation, to be precise. An addiction motivates patients to do the wrong thing, logic motivates them to do the right thing, and the addiction is stronger. I can lock them up, detoxicate them, feed them medicines and feed them words, advice, tell them to stop the habit, to change, because that's better for everyone. You can't change other people. You can only change yourself. All they want is to get high or drunk. If only they'd realise the pleasures of a life without their habit. But instead of a punishment, they keep seeing drugs and alcohol as a reward. I try to explain it to them. I want to help them. I care about them. But they don't care about others. All they care about is themselves.
» There are two kinds of people: the Jedi who care about others, and the Sith who only care about themselves. Live for yourself, and you will live in vain. Live for others, and you will live again. When the nurse cares about the patient and the patient cares about himself… who cares about the nurse? The nurse does all the work, for hardly any money. Her 'reward' is a bill from the taxman, who needs money to pay for the patient's treatment. The patient does nothing but cause trouble, and he's 'punished' with 24/7 care and attention. In real life, the Jedi lose and the Sith will win. Only in fiction, it's the other way around.
» There are two kinds of people; there are people who need help, and there are people who can give help. If we would care about each other, there would be more help available than we need. If every healthy person would just care about one other person, this world would be such a paradise. One day, every one of us will need the help of others… But then you're old, and it's too late… It's like the junkie who realises his habit was just a worthless, short-time pleasure, and the price he pays for it is too high…
» Do you know what turns me on? Seeing how someone learnt something, seeing how she changed her life, for the better, thanks to something I did or said. I like to see the result of what I do. That's what turns me on."
I look into my empty cup. I remember a picnic with Scarlett in Poland… What turns you on…? Motivation… I don't know what to say. Well… I do know what to say. I'm just not sure if I have the balls to say it…
"You were right, Rosie. The piece of scum who gave those pills to those five kids? That was me. It wasn't doping, by the way. Just peppermints. Harmless for anyone who's not a diabetic. I tried to motivate them with a lie, make them believe they could perform better with a little help from the Alchemist's Quarter. I've made a mistake. These kids felt terrible for cheating, and I feel terrible for causing it. Like you, I care, but I made a mistake. I hope you can find these kids and tell them there's nothing wrong. It was just sweets they ate. I promise you I won't do anything foolish like that again, for the rest of my life. My standards of good and bad forbid others to act this way, but I neglected these rules myself. I feel ashamed and I feel bad for doing so, but I have learnt from it and I promise you I won't do it again. A gold medal for cheating, even saving the world with cheating, it's just not worth the trouble."
Rosie smiles and moves her big black hand through my hair: "I knew it was you, and I'm happy you told me. It's okay. I'll find those kids tomorrow and tell them not to worry. Do you know the story of Lance?"
"The Lance that Willy Nelson referred about when he said: «It's terrible and disgusting how everyone has treated Lance. Especially after what he has achieved: winning seven Tours de France, racing on drugs. When I was on drugs, I couldn't even find my bike»? That Lance?"
"When Lance was diagnosed with cancer, our hospital was one of the places he visited for advice and treatment. We have a good reputation and an excellent staff here. I've met Lance twice. He was a man… He was a good man. In the years that followed, he did so many good things for so many people. Then we heard he'd been cheating. Winning and glory and fame, and all the money that comes with it, had become so important that, like a junkie, he could no longer resist. Tell me: is Lance still a good man because of all the good things he did? Or is doing one bad thing in your life enough to change you into a bad person?"
"You ask strange questions to a stranger at a strange hour, Rosie, but if my humble opinion helps you to clean your doubts… Nobody is 100% good, and nobody is 100% bad. We all do good things and we all do bad things. It's the balance that counts. I did a bad thing, but I've learnt from it: I do my best to undo the damage and to avoid doing it again. Is it enough? Will people forgive me? I don't know. All I know is that I'll do what I can to pay for my mistake.
» Lance got hardly any publicity for all the good things he did, but he got shiploads of publicity for being the best on a bike. When they found out, everybody wanted to punish Lance hard for his mistake, by giving him shiploads of negative publicity. My question is: did those critics do as many good things for others as Lance did? Did they show the good human quality of forgiveness to a man who made a mistake? They did not. The vampires wanted to drink his blood. This world is not interested in doing the right things, not in solving the problems, and not in taking care of others. This world points fingers at others. Society draws all our interest to the wrong things.
» To answer your question: it's up to Lance to decide if he did enough to undo the damage of his mistake. I don't judge him. He wanted to cycle to heaven, but instead of the steep path uphill, he took the highway down, to hell. I understand what he went through. Lance and I have made the same mistake: we missed a traffic sign. Like Lance, I feel better about myself now I confessed my sins. But I do criticise the critics, who blame others without doing anything good at all. You're right: we should motivate others to do the right things. And we should do the right things ourselves."
I look at my spiPhone: "I should go now. The right thing for me is to show up in time for my night shift at the Emergency desk. I might save someone's life tonight. It was a pleasure to meet you, Rosie. I've never met a woman like you."
We shake hands. Rosie says: "The pleasure was all mine. These long nights watching over sleeping beauties are usually quite boring. You're welcome for a chat and a coffee whenever you want."
On my way to the emergency desk, I have an idea. Is it cheating? Certainly. Is it against the rules? Definitely. Will I feel bad about it? Absolutely not. Sometimes, the rules are bad. What makes one a hero? Breaking a bad rule to do a good thing! Shame is on the other side.
I know where the organization of the European Games keeps the stock of medals. My Medical Department pass allows me to enter almost everywhere. With my spy toolkit, I can pick every lock between me and my goal: the gold medal for Best Nurse of the European Games. It takes me less than ten minutes to steal it, and six minutes more to return to the hospital, to the floor where Rosie runs the show.
"Hello again. I have something for you. On behalf of the organization of the European Games, I'm proud and happy to give you the official Gold Medal for Best Nurse of Europe. I stole it, by the way. If you feel bad about it, you can return it tomorrow and say that you've found it. I think you deserve it because you care. How others think about it… I don't care."
On the tips of my toes, I hang the medal over Rosie's head. She doesn't bow like in any other medal ceremony, and there's no music or flag or applause, but the grin on her face proves I did at least one good thing today.
"You're a strange man, Bugs.", Rosie says.
"No. I'm a changed man."
Rosie smiles, takes off the medal, and returns it to me: "Put this worthless coin back to where you found it. Your acts are my reward… Oh, and you should take your vitamins, or you'll catch the flu."
And again, I'm late for my night shift. Will I ever learn?