Five
“This does not look good.” The doctor towers over me, frowning. How old is he again? It seems I should know, but the number that comes up in my head does not seem to correspond with what I see before me. Those trembling, liver-spotted hands and that emaciated body look ancient. “Not good at all.”
Brandishing a big, shiny steel instrument that looks disturbingly intrusive, he leans in closer and calls out for a nurse. Almost immediately, a middle aged man in washed-out purple scrubs enters the room, pushing a medication cart in front of him. He stops and unlocks the cart to reveal an impressive array of bottles, glasses, mixers, pills, pipes and assorted mushrooms.
The doctor glances at the cart and seems to weigh his options. With an almost imperceptible shrug, he puts the steel instrument away, gets up and walks over to the cart. The doctor and the man start pouring each other drinks and lighting cigarettes while conferring in hushed voices. The man points questioningly in my direction with his Gauloise, but the doctor shakes his head, instead urging the man to try a concoction of rubbing alcohol, eau-de-vie, aged rose water and a pinch of bergamot.
The man drinks, greedily, and the heady beverage seems to instantly push him over the edge. He staggers sideways, grasping for the cart, but misses and crashes into the wall, unable to break his fall. The doctor dismisses him with a snort and calmly drops his half-smoked cigarette in an almost empty bottle of chartreuse before finally acknowledging me again.
“Look, I'm no surgeon, but I do take on the occasional side gig – a spinal rejuvenation here, a by-pass job there. You know the routine. I could maybe install something new here. Freshly printed, never used.”
I consider his offer and check my balance, as stealthily as I can. The number that comes back is disappointing, to say the least. When I relate my financial situation, the doctor shrinks away from me, disappointed and morose.