Interlude IV
When he awake, he felt disoriented. There were a couple of lights around, dimmed. With difficulty, while his face lay sideways on his desk, he looked at the clock. Twelve of January of two thousand and six, ten past two in the morning. He sat up on the chair and the sound of papers being torn startled him. Under his feet, there were a stack of medical reports. They were addressed to Dr. Birkin. He now remembered. His name, his age, his job and everything… It was the office he was working in. The board had forced maintenance to apply automatic lighting as a way to test their new supercomputer. Maggie, or something like that. It was bullshit. When the lights had dimmed out, he had tried everything to switch them on again. It was futile, so he had accepted the situation and rolled with it. Apparently, he had rolled so smooth and comfy that he had rocked himself to sleep over a pile of paper.
An acrid smell left a faint scent in the air. This is strange, he thought. Past the office door, the corridor was in complete darkness. When Dr. Birkin peeked over the corner, he listened to some steps in the distance. In the waiting room, beside the glow of the soda machine, there was a slim shadow puffing on a cigarette.
"Having a Coke?" the doctor asked, approaching the woman with caution. "Or you fancy a Pepsi?"
"I'm sorry to bother you," she excused herself. "I had been walked to my room, but I was unable to sleep and thought that I might use a little tour around the place."
Suddenly, the lights flickered and, one by one, they illuminated the room. The woman was in her forties. She wore a pink shirt, a dark blazer and a pencil skirt that fitted her small build. Her brown eyes looked familiar, and so did her thick Spanish accent.
"Interesting…" she whispered.
"Thank god somebody turned the lights on, this was—" he stopped mid-sentence. "We do know each other, right?"
The woman smirked. "Not exactly. I've read some of your work, and I hope you've reciprocated the effort."
"If it's related to biology, I must've had" the doctor remarked. "If it's a novel or something like that, I like to think about myself as a practical man."
"I'm doctor Gala Fernández."
"That rings a bell. I have read most of your articles." He now remembered, he had seen her face in a science magazine. She had been building her reputation during the last years; moreover, there had been talk about her as a future Nobel Prize winner. "What are you doing here, all alone?"
"Well, my flight arrived a few hours ago and I got jet lag. I'm supposed to have an official visit tomorrow, maybe stick around to collaborate if the offer is sensible. Who knows?"
"It would be great to have someone of your reputation join us. Have you met Dr. Richards yet?"
"I'm afraid I haven't."
"I venture you'd join our project, am I right? The one related to cellular replication. I wish I had been informed, but there's not much communication lately. Maybe we could organize a welcome event of some sort."
"That won't be necessary," the woman declined. "Look, the truth is that I was looking for you."
Beyond the corridor, a fast pace could be heard nearing by. The woman grabbed Birkin by the arm and he let go a feeble cry.
"I have talked with your wife."
A pair of stout men entered the waiting room. They were dressed in black, and carried a small blanket with them. One of the men threw it over Gala's shoulders and addressed her in broken Spanish.
"Por favor, doctora… Es tarde, váyase a la cama. La acompañaremos a su habitación."
The other man stood between Birkin and the couple like a guard dog. Once she accepted the suggestion, he relaxed and trailed behind them. Before they all exited the room, the men bowed at him as the lights were dimmed by the computer.
Again, the doctor had been marooned in a sea of darkness.