1

Samuel

The newborn baby emerged into the world, and into the waiting hands of a smiling doctor. It was the most beautiful boy that had ever been born onto the Earth, or would ever be born thereafter. Everything about him was perfectly cute and delicate. His thin misproportioned fingers, his pink round face, and his pudgy little body all added up to the most lovable infant anyone could hope to imagine.

Somewhat unceremoniously, the mother had passed out. But given the reward of her painful hours of labour, she deserved her rest. Despite what she had been through, she had a serene expression that befitted the majesty of the occasion. Her mouth was curled into a satisfied smile. The only thing that had betrayed the toil the poor woman had endured was the tangle of dishevelled hair which surrounded her. It was haphazardly sprawled about the pillows that propped her into a semi-sitting position.

The umbilical was cut, and everyone in the world stopped what they were doing for an instant. It was the only definite point in the whole birth, and as such it marked the beginning of a new life. The beginning of a space-time world line that would see this baby boy living life in a way that you would never have guessed. For the boy, despite all his sheer perfection, was missing something. But no-one noticed, because they were too profoundly in awe of the miracle they had just been so fortunate to witness. Either that, or they were just too tired and inattentive.

The inattentive doctor handed the baby to a tired nurse. She was a good, hard-working nurse, middle-aged. She was pretty in her own buxom, red faced way. That day, she was suffering from a minor affliction- one that seemed to surface with monotonous regularity. Although she insisted to herself that it was minor, her day had proven to be too demanding. She was perspiring, and found herself in the midst of a numbing headache. I'll be home soon, she thought to herself, as she glanced at the clock on the wall. Her shift was nearly over.

The nurse managed to smile at the screaming child, but had to suppress a yawn. To the nurse it was just fuel for her flaming headache. Yet to the enlightened. the screaming of the child represented a powerfully moving and emotional speech. The boy had prepared it during his time in the womb, mulling over many versions in his busy little mind before he had decided on this final orchestration of his thoughts and feelings. And as his mind had not yet been corrupted by the idiosyncrasies of language, he was perhaps more able to express himself more clearly that any scholar.

But then, perhaps not, as no-one in the room understood him. Not a single one of them could comprehend his cries. Instead they ignored his articulations, considering them to be nothing more than the screams of a newborn baby crying with fear after having left its mother. And to some extent, that was the main point of his speech, although their were other things that he wanted to draw their attention to.

The baby was gently wiped with a towel. The nurse reached over to the trolley, absent mindedly picked up a blanket and wrapped it around the tiny infant. Momentarily overcome by the comfort of the blanket, the little boy paused. He snuggled against it, and noted its texture. He probably would have requested a teddy bear, if he had known what one was. He would learn soon enough. Suddenly the boy realised that he had left his last baby-sentence hanging, and quickly resumed his outpouring of raw newborn feeling.

The nurse asked the doctor a question, and he nodded in reply. The nurse took the child from the room. She cradled it in both arms, calming it with gentle and soothing words. Actually, the boy thought she was asking questions about the points he had made in his speech. He couldn't understand her incoherent mumblings, and was initially very patient, content to listen.

But then they arrived at the nursery, where the child was lay to rest in a crib. And the child lost his patience and went over the main points of his speech again. And then the nurse mumbled warmly to him once more, and this time he got the impression that she was sympathizing with him. He was happy to leave it at that.

So it was after some time, and with considerable patience (on both sides), the nurse eventually quietened the baby down. She yawned as she crossed the room to get a tag to put on the head of the crib. She penned in bold capitals CLINDOBSKI and made her way back to the infant. The child had fallen asleep, and looked so cuddly and warm, wrapped tightly in its pale blue blanket. At last the nurse appreciated the importance of the birth she had just been a part of. Her headache was dissolved in that moment, as she wondered about the nature of life. She smiled, attached the tag to the crib and left the room.

A short while later the doctor arrived, with the child's birth certificate form on his clipboard. He was a tall man with tanned skin and dark hair. He seemed to be slightly preoccupied as he rushed into the room, stirring up mini-cyclones in his wake. His white coat flapped and rolled in the eddies, reluctantly following him.

