An Evening at Joe's (28 page)

"Yes. Well, what do you think?"

"I think you'd better come to my office. We need to talk this through properly. Are you free in an hour?"

Her usually calm demeanour was gone and she'd smoked three cigarettes, one after the other, by the time he'd told her exactly what had happened to him in his last solo session. After a few seconds of intense thought she reached for her cigarettes and lighter.

"You know, you really should try to cut down, they're not very good for you," he said.

She looked at him slightly non-plussed.

"That's a joke."

She smiled. "You've come a long way, since our first meeting." She sat looking at him for a few moments as if weighing up carefully what she was going to say. "Mr. Morris, what I practise is an inexact science. I don't mean this as a cop-out although it could sound like one, but hypnosis is not something you can deconstruct into component parts to see how it works. My strong feeling is that to do that would have the same effect as to dissect a bee to find out how it flies. The net result is that you're left with a dead bee. The bee flies... your hypnosis appears to be working. I know it's a lot to ask, but try not to analyse it too much. Now, I grant you it's not usual, but I think that your subconscious is trying to tell you something, I won't be any more specific than that. I told you to get aggressive with your cancer and it seems that your subconscious is preparing you for some sort of... confrontation. Perhaps your therapy has led you to confront things from your past that you've avoided facing up to. My advice is not to fear where it is leading you."

Two hours later he sat and reflected on these and other matters while his food slowly went cold. He'd decided to eat somewhere different tonight, to break his routine. He'd walked for about an hour to give himself an appetite and then happened upon this rather quiet and exclusive looking restaurant near the Place de la Bastille. He had chosen a table by the window and had taken the chair facing out to the street so that he could watch humanity pass by and be alone with his thoughts. His mind was naturally preoccupied by thoughts of the operation to remove the tumour which was a week away. He loathed hospitals, the very smell, full of sick people, stiflingly overheated... no wonder so many people fainted in them. And for three or four hours he would be put to sleep and his life would be in someone else's hands. The thought of being cut open made him grind his teeth and shiver.

But a further ordeal lay before him. The amphitheatre awaited him. He only had instinct to go on but he sensed that everything in that barren, windswept world, the invalid carriage, the cloud, the rainbow, the flower... they all meant something. Perhaps she was right. Maybe each of them was a key to a door he had shut and locked years ago. Issues lay unresolved and like restless spirits they had come back to haunt him. He was scared, very frightened indeed and yet he knew he had no choice. He noticed his hand holding his half-smoked cigarette. It was shaking.

It was at this moment that he became aware of someone who had just come into view and had put down the bags he was carrying as if to rest for a while. Standing a few feet away from the window and rummaging in one of the bags he presented quite a sight to anyone who took the time to look. It had started raining about an hour ago and this man's clothes, if you could call them that, were soaked. He was about forty years of age, quite tall, and thin. He wore a filthy brown tweed overcoat belted at the waist with an old tie. His dark grey trousers were ripped and tattered at the ends and he only had one boot, the toe of which had come away from the sole and both were held together by a frayed piece of thick, dirty string. The other foot was wrapped in old newspapers and plastic carrier bags and held on with some worn electrical tape. His eyes were drawn to the man's face. A wild, sodden grey mass of wiry hair fell to his shoulders and blended with an equally long beard of the same colour. Very full eyebrows bristled ferociously above a pair of large, sharp blue eyes and this face was made even more impressive to the eye by a prominent nose and full lips. As he watched him rummage in his overcoat pockets and finally produce a huge red handkerchief with which he proceeded to rub his dripping beard he was surprised to note that the man's hand and nails were perfectly clean. Having put the handkerchief away, he undid the tie around his waist and re-folded the enormous coat before replacing it. He then took out a small mirror from another bag and raked his long fingers through his straggly hair as if he was an actor about to go on stage. Having returned the mirror to its bag he paused as if to prepare himself and then turned towards the window and looked straight at him. The eyes knew exactly where to look without searching out their object. The look appeared to be meant for him and he was struck by its momentary severity. He immediately thought, "Oh, God, he's going to come in, ask me for money!" He was just about to call the waiter for some assistance when the tramp suddenly stood up very straight, as if to attention and, with a huge smile he raised his right hand and made an extravagant "thumbs up" sign. It was an awkward moment as the tramp just looked at him, beaming and nodding vigorously. A little taken aback and somewhat ashamed he raised his wine glass to the man outside, which he immediately regretted, realising how condescending it might have looked to the other people in the restaurant. He was just about to reach into his pocket for some change when the tramp went through the whole procedure over again. He rubbed his head with the handkerchief, checked his clothes and hair in the mirror and, just as before, he turned to the window and raised his thumb to the sky, his face brought alive by that wonderful smile. And then, without another look in the direction of the restaurant, he gathered up his tattered belongings and walked off into the night.

