Chapter 3
“You are in perfect health!” Dr. Faust exclaims.
“Are you certain?” I ask, running a hand through my hair.
“You’re still young. Perfect health is not out of the ordinary at your age.”
“Forty-six isn’t precisely young, Dr. Faust. But there must be something else. Please…” I trail off.
“Pish-posh, Mr. Balfour! Youth is in the mind.” He smiles brightly. When I don’t return the expression, he continues, “Even if I were to inspect your samples, I’m certain there will be no abnormalities.”
“I simply do not understand.”
“Might it be psychological?” He pats me on the shoulder.
Could it be?
“Are you still drinking your morning onion juice?” he continues.
I stare at him with furrowed brows, then open my mouth and close it again without uttering a word. This is entirely absurd.
“Very well, then,” he adds, resigned. “I could examine you once more, just to make sure. Uncover your chest, please.”
Dr. Faust fetches the cuff and stethoscope while I quickly remove my shirt and tie. Unclad to the waist, I follow every instruction, hoping something concrete will be revealed.
The physician repeats every test, remeasuring my blood pressure and listening to my breathing. In between, he takes down his observations in a little brown notebook tucked in his coat pocket.
“Good news is that I don’t see any signs of cyanosis. But maybe I should check your reflexes while we’re at it,” he says, removing his stethoscope. I slide down the table, trying to relax my legs.
I believe I was a mere youth the last time anyone performed this specific test, but I vaguely remember the strange feeling of—a small hammer raps against my knee. I look down. Dr. Faust watches me carefully.
“Scoot forward, please,” he says, then proceeds to hit my knee once again.
I feel a dull thud, but my leg makes no inclination to move. He raps the other side. Nothing.
The look that appears on the doctor’s face is concerning.
“Let me see,” he mumbles as he grabs my arm. There, he taps the tool on the outside of my elbow.
I see it more than I can feel it. Yet my muscles feel no urge to obey.
He continues to try, harder this time. I feel no pain. I stay completely still.
With each new attempt, his face scrunches further, making him look like a particularly acrid prune.
Something strange begins to grow from the deepest recesses of my core. It’s a sneaking, slithering sort of sensation, akin to nausea but as chilling as the last autumn breeze.
I understand then that I’m failing every test.
“Did you feel that?” His words pull me back into his surgery.
“Pardon?”
“Did you feel the rapping?” he repeats, moving to my left foot. When he sees the look on my face, he grumbles, then puts his instrument away.
“I do not understand?” I say under my breath. The peculiar feeling continues to grow. Wider. Colder.
“Mr. Balfour, I frankly do not either.” He shrugs.
“Are you not a physician?”
Dr. Faust grins. “And a bloody good one at that!”
“Then you must have some sort of explanation,” I insist.
“I do not. You are in perfect health, but your reflexes… How do I explain it simply? They seem to be unresponsive.” He taps a finger on his desk as if to punctuate the meaning.
“And this means what, exactly?”
“It means that you are dead,” he says with complete conviction.
I can’t help but laugh. “Dead? Well, that is news to me.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “I could bring your case to the board. We’ve had many recent advances to cure the ailments brought on by the war. There might be one I have not learned yet. Would that be alright with you?”
“By all means, go ahead. I suppose it doesn’t matter to a dead man.” I can’t help but smile. This situation is simply too outlandish.
“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Balfour.” I don’t respond to his scolding, clearly remembering that he had made that joke in the first place.
“It must be, since, as you said repeatedly, I am in perfect health.”
“That is correct. It might be an issue with my tools. Or, possibly, I am simply overworked and have forgotten the precise spot to tap.” He nods at each word as if trying to convince himself.
“Yes. I am certain,. He continues to nod, reaching for his notebook to read his notes. “Let me inspect your samples. It won’t be a moment.” He leaves the room.
I’m left shirtless and alone in Dr. Faust’s surgery. This entire situation seems like a gag from the moving picture they discussed at the barber’s. Perhaps the handsome young man covered in blood is about to enter this room to chop my legs off at the knees.
I glance at the door. It remains shut.
I lift my hands and observe them carefully. Long fingers. Short flat nails. All is as it always was. I run the tip of my finger over my bare arms. I feel the air rushing into my lungs, sense the heat of my pulse and my heart beating a touch too quickly. I can’t be dead. It’s preposterous.
With nothing else to do but wait, I pull my shirt back on and lament that in his hubris, the doctor lost one of my garters when removing my hose.
I crawl along the floor until I see a faint burgundy shimmer in the shadows of the examination table.
After clothing my feet, I slip on my shoes and fasten my tie.
In the corner, a skeleton jeers at me through bared teeth. I jeer back.
Just as I slide my arms into the sleeves, Dr. Faust enters the room again. Clearing his throat, he rubs his hands across the coat and tries to put the kind of confidence on his face that lacks any substance.
“Your samples are perfectly fine.”
Perfectly fine health. Perfectly fine samples.
“I consulted my colleague as well, and he agreed with my findings. But if you prefer, you can ask another’s opinion.” He clears his throat, but appears confident in his statement.
