"The most common illness for Europeans here is called the bloody flux." Mukarjee tested the paste again with his finger, and then began to stir it vigorously with a wooden spatula. "For four or five days the body burns with intense heat, and then either it is gone or you are dead."
"Are there no medicines?" Hawksworth watched as he began to spread the paste over the wound.
"Of course there are medicines." Mukarjee chuckled resignedly. "But the Portuguese scorn to use them."
"Probably wisely," Hawksworth reflected. "It's said the flux is caused by an excess of humors in the blood. Bleeding is the only real remedy."
"I see." Mukarjee began to apply the paste and then to bind Hawksworth's leg with a swath of white cloth. "Yes, my friend, that is what the Portuguese do—you must hold still—and I have personally observed how effective it is in terminating illness."
"The damned Jesuits are the best physicians in Europe."
"So I have often been told. Most frequently at funerals." Mukarjee quickly tied a knot in the binding and spat another mouthful of red juice. "Your wound is really nothing more than a scratch. But you would have been dead in a fortnight. By this, if not by exertion."
"What do you mean?" Hawksworth rose and tested his leg, amazed that the pain seemed to have vanished.
"The greatest scourge of all for newly arrived Europeans
here seems to be our women. It is inevitable, and my greatest source of amusement." He spat the exhausted betel leaf toward the corner of the room and paused dramatically while he prepared another.