The arthritic sat calmly, like a statue, on the indigo swivel chair. The doctor felt his wrists, palm and fingers, mumbling what sounded like the names of the bones and joints. “Are you a typist?” he asked, puffing on his cigar. “Nobody types anymore,” said the arthritic. “True enough,” the doctor agreed, swiveling his own indigo chair to face his manual typewriter with its fresh new form. He punched some keys to make notes, and then turned to the arthritic to ask about his profession. It was not one the doctor recognized. He prescribed some ointments and aspirin and sent the man on his way. At the end of the day, as the doctor walked down a broad avenue of chestnuts, he saw the arthritic, standing in the shade to the side, counting on his fingers, pausing, and then counting again. What was he counting? Motorists? Transients? Lost friends? Syllables? Autumn leaves? “Nobody counts anymore!” the doctor exclaimed out loud, and shuffled off to the station.
doctors
The Half Tree
The strange tree grew on the slope of a great expressionist mountain of iron gray stones and pure snow. It looked like half of a tree, regardless of the path you took to approach it. The northern view showed limbs and leaves vanishing into the west; the southern view suggested branches and flowers smoking into the east. And yet, if one embraced its trunk or climbed it, one found that it was whole, that nothing was lost. Not far from the tree lived an old man who cared for it. One morning, as he walked to the tree with his axe and kindling, a visitor stopped him to ask about the tree. “The half tree,” said the old man, “is an enigma. One half of the world recognizes its medicinal benefits, but instead of buying or cultivating its fruit, they harvest grapefruits and oranges and boil them to try to obtain the unique chemicals only found in this tree, chemicals never to be found in oranges, grapefruits or any other fruit. The other half of humanity harvests the medicine from this tree, refines it, packages it and sells it, but discourages people from taking it and denies its benefits. It is a tree of contention.” The visitor shook her head in disbelief and asked, “Where is the rest of the tree?” The old man shrugged and whispered, “The only place it can be.”
The Doctor and the Drunkard
In a mining town with one short railway and one horse-drawn trolley, there was a long, low shack near the market square: a wooden structure of three solid walls, an open front which once had sliding doors, a roof with some missing tiles, and indigo cloths bearing the symbol for ice hanging above the entrances, although ice had not been sold there for years. In the shade inside, one found a long, scratched, wooden table and behind it a wooden chair. Most of the time the place was empty and only a cat could be found curled up in one of the corners. On market days and some holidays, one could find the kindest man in town here. When he was not in the shack, he was usually sweeping streets, hauling sacks of coal, or washing iron kettles for the miners, kindly listening to their problems. When he was in the shack, however, he would sit on the old chair behind the table with a bottle of firewater and a hurricane lamp. Customers would come, place silver or copper coins on the table, and hear him drunkenly rant and swear at them. Some considered him a seer, and invested great thought and time into how to interpret his offensive and enigmatic words. Others just went to be entertained—or for sadder, more delicate reasons. Most of the early evening visitors only stayed a quarter of an hour; the midnight visitors would last anywhere from one to three hours. And then before the morning light burned above the blue and white peaks, the man shuffled off with his lantern, his coat pockets stuffed with coins. And for days after, the man who had ranted and raved at his customers in the most abusive language would be sweeping the streets, happily washing kettles for the miners, and patiently listening to the old farmers complain about the frost or the blight. One night, a newly arrived doctor came to the shack. Nobody else was there, but the kind man was already flushed and deep into another bottle of liquor, his beard and pony-tail in disarray, his eyes shining with a menacing fire. The doctor placed a revolver and three silver coins on the counter. This is the last of my money, and that is what awaits me if I do not find a solution to my problem. I cannot get enough patients. The miners visit the company doctor and die before they can finish their treatments. The others stay at home and eat medicinal herbs or drink tea. I thought I could make it, but I am irrelevant here. That’s what the midnight train is for, growled the drunkard. One train—two ways to leave. Any idiot can figure that out. Is that all you’ve got? The doctor laughed nervously, noting how the drunkard never looked at the money or the revolver. They sat through a long silence. I would like a cigarette, said the drunkard suddenly, in a subdued, kind and even plaintive tone. The doctor reached into his coat and found a crumpled pack, which he pushed across the table. Keep the pack, he said. The drunkard lit a cigarette, pocketed the pack, and pushed the coins back toward the doctor. I came here some years ago to work as a cook, said the drunkard, but I was hungry and there was no work. The company would not take me on. A month passed, and I was on the verge of starving. I sold my kitchen knives and other belongings, and got drunk. I was headed for the midnight train, but got confused in the town square, just in front of the ice shop. I started ranting and raving. I got madder and madder and threw my hat down on the ground. At some point in my sermon, I realized a crowd had formed. They were laughing and clapping and throwing coins into my hat. And I repeated this once, sometimes twice a week, and before long, I had enough to buy the ice shop. The iceman was forced out of business by the company, which had built an ice factory nearby—who knows why? It’s not like coal expires. It was hard, though. It was hard in those first days, and still is. I have never liked strong drink that much and my liver always hurts. The doctor shook his head in disbelief. The kind man got up, and picked up his hurricane lantern. It’s not that they don’t need a doctor, he said, gently clutching the physician’s shoulder. It’s just that they need a disease. The kind man is said to have left on the midnight train, and the cat was never seen in the abandoned ice shop again.