There was only one detail on the certificate which had not been filled in. It was a fairly important detail. At least, it was important enough to warrant its place on birth certificates since the dawn of time. His head scanned the room quickly, as his frantic eyes searched for the baby he had just delivered. He was relieved to find that he didn't need to disturb the child to fill in the missing detail. He took one brief look at the cosy baby in the pale blue blanket, smiled for an instant, quickly ticked a box and left.

Mr Clindobski was at work. And he was busily working, because that is what one usually does at work. At least, he had previously been busily working- until he was interrupted by a phone call.

"Mr Clindobski?"

"Yes."

"You know your wife?"

"Of course."

"Very good. Well, I'm her doctor..."

"Has she had the baby yet?"

"Yes, sir. Less than an hour ago."

"So, was it a boy or a girl?"

"Boy."

Mr Clindobski was absolutely ecstatic. And if he had been a very outgoing person, he might've starting jumping about like a person in a Toyota commercial. In fact he probably should have, as this was an infinitely more worthy reason to spring into the air like an idiot. After all, Mr Clindobski was the father of the most beautiful baby boy ever born. To be fair, it is true that Mr Clindobski felt like he was on top of the world, although he chose not to go overboard in his outward display of joy.

Within the space of half-an-hour, the excited new father had called all of his friends and relatives to relay the news. He proudly boasted about his newborn son. Invariably they asked what the boy was to be called. "Samuel, I think. Unless Leonie has changed her mind."

Later that afternoon, as Mr Clindobski was about to finish work, he had another phone call from the hospital. He was urged to visit. Instantly Mr Clindobski was in panic, thinking that the worst had happened. He immediately hung up the phone, not even thinking to ask a simple question like "What's wrong?" Instead, as he rushed out to his car, he asked himself questions. What had happened to his son? Was Leonie alright? What were his chances of being booked for speeding? Contemplating the worst possible answers, he sped off to the hospital.

A frantic Mr Clindobski ran up to the reception desk, panting terribly. He asked to be directed to his wife. The nurse seemed insanely calm to him. He soaked in the receptionists directions and instantly disappeared into the maternity wing.

He staggered into the ward, and quickly searched for his wife. By the window, he saw her bed. She was sitting up, an empty crib was beside her, and his son was in her arms, wrapped in its blue blanket. He breathed a sigh of relief and slowly made his way to his wife, smiling tentatively.

Mrs Clindobski looked up, and beamed at her husband. Then she turned back to the baby, still smiling. She emitted the glow of a woman who has just become a mother. An intensely proud mother. She affectionately brushed the top of the boy's head, and he almost seemed to smile.

Mr Clindobski crouched down beside her bed and looked at his new born son. He joined his wife, and they both beamed together. He was struck by how adorable the little boy looked. His eyes were tightly closed and a little finger from a little hand poked up from underneath the blanket and touched the baby's chin.

Nothing was said for a while. It was enough for the new family just to be together, But after a while, Mr Clindobski got the feeling that he should say something. "Are we still going to call him Samuel?" he asked, as he reached out to touch his son's little finger.

"Actually, that's what I got them to call you for," Mrs Clindobski replied quietly. Mr Clindobski looked to his wife and frowned slightly.

"I got the impression that something had happened to one of you." He noticed his wife grin a little, and put the tips of her fingers to her mouth, as if she was suppressing a laugh. She looked at him with wide joking eyes. Mr Clindobski was puzzled, and wondered what could be so funny.

"In a way... Well, actually we had another name in mind, didn't we..."

"Did we? I don't remember..." replied Mr Clindobski, twisting his face a little.

"Dianne," Mrs Clindobski said, and chuckled gently. Mr Clindobski's eyes widened.

"You mean he's not... I mean..." stammered Mr Clindobski. Mrs Clindobski nodded gently. Mr Clindobski was silent for a while as he turned from his wife and looked back to see his daughter. Everything was in a new light for him, although essentially the little girl was blissfully unaware of why it was different to be a baby girl and not a baby boy. It meant nothing to her then, as she rested peacefully. Yet it meant a lot to her parents.

Mr Clindobski examined the little girl's face, and was satisfied with the name.

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