For several seconds he just sat there, as if paralysed, and then he jumped to his feet and dashed out of the restaurant to the astonishment of the other diners. Turning the collar of his jacket up against the rain he looked down the street but there was no sign of the tramp. There was a turning left thirty yards ahead but when he got there all that he saw was a little dog crossing the dimly lit road and urinating against the wall of a house. The man appeared to have vanished into the night and as he slowly retraced his steps he cursed himself for his presumption and wondered how a man in such a situation could appear to be so happy on a night like this. He looked so bedraggled when he came back through the door that the waiter didn't recognise him at first and nearly asked him to leave.

Coffee and brandy did little to soothe his thoughts and, after having paid the bill, he walked into the night, umbrella aloft, reflecting on the bedraggled figure who had spontaneously offered him so much without asking anything in return.

Dr. Gueritoimeme had paid a visit half an hour before the time of the operation to have a chat and to reassure him and this had been closely followed by the pre-med. Twenty minutes later he had been wheeled in a fairly happy state to a lobby just outside the operating theatre and it was here that he was then administered with the drug that knocked him out.

The ceiling was high and afforded him a pretty good view. Fifteen feet or so below him on the table lay the rather awkward and slightly overweight piece of flesh he had grudgingly come to accept as his body. It had been a private joke of many years' standing between him and his creator that when Heaven had been handing out the equipment he'd been at the back of the queue. How vulnerable he looked, he thought, without all the paraphernalia we humans use to distance ourselves from ideas of our own mortality. No glasses to make us look clever or to hide behind. No cigarette nonchalantly hanging from our lip to make us look moody or sophisticated. No expensive watch to assert our status. No beautifully tailored suit to hide the sagging buttocks or the expanding waistline. This was it... the truth laid bare in all its brutal detail. The body of a sick, middle aged man who had only ever been momentarily attractive to one woman in his life and who, after years of self-loathing, had realised he didn't want to die and who hoped it wasn't too late. And here he was, surrounded by machines that went ping and monitors that assured the world that where there was life there was hope.

For quite a While he stared at the scene below and very slowly he was coming round to the realisation that his next trip down the staircase could happen sooner than he expected if that was what he wanted. Below him a group of seven or eight figures in pale blue gowns moved about the table, their heads covered and their faces masked, reminding him of grave robbers who had decided to cut out the middle man. The atmosphere in the room was hushed and expectant as a tall figure, similarly dressed, backed through the double swing doors, adjusting the see-through rubber gloves and flexing his long, delicate fingers. "Alright, everyone, this has been scheduled for three and a half hours but this gentleman's tumour is in a particularly tricky position and I want to be absolutely sure I don't leave any so it might take a little longer." Turning to a nurse standing by the bank of monitors he said, "Yvette, first signs of distress let me know." She nodded and continued to adjust the angle of one of the screens.

"Robert?"

"Yes, monsieurP" The man addressed was standing at the head of the table by three long, tubular gas canisters with pressure gauges on the top.

"If you're happy I'd like to start.

"Quite happy, monsieur."

Dr. Gueritoimeme turned towards the unconscious figure on the table. An area of the chest lay naked and exposed through an opening in the green sheet that covered him.

"Scalpel."

