“Silvio Birtolini, Dottore.” The boy trembled.
“Where does your father work?”
Domenica answered before Silvio could: “His father is dead. His mother works at the church.”
Pretucci could tell from the boy’s clothing that his mother did the kind of work that paid a pittance. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No.”
“He’s alone. Except for me, of course. I have been his friend since we were five,” Domenica explained.
“That’s a lifelong friendship,” Pretucci said.
“So far, Dottore. Can I help you? Shall I get fresh water?” Domenica looked around. “And cotton rags? Do you have some?”
“The bandages in the cabinet are clean.” Pretucci had scrubbed the bandages himself and set them in the sun to dry. He could not afford a nurse. He kept the clinic in Viareggio to tend to the local shipbuilders, sailors, and the employees of the silk mill. Most of his time was spent in general practice caring for the sick with private home visits. Pretucci had not solicited a single patient in Pietrasanta or Viareggio since he returned from his studies at the Università di Pisa. He didn’t have to; the patients in need always found him.
Pretucci’s clinic was spare and clean and smelled like rubbing alcohol. Two wooden chairs, a stool, and a desk with a chair were lit by a single lamp covered by a white enamel shade hung over the examining table. A portable glass cabinet filled with small bottles, tinctures, cotton bandages, and medical instruments was propped open on the desk. They were the most modern instruments available.
By the time Domenica had collected the fresh water from the fountain in the street, gathered the gauze, and found a tin cup to give Silvio a drink, the doctor had assembled the instruments to close the wound with stitches. The boy lay still on the table with his eyes closed and his hands folded across his waist. He appeared brave, but a steady flow of tears fell silently from the corners of his eyes, cutting clean rivulets through the sand and blood caked on his face.
“Don’t cry, Silvio.”
“It’s better if he cries. It flushes out any debris. Cry all you want, son.” Pretucci patted the boy on the shoulder.
Domenica dipped a strip of cotton in the cool water and gently removed the dirt from Silvio’s face, starting with his jawline, the area farthest from the gash, and working her way toward his eye. Pretucci monitored her technique. Domenica stippled the dampened cotton strip against Silvio’s skin, pulling the sand out of the wound. She rinsed the cotton in the bowl of water and repeated the procedure until the area was clean. Silvio winced when she dabbed near his eye.
“Does that hurt?” Domenica asked him.
“A little,” Silvio whispered.
“I’ll try not to hurt you. They really got you.”
“Use more water on the gauze to flush the wound,” Pretucci advised her. He measured the surgical thread against the light and snipped off a long piece of it. He threaded the needle with a small loop, knotting it. He placed the flannel over Silvio’s eyes and pulled the lamp close. “Good job, Signorina.”
“Grazie, Dottore. Do you mind if I give the patient a drink? Fear makes a boy thirsty.”
“They didn’t teach me that in medical school.”
“My mother told me that.” Domenica knelt on the stool. “She’s strict but kind too.” Domenica placed one hand behind Silvio’s neck and lifted it slightly so he might take a drink. She held the cup to his mouth. He sipped the cool water slowly.
“Grazie,” Silvio whispered when he had enough.
“You may want to hold your friend’s hand. Sometimes this part stings a bit.”
Domenica hadn’t held Silvio’s hand since they were little. They were eleven, that strange hammock of time stretched between child and teenager when they knew the world was about to change but did not have the words for it. Domenica took Silvio’s hand. He gripped it hard.
The doctor leaned over the patient and gently pressed the open wound together at the farthest point of the gash. Silvio’s smooth skin was the texture of gold velvet.
“Do you want me to do it?” Domenica offered.
Pretucci was amused. With a steady hand, he began to sew the wound closed with stitches so small the thread was barely visible. “You know how to sew surgical stitches?”
“Yes, Dottore.”
“Who taught you?”
“I sewed my father’s hand in the shop when he cut it on a blade. The injury was on his right hand, so he couldn’t sew it himself, so I had to do it. I do needlepoint too.”