Bill Granger - The November Man

“My name is Dr. Goddard,” began the man with the salt-and-pepper beard and the guileless brown eyes. He had large hands and clasped them on top of the desk. He spoke in a voice that was made for a lecture hall. He smiled at Hanley.

“Doctor of what? And where am I? And why was I brought here?”

“This is St. Catherine’s,” said Dr. Goddard, still smiling. His glasses were brown and round and owlish. He seemed to have all the time in the world. “This is a hospital. Do you remember anything?”

“I remember two goons who came to my apartment and showed me some papers. I said there had to be a mistake but that I would go with them. And then one of them wanted to put me in a straitjacket, for God’s sake. What is this place, a nut house?”

“Unfortunate word,” said Dr. Goddard. The voice was a pipe organ played by Lawrence Welk.

“You don’t have any right—”

“Mr. Hanley. I assure you we have every right. You understand this is a matter of both national security and your wellness.”

Hanley blinked. “What did you say?”

“Mr. Hanley. St. Catherine’s is equipped with all the best medical equipment. We intend to examine you thoroughly for physical causes of your… depression. But I think this will go deeper than mere physical causes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What are the causes of depression?” said Dr. Goddard as though speaking to a classful of students. “Many. A chemical imbalance is certainly involved. Perhaps some trauma that has created a subtle neurological impairment. Perhaps—”

“Who are you, Dr. Goddard? What kind of a doctor are you?”

“I’m a psychiatrist, Mr. Hanley. As you suspected.” He smiled with good humor. “There. I’m not so frightening, am I?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Hanley said. “But you can’t keep me in a place against my will.”

Dr. Goddard said nothing.

Hanley stood up. “I want my clothes—”

“The hospital gown is appropriate when—”

“I want my goddamn clothes,” Hanley said.

And Dr. Goddard did a strange thing. He took out a can of Mace from his white cotton jacket and sprayed Hanley in the eyes.

Hanley was in his fifties. It had been forty years since he had been assaulted physically. He understood the uses of assault, he understood terror. But in that moment, he was hurtled back more than forty years to when he was a child. Suddenly he was falling, his eyes stung by the liquid, the burning creeping over his face. He cried out in pain. And no one came to him.

The pain and burning lasted a long time and he thought he made a fool of himself, writhing helplessly on the floor, his senses distorted by the pain and the suffocating powerlessness. His hospital gown was opened; he realized his backside was naked to anyone who might see him. He didn’t care in that moment. He wanted the pain in his eyes to end.

Dr. Goddard gave him a damp towelette. He wiped at his face.

“You’re not harmed,” Dr. Goddard said. His voice was Bach playing variations on the fugue.

“Why did you do that? How dare you—”

“Mr. Hanley. I am the doctor,” Dr. Goddard said.

“You’re a goddamn sadist. Is this a prison? Who sent you?”

“You were referred by your superior officer,” said Dr. Goddard.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know all about you. I have access to your 201 file, profile chart, skills index rating, your entire dossier. I know all about you. I don’t want you to see me as the enemy.”

Hanley had staggered to his feet.

“Sit down,” Dr. Goddard said in that voice lurching into the third Brandenburg Concerto. The notes progressed relentlessly. It was enough to drive a person crazy.

Hanley sat. His bare behind was cold on the cold vinyl seat. He shivered. He felt humiliated, as though he might be a child again, forced into some ridiculous position because of something he knew was not his fault. It had not happened to him this way since he was in the sixth grade, nearly a lifetime ago.

“We are here to help you,” began the voice, sounding the theme. “You have altered your behavior severely in the last six months and your superior is concerned for your mental balance. You have become moody and distant—”

“I was tired,” Hanley began.

Dr. Goddard stared at him. When the room was silent again, he resumed:

“Tiredness is a symptom of a greater problem. Your problem, in all likelihood, is not physical. It is deeper than that.”

“Why?” said Hanley.

“Why what?”

“Why is it deeper than that?”

“Aberrant behavior can be a symptom of many things. It can be a cry for help,” Dr. Goddard said.

Hanley shrank with chill.

Dr. Goddard continued. “Fortunately, our knowledge of the mind has made wonderful advances in the past thirty years. We now understand and can categorize behavior that would have defied categorization only a generation ago. We have a powerful range of psychological drugs—a chemotherapy—that we feel, and I think you will find we are as good as our word, can help restore you to normality and to a vigorous life again. Perhaps not as before; but to return you eventually to a useful participation…”

Eventually was such a terrible word, Hanley thought. The words went on and on. He realized he was shivering. He wanted to say he was cold, sitting in this ridiculous and humiliating hospital gown, listening to this nonsense. It was coming clear to him.

He began to cry as the doctor droned. He had found tears easy these past weeks and months. The tears released many feelings in him. The tears made him feel weak and relieved to be helpless.

Dr. Goddard stopped speaking.

He saw the tears stream down Hanley’s pale, drawn cheeks.

He understood tears. They were useful as part of the “grieving” process in which the patient understands his status as a patient, understands there is something wrong with him, understands Doctor is there to help him. Dr. Goddard did not smile outwardly because he did not want to appear to mock the grieving process. Or to stop it at the moment.

Claudette was behind the bar at ten in the morning. It was too early for respectable Swiss to come in for a drink but she needed the extra hour to clean the bar. The place always smelled sour in the morning. She would open the window in the back and leave the front door open, even in cold weather, to let the place air out and remove the odor of stale tobacco and spilled beer.

The two men walked in at nine minutes after ten. Claudette was so intent on washing the glasses that she did not notice them until they sat down at the bar.

“Hello, dear,” said the first one. He was large and had flat fingers on his large hands. He rested his hands on the bar. “Anyone else around here?”

Claudette stared at his lizard brown eyes for a moment and then shook her head.

The second one was thin and quite hairless. He did not have eyebrows. He looked as though he might have been ill—except his very black eyes glittered with life. His face was tanned, which was unusual enough for Claudette to notice it.

They both spoke French but with strong accents.

“No one is in back?”

“No. Not at this hour. The owner doesn’t come until the lunch hour. If you want to see the owner—”

“No, that’s all right. You’re the one we wanted to talk to.”

Claudette was bent over the sink as she spoke with them, washing glasses. Now she stopped. She straightened up and wiped her hands on a damp towel on the bar. She stared at the large man and then at the hairless man and waited.

“We want to ask you about the man who comes in here at lunch almost every day.”