Tachycardia

I recall, with a sense of bewilderment, what Abdel-Azim Shodak, the lame, nearly deaf mechanic, did. He was once found inside the ward, his skin reeking of grease and old oils. He wore thin-lensed reading glasses, followed everywhere, and a heavy medical bandage around his neck. He seemed to be in an open, unsupervised learning environment. On his right hand, he wore a thick rubber glove, the kind used by sewage workers, to protect their hands when washing pots and clothes. He moved among the women, their faces etched with pain and blood, acting as a kind of obstetrician and gynecologist, perhaps even keeping watch because he was absolutely certain there was no midwife, no doctor, no doctor present when he entered. But, unfortunately, one of the room's occupants, whose name I recall was Tamadhur, lived in his neighborhood, just a street away. She rushed towards him as soon as she saw him, her cries laced with feigned pain: "Shudak... Shudak the mechanic! Shudak!" I remember with profound shock what Abdel-Azim Shaddak, a wheelchair-bound and nearly deaf mechanic in his forties, had done. He had once been found in the delivery room, reeking of grease and old motor oil. He wore thin-lensed glasses, the kind you could easily find anywhere. A broken stethoscope hung around his neck, apparently found in some abandoned office. In his right hand, he carried a thick rubber glove, the kind never used for gynecological examinations, but rather by sanitation workers and in homes to protect hands while washing dishes. He moved among the suffering and bleeding patients, pretending to be an obstetrician. He carefully scanned the room to make sure there were no nurses, midwives, or doctors present, then entered. Unfortunately for him, one of the patients in the room, whose name I remember as Tamadher, was from his neighborhood and lived just one street away. She recognized him the moment she saw him and screamed, her cries mingling with the pains of labor: "He's pulling...the mechanic's pulling. Pulling!"