Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

When Paul was about to cross a green square to reach the hospital he saw the police car at the entrance. The blue light revolved silently and there was a strange atmosphere, a mixture of seriousness and awe, a feeling that I’d have many years later when my mother had to decide whether I – for her – had survived or not. I’ll come to this later. One thing at a time. A dark-haired man with an oversized nose and jutting chin stood next to the police car, gesticulating as he spoke with one of the policemen. I was still screaming. Paul started to run. The inspirational fire in his chest held for a few more seconds, almost blasting him across the street before regressing back into the old anxiety, which, like a hard landing, threatened to pin him down on the sidewalk. A nurse held me in her arms as a doctor examined my neck, back, pelvis, legs. The woman from reception huddled in shared mute shock with the kiosk owner, the cleaning lady and another policeman. Only when the doctor gave a confident she’s-okay nod did a murmur ripple through the group.

“Chwała Bogu” , muttered the Polish cleaning lady.

“Allaha Şükür” , said the Turkish kiosk owner.

“Thank God!” cried Nurse Marianne, plugging a bottle of milk into my mouth so I could finally relax and, slurping and sucking, unconcernedly enjoy my first dinner.

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