House Call

Istvan was literally swaying on his feet when he answered the door. From the flushed scarlet of his face, he had to be drunk or feverish, and I knew our leader had too much zeal for our cause to get drunk at this stage of the game. But there was a real danger of infection from his wound.
"You're feverish," I said stupidly.
"Arrant nonsense, Zoli," Istvan snapped back weakly as he staggered away from the door and lay back down on his couch. "It's just overwork. Overtired. Go away," he ordered.
"Then why don't you come to the dance tonight?" I suggested.
"I don't have the energy," Istvan muttered, shutting his eyes. "Will you please just go away?" he begged.
I'm not one to borrow trouble, but I couldn't just leave. Gently I touched Istvan's forehead and he winced slightly. His skin was much too warm to the touch. "I suppose you'll tell me your fever is a figment of my imagination?" I asked, taking my hand away. "I'll get you a cold compress."
When I returned from the bathroom, armed with a bowl of cold water and a washcloth, Istvan's eyes were still shut and I thought perhaps he had managed to fall asleep.
"Go talk pretty music to the classical girls at the dance," Istvan mumbled after a minute or two, as I wrung out the wet washcloth.
"Shan't," I retorted. "You're in no condition to look after yourself right now. I'm staying until your fever breaks. How long have you been like this?" I asked, daubing his face with the wet washcloth.
"June," Istvan slurred.
As though sensing my confusion at this response, he tried to clarify. "I mean Violet. Whichever. She'll miss you... at the dance."
"It's currently Violet," I admitted, now on track that we were talking about girls, not months of the year. "June was the xenophobic one who insisted on singing everything a whole octave higher than the score. But Violet's guardian doesn't approve, so I doubt my absence will be remarked on."
"Poor Violet," Istvan sighed.
"Poor Zoli too," I allowed myself a moment of self-pity. "Such passion wasted."
A faint chuckle from Istvan, then silence for a long time. I checked his pulse. It was rapid and light, an indicator of uneasy sleep. His fever still had not broken, and for now there was nothing I could do but try to keep him as comfortable as possible. The time dragged heavily, but eventually the steady thrum of the rain on the roof just a few feet above my head came near to lulling me to sleep, even as Istvan's fever was reaching its crisis. I got up to stretch my legs, tired of sitting in the uncomfortable chair by Istvan's sofa. I walked over to the window and watched the artificial waterfall created by the blocked gutter on the roof above.
A groan from my patient drew my attention back to the sofa. "Too warm..." Istvan complained, struggling with the light sheet and blanket that I had thrown over him earlier. His eyes were still shut.
"Hey, easy," I remonstrated, coming back and tucking the bedding around him properly again. "Don't fret. I know it's hot, but I promise  it's good for you." I refreshed the washcloth and bathed his face again, taking care to gently touch the cloth to his cracked and dry lips.
"Thanks," Istvan whispered after a moment or two.
"You're welcome," I said quietly. "Feel any better?"
A nod. "Zoli- water?"
"I'll get some," I promised, and went to fill a cup from the tap. When I returned, Istvan's grey eyes were open, but still fever-bright. Regardless, he eagerly took the cup from my hands- and proceeded to nearly spill the water all over himself in his haste. I rescued the cup from him before he managed to do more than spill a few drops on his shirt.
"Let me help," I suggested, sliding a hand behind Istvan's head to support him. My other hand held the cup to Istvan's lips until his thirst was quenched.
"Humiliating," was Istvan's quiet one-word summary of his illness.
I snorted slightly at this. "I don't care who we're talking about but when you're running a fever of about 103, Nature will have it that you're as weak as a kitten. Humbling, maybe. Humiliating only if you insist. Of course," I reflected slowly, "you probably won't even remember that we had this conversation. It's a shame really, it could be the ultimate in auto-biography material."
Istvan's eyes had been slowly drifting shut, but at this, a spark of interest returned. "Hm?"
I grinned. "It's obvious. You write a chapter on your college days, how in the depths of debt, oppression and pain, you learned to harness your weaknesses and channel your strengths, to rise to become one of the new leaders of our time."
"Hm..."
"With your lambent wit, it's only a matter of time before your auto-biography becomes a best-seller and you'll have interviewers queuing up to hear the yarn straight from you. Then all you have to do is avoid any more assassination attempts, and actually get into office. Easy, isn't it?" I grinned, pleased with my idea.
"Can I recover from this first and then write all that?" Istvan asked.
"Sure," I nodded magnanimously. "Sleep if you can. Don't forget to credit me with saving your life- you can put it on the dedications page if you want to."
But Istvan was already fast asleep. Gently I touched his sweaty forehead. It was cooler to the touch than it had been- damp, but a much more normal temperature. Sleep would do the rest. And now that he was out of danger, I could sleep too.