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Authors: Hugo Wilcken
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person, and stare out, smoking a cigarette. I fancied I could perceive a certain reflective melancholy in her as she smoked, staring out onto the courtyard below. From those ten minutes she spent on the balcony each morning, I tried to construct a life. Judging from the clothes on the washing line, I supposed that she had a husband and a small boy, although I never saw them either. I imagined her in the morning, busily preparing her husband’s breakfast, and getting her son ready for school. And then when she’d finally sent them both out the door, that’s when she’d come on the balcony. It would be her time. A moment of respite before the day properly got going, before washing the breakfast things, the housework, perhaps some menial job to go to. Her few minutes of withdrawal, of blanking out the drudgery of life.
The drip was removed. The periods during which I could sit up without inducing nausea or dizziness became longer. One day I decided to try getting up from my bed. On my feet, I felt fragile, lightheaded, but nothing more. I took a few experimental steps, and found myself by the door. Without thinking I tried the handle—locked. I returned to my bed, exhausted by my little expedition.
The doctor came again, unannounced. This time he stayed longer. He looked at my head, listened to my heart with his stethoscope, asked me to breathe in and out, tapped me here and there to test my reactions. It felt perfunctory, as if he were simply putting on a performance for me. Once he’d finished, he stood there in silence for a minute or so, leaving me perplexed. Finally, he said: “When you sit up, do you feel dizzy?”
“Less and less so.”
“Could you sit up now? Good. I’m going to ask you a few questions. First, what is your name?”
“Surely you have all my details already.”
“Just answer the question, please. Your name.”
“David Frederick Manne.”
“Where do you live?”
“353 East Fifty-Sixth Street.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“What is your profession?”
“I’m a doctor of medicine, in private practice.”
“What year is it?”
“1949.”
“What month?”
“September I think. No, probably October. To be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ve been here.”
“All right. Thank you.”
Again he stood there in silence for a good moment, as if wondering what to do next. He rummaged about in his pocket. Eventually he drew out a small photograph and showed it to me. “Do you know who this is?”
A young woman, late twenties perhaps. Nothing remarkable about her face, and I certainly didn’t recognize her. Nonetheless there was something odd about the photograph. It was her hairstyle, old-fashioned for a girl her age. It occurred to me that the photograph itself must be fairly old. I shook my head.
“I don’t know who it is.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The doctor started to leave. “Keep the photograph. Perhaps you’ll remember something about it later on.”
“Wait a minute. You haven’t told me anything. What’s the photograph got to do with me? I want to know how long I’m going to be in here. I want to know how serious my injuries are. I’m a doctor too, you know. You can tell me.”
He had his hand on the door handle; he turned brieflytoward me. “Don’t worry. There will be plenty of time for that later.”
Before I had time to protest any further, he was gone. I felt a quick of stab of anger at the peremptory way he’d treated me. What an absurd figure, with his pointed beard, his pocket watch, his superannuated accent, his ponderous manner! But the anger quickly died, leaving behind a residue of disquiet. I struggled to my feet, hobbled to the door. Locked again.
Back on my bed, I closed my eyes and waited for my heartbeat to slow to its normal rhythm. This whole charade with the doctor flagged up a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me. Perhaps the hospital
hadn’t
known who I was. Perhaps the doctor really had
The drip was removed. The periods during which I could sit up without inducing nausea or dizziness became longer. One day I decided to try getting up from my bed. On my feet, I felt fragile, lightheaded, but nothing more. I took a few experimental steps, and found myself by the door. Without thinking I tried the handle—locked. I returned to my bed, exhausted by my little expedition.
The doctor came again, unannounced. This time he stayed longer. He looked at my head, listened to my heart with his stethoscope, asked me to breathe in and out, tapped me here and there to test my reactions. It felt perfunctory, as if he were simply putting on a performance for me. Once he’d finished, he stood there in silence for a minute or so, leaving me perplexed. Finally, he said: “When you sit up, do you feel dizzy?”
“Less and less so.”
“Could you sit up now? Good. I’m going to ask you a few questions. First, what is your name?”
“Surely you have all my details already.”
“Just answer the question, please. Your name.”
“David Frederick Manne.”
“Where do you live?”
“353 East Fifty-Sixth Street.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“What is your profession?”
“I’m a doctor of medicine, in private practice.”
“What year is it?”
“1949.”
“What month?”
“September I think. No, probably October. To be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ve been here.”
“All right. Thank you.”
Again he stood there in silence for a good moment, as if wondering what to do next. He rummaged about in his pocket. Eventually he drew out a small photograph and showed it to me. “Do you know who this is?”
A young woman, late twenties perhaps. Nothing remarkable about her face, and I certainly didn’t recognize her. Nonetheless there was something odd about the photograph. It was her hairstyle, old-fashioned for a girl her age. It occurred to me that the photograph itself must be fairly old. I shook my head.
“I don’t know who it is.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The doctor started to leave. “Keep the photograph. Perhaps you’ll remember something about it later on.”
“Wait a minute. You haven’t told me anything. What’s the photograph got to do with me? I want to know how long I’m going to be in here. I want to know how serious my injuries are. I’m a doctor too, you know. You can tell me.”
He had his hand on the door handle; he turned brieflytoward me. “Don’t worry. There will be plenty of time for that later.”
Before I had time to protest any further, he was gone. I felt a quick of stab of anger at the peremptory way he’d treated me. What an absurd figure, with his pointed beard, his pocket watch, his superannuated accent, his ponderous manner! But the anger quickly died, leaving behind a residue of disquiet. I struggled to my feet, hobbled to the door. Locked again.
Back on my bed, I closed my eyes and waited for my heartbeat to slow to its normal rhythm. This whole charade with the doctor flagged up a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me. Perhaps the hospital
hadn’t
known who I was. Perhaps the doctor really had
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