“Take a crapper, old man. That’s what the pan’s for beside you. The white one on your left.
When we make it in time, of course.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Perfectly normal function. I’m a doctor, your doctor. My name is Geoffrey Washburn. What’s yours?”
“What?”
“I asked you what your name was.”
The stranger moved his head and stared at the white wall streaked with shafts of morning light.
Then he turned back, his blue eyes leveled at the doctor. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I’ve told you over and over again. It will take time. The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Generally. It’s not pertinent. But I can give you clues, if you’ll listen.”
“I’ve listened”
“No, you don’t; you turn away. You lie in your cocoon and pull the cover over your mind. Hear me again.”
“I’m listening.”
“In your coma--your prolonged coma--you spoke in three different languages. English, French and some goddamned twangy thing I presume is Oriental. That means you’re multilingual; you’re at home in various parts of the world. Think geographically. What’s most comfortable for you?”
“Obviously English.”
“We’ve agreed to that. So what’s most uncomfortable?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your eyes are round, not sloped. I’d say obviously the Oriental.”
“Obviously.”
“Then why do you speak it? Now, think in terms of association. I’ve written down words; listen to them. I’ll say them phonetically. Ma-kwa. Tam-kwon. Kee-sah.Say the first thing that comes to mind.”
“Nothing.”
“Good show.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Something. Anything.”
“You’re drunk.”
“We’ve agreed to that. Consistently. I also saved your bloody life. Drunk or not, I am a doctor. I was once a very good one.”
“What happened?”
“The patient questions the doctor?”
“Why not?”
Washburn paused, looking out the window at the waterfront. “I was drunk,” he said. “They said I killed two patients on the operating table because I was drunk. I could have gotten away with one.
Not two. They see a pattern very quickly, God bless them. Don’t ever give a man like me a knife and cloak it in respectability.”
“Was it necessary?”
“Was what necessary?”
“The bottle.”
“Yes, damn you,” said Washburn softly, turning from the window. “It was and it is. And the patient is not permitted to make judgments where the physician is concerned.”
“Sorry.”
“You also have an annoying habit of apologizing. It’s an overworked protestation and not at all natural. I don’t for a minute believe you’re an apologetic person.”
“Then you know something I don’t know.”
“About you, yes. A great deal. And very little of it makes sense.” The man sat forward in the chair. His open shirt fell away from his taut frame, exposing the bandages on his chest and stomach. He folded his hands in front of him, the veins in his slender, muscular arms pronounced. “Other than the things we’ve talked about?”
“Yes.”
“Things I said while in coma?”
“No, not really. We’ve discussed most of that gibberish. The languages, your knowledge of geography--cities I’ve never or barely heard of--your obsession for avoiding the use of names, names you want to say but won’t; your propensity for confrontation--attack, recoil, hide, run--all rather violent, I might add. I frequently strapped your arms down, to protect the wounds. But we’ve covered all that. There are other things.”
“What do you mean? What are they? Why haven’t you told me?”
“Because they’re physical. The outer shell, as it were. I wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. I’m not sure now.”
The man leaned back in the chair, dark eyebrows below the dark brown hair joined in irritation.
“Now it’s the physician’s judgment that isn’t called for. I’m ready. What are you talking about?”
“Shall we begin with that rather acceptable looking head of yours? The face, in particular.”