The Prescription
“And what do you think of Helicobacter pylori?” the scientist asked. “I like to think of it as a grave political mistake,” said the doctor, as he washed down his creosote, mastic, bismuth and licorice pills with a short glass of chartreuse.
The Silent Wood
The angel brought the blindfolded doctor into the shade where the dark woods began. This is the border, said the angel. I will escort you into the darkness in a moment before leaving you. What is this place? The doctor trembled, feeling the cold hyrcanian air blowing through black needles and dripping undergrowth. It is the silent wood, also known as the forest of suicides. When someone wants to die, they lose themselves in its depths, walking for days until hunger, exhaustion, hypothermia, wolves or bears finish him off. Then I am to be murdered? Not at all, the angel laughed. You are a man of skills; it will be much easier for you to survive. It is more of a contemplative retreat offered freely. The doctor inhaled the fresh, ozonous air and wanted to believe the angel. Why this punishment or this forest? Some revenge for a tragedy long ago, a malpractice case? Not quite, the angel sighed. They say there are some 164,000,000 life forms in this particular forest. It is the perfect place for you to contemplate the 164,000,000 deaths that will occur in the next ten years from unnecessary or adverse medical interventions—and that is a conservative number. It is also the tonnage of waste your hospitals produce throughout seven countries in only one year. Sadly, the amount of debt created, money wasted or stolen, and the poverty figures far exceeded anything we could dream up in a practical manner—there was no forest big enough to match your needs in that respect, but this one will suffice to give you a general idea. They say that the silence and darkness have a calming, soporific effect, and nothing is better for beginning pure contemplation, confession and penance than a good night’s rest.
The Infirmary
A man wanted to live and work in the infirmary, but the admitting nurse would not allow it. All of our patients and staff are sick, terminally sick. In order to live and work here, you have to have our sickness. You have none of the right symptoms. The man complained of how exclusive and medieval the infirmary was. The admitting nurse said that if he really thought of it as a vocation, then he could be injected with the pathogen. The man would have none of that, even when the hypodermic was freely offered. It was not sickness that he wanted—was that not obvious? The man departed. Along the way, he happened to come across some scrubs. He dressed in the scrubs and got back into the infirmary by stealth. For days and nights, he worked as a clerk, typing charts, requisitions, prescriptions and reports, for he had always been a good bureaucrat, and he even noticed that his mere presence was good for the infirmary. Although he saw little of the patients, he heard from an orderly that there had been a few miraculous cures. One day, the admitting nurse found him, and announced his immediate expulsion. The man remonstrated and argued. Were patients not getting better? Some are, the nurse admitted, but more are dying, for you have brought your own sickness into the building, the wrong kind of sickness, and they have no immunity to fight it. Were there no other hospitals for men with your illness? It was too late. The disease was spreading fast, and within a few years, the infirmary was only remembered for its vast and ornate cemetery.
The Phantom Doctor
In the days of the great plague, there was a woman who was stricken and who would most likely die in a fortnight or two. Some friends came to her and whispered of a phantom doctor, who would come and heal her if she secretly summoned him. First of all, the woman wanted to know why he was a phantom. Secondly, she doubted that this doctor even existed. The friends gave her testimony of their own cures. They showed her letters and prescriptions the doctor had given; they could even perform some of the minor surgeries and treatments to keep her alive until he appeared. They had other scraps of evidence, but the woman was an expert logician, and destroyed all of their bits of evidence with clear, cold, cutting and seemingly irrefutable arguments. It seemed insane that a doctor would only come if summoned. Why all of these intrigues and phantasms? It was simple, her friends explained. The doctor had been banished for treason by the princes, scholars, bishops and magistrates. They blamed him for the plague, and feared his visitation would make the realm sink deeper into the ravages of contagion. I would rather see a witch doctor, the woman said. At least I can find some entertainment in his traditions and culture. As for this phantom doctor, keep him far away from me, and do not lay your hands on me with any intention of mimicking his treatments. Some of her friends praised her for her bravery and honesty in clinging to her principles and respecting the laws of the realm. Most of her friends mourned her senseless death, but had to flee the realm to live elsewhere, for the laws of the land were ensuring the swift and violent extinction of all life.
the lost way 