His squeamishness got the better of him and, without any apparent effort other than the thought, he drifted through the wall to his left and found himself in another operating theatre. The scene was the same. The patient prone on a table beneath the halogen glare of the operating lights, the blood-spattered cover sheet, the various machines blipping out their life-affirming hospital morse. One thing was different, however. Everyone bar the sedated form on the table was laughing. They all looked towards the surgeon who was waving his scalpel around and trying to control his own laughter as he said, "And do you know why she'd never have one of these?" He gestured with his other hand somewhere in the patient's groin area as he looked at them over his half-moon glasses, eyebrows raised in expectation. "She'd never be able to find the shoes to go with the bag!" At this point he could control himself no longer. He leaned with one hand on the patient's leg and laughed uncontrollably for a few seconds together with the rest of the theatre crew.

"I don't think that's very funny."

He started at the sound of the voice. He'd presumed he was alone and he felt guilty, as if he'd been caught doing something naughty, like a child. The brilliance of the theatre lights made the high corners of the room near the ceiling gloomy by comparison but over the other side he could just make out the rather milky figure of a man about forty years of age. He was bald with a long, rather solemn face and slightly sad, watery eyes.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't think that sort of behaviour is very professional, do you? Been round any of the other wards yet? I wouldn't bother... they all seem to be doing adenoids or hemorrhoids tonight and knowing this lot here the chances of a mix-up must be high. What are you in for?"

"They're removing a tumour, just started actually. Didn't fancy seeing myself get cut open. Thought I'd have a look about."

"Serious, is it? What are your chances?"

"Fifty fifty," he said, nodding. "What are you in for?"

"Colostomy operation. Hence the joke at my expense. Still, I'll get my own back soon."

"What do you mean?"

The rather morose looking spirit seemed to be grinning most horribly in the gloom of his corner. Looking at the surgeon he said, "I'm his dentist. He's booked in for a filling in two weeks' time... we shall see, we shall see."

Some sense of urgency shivered through him and he decided he had better get back. "I'm afraid I must be going. Best of luck and all that." The other chap didn't seem to have heard him. He'd moved down to a position just above and behind the surgeon's right shoulder and was chuckling to himself and nodding vigorously.

As he crossed back through the dividing wall he was relieved to see that all was as he had left it. The team were going about their tasks in an atmosphere of quiet concentration, Dr. Gueritoimeme talking rarely and then only in a calm and measured voice. The only other sound was the rhythmic whoosh, in and out, of the breathing equipment. A brief look at the monitors told him nothing except that they appeared to be working and he was left to presume that the unhurried air of calm was indicative that things were going as well as could be hoped.

He descended slowly and moved about the room. He hovered to the other side of the table opposite the doctor and looked closely at him. His gaze was drawn to his face. The forehead was creased and the muscles about the eyes flickered and twitched with the enormous effort of concentration required. Sweat beaded on his forehead and once in a while he'd take a rest and having closed his eyes and taken a deep breath he'd flex his shoulder muscles and then continue. The doctor was fighting, doing his best to save his life. It was now time he did the same. All that was required to accomplish the intention of the thought appeared to be to think it. He found himself once more inside his body and after taking a long and perhaps final look at the face of the doctor hard at work, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and began his descent towards who knew what.

Before him stood an imposing pair of double doors that must have been fifteen feet high. A very dim light filtered through two large glass panels covered in a tracery of rusting wrought ironwork. There was no shadow of movement beyond, although the glass was so filthy it was difficult to be sure. He put his ear to the slight gap where the doors joined in the middle... no sound but a faint whistle as of a wind playing through the corridors of an empty house. A look over his shoulder yielded nothing. There was no dim haze of light above in the distance, just blackness all around. Turning back to the door he felt for a handle but there didn't appear to be one. Undeterred he took a deep breath and pushed hard on the doors. The hinges juddered from the pressure as years of rust crumbled and the pins started to move reluctantly in their sockets and the weighty doors swung slowly open. Before him was disclosed a bare corridor illuminated by an old, unshaded lightbulb swaying in the draught and he was momentarily disconcerted.... Where was his beach? Where was the tarmac landscape? Was this it...?