A Good Man

At Ain Z'halta, a village in the Lebanese boondocks, a mosquito bit me on the wrist. I slapped it, brushed away a smear of blood, and returned to my guidebook. That evening, the bite itched. I scratched it and awoke the next morning with a welt the size of an almond at the base of my right thumb, a tender elbow, and disquieting red streaks running up to my armpit. President Coolidge's son had died a year or 2 previously from an infected blister despite the most advanced medical treatment of the time: hot soaks of Epsom salt, antiphlogistine, and prayer. The world had not heard of sulfonamides or antibiotics.

I walked to the village square wondering what to do. There were few options: a town of 800 souls with a broad view of the Bakaa Valley, a mosque, a cafe, a fountain, the scent of eucalyptus, and a Swiss pension where I was lodged. And now, the certain knowledge that I was in trouble.

As I stood beside the fountain, a woman approached, leading a donkey. I said to her, “Is there a doctor here? A hakim?''

She pointed to a house across the street. “Moghubghub,” she said. For a moment, I thought she was clearing her throat, but she repeated the word, pointed again, and smiled. “Tayub,” she said. “A good man.”

Steps led to his open door. I looked in and saw a small living room with a table, an armchair, 2 kitchen chairs, a calendar, a chromo on the wall, and a sideboard with china displayed. A lady stood at the table considering me. She was short, about 50 years old, with blue eyes, braided gray hair, and heavy breasts surmounting a gingham apron. She seemed friendly. “Alors …