I look at him carefully, trying to ascertain if he’s lying. Not that I’m an expert in such matters. My gut, though, believes him to be sincere. With nothing else to do, I stand up, put on my hat, and reach my hand out to his.
“Well, then.” I shrug. “Thank you and…” I trail off.
“I will telephone you once I hear back from the board, Mr. Balfour. I assure you.”
I try for a polite smile, nod, and leave the room.
The sun is much too bright when I step onto the street. I cover my eyes, cursing that I forgot my tinted glasses at home. As I force my body to acclimate to the outside world, everything feels askew. It’s louder than I remember. The smells are too pungent. I feel utterly wrong, and yet—
A gentleman bumps into me, mumbles an apology, and scurries off.
Brushing my coat off, I straighten myself, then check my watch and see that I still have plenty of time before I need to prepare for tonight.
Perhaps a brisk walk might help shed whatever wrongness insists on clinging to me like lichen.
The day is unusually hot, but the mild breeze brings some relief. The city must agree with me because the streets are filled with strolling couples. Some slowly walk arm in arm, while others sit underneath the flowering trees in the park.
I will never stroll with another, never touch a man… No. Not in public. I avert my eyes and hold my fists so tightly that my knuckles waxen. Something grows. Bigger. Quicker.
This wasn’t right. It’s as if I’m being suffocated by my own flesh. This once familiar body seems to no longer belong to me. But who or what is taking hold of it, then?
I’ve never been slovenly before. What could have possessed me to sleep for more than a day? It’s all too peculiar. I will never forget the look in my eyes after I awoke. The wildness. The anger.
If you asked me only a few days ago, I would have told you with complete conviction that I had no angry bone in my body.
Even as a youth, I was a calm sort of fellow.
My sister was sometimes prone to tantrums, as all small children are, but never me.
Not once. I recall my governess praising me for my temperament on many occasions. And even then—
My body gets jerked back roughly, and I nearly fall to the ground from the force. Luckily, I manage to keep my balance, but someone is holding onto my collar. A young man is standing close—improperly close. With eyes aghast, his hand is on my shoulders, as if he’s making sure that I’m still there.
“Are you alright, man?” he says breathlessly.
“Perfectly fine,” I reply, squaring my chest, utterly bewildered by the situation. Then I notice more passers-by staring at us with shock painted on their faces.
“You nearly died there, mate. Saved you by a hair,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
I turn, and indeed, there is a motorcar right beside me. And inside this motorcar sits a very frightened driver. He’s gesticulating wildly, presumably mumbling apologies.
I turn back to the man, whose hand is still on my shoulder.
“Are you sure yer alright? You must have gotten a real shock.” He pulls away but looks at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.
Yet I do not feel shocked. My pulse is steady and unobtrusive, and my breath comes as slow as ever. I listen closer. There is only silence. No relief. No wonder. No fear.
“I’m well. I suppose I owe you my life,” I say, trying to put a level of gratitude into my voice I do not feel.
“It’s nothing, mate. Be safe.” He smiles shyly before continuing on his way.
A few stray people ogle me for another moment, muttering words I don’t care to discern, before moving on as well.
Behind me, I hear the sounds of the car leaving. I’m left standing alone and unmoving in the middle of the pavement as the city resumes its routine.
I’ve never desired to end my own life. Not that I’ve ever been particularly happy, but I’m content enough. I have nothing much to complain about. Yet I don’t feel grateful for the stranger’s actions.
With my keys already in hand, I reach my home in less than five minutes. Paying Godfrey’s imminent approach no heed, I head straight to my room and draw myself a bath.
Even though I still have several hours before the function, I want to take my time getting ready for this evening.
I’ve been looking forward to it for close to a year.
Getting the tickets was near impossible, but in the end, one of my sister’s many social contacts procured one for me.
A good seat and all. Some might even say the best seat in the entire theatre.
While the hot water fills the tub, I lay out my evening dress on the bed. Black tails. White waistcoat. I add my favourite special occasion hoses, of course: the lavender ones with the embroidered green carnation.
Before leaving the family estate, I made sure to ask my sister to teach me embroidery.
Ever since that day, I’ve stitched a green bloom to one silken pair.
Of course, I did this in secret and laundered them myself in the washbasin.
I dared not risk anyone seeing them and discerning their meaning.
Even so, I usually felt a thrill when I had the nerve to wear them in public.
There was always the possibility of them being noticed.
But tonight was special enough to call for the occasion.
I finish my bath in time to take a light supper in my room just before taking the cab Godfrey hailed for me.
I can’t help but notice how unusually calm my hands are as I hold the theatre tickets.
Not too long ago, I was practically desperate for the opportunity to see him on stage again.
Only a week has passed since I was exhilarated beyond measure just thinking about tonight.
It’s been two years since I first saw Vaslav Nijinsky dance. Two much-too-long years.
Nijinsky’s performance back then was entirely captivating. I was utterly enthralled by his face, the intensity of his gaze. Not upon me, of course, but on the audience. On the world. The way he moved across the stage. Mesmerising. I remember it all vividly—my quickened pulse, my tightening chest.
Yet now, there are no such signs of excitement. I raise the stub to the light, reading his name underneath the ballet’s title. My mind knows. My heart remembers.
But my body does nothing at all.