Walker Percy - The Last Gentleman

“I don’t know. I thought perhaps that you—”

“Me? Oh no. I haven’t practiced medicine for years. I’m a pathologist I study the lesions of the dead.”

“I know that,” said the engineer, sitting down wearily. “But I have reason to believe you can help me.”

“What reason?”

“I can tell when somebody knows something I don’t know.”

“You think I know something?”

“Yes.”

“How can you tell?”

“I don’t know how but I can. I had an analyst for five years and he was very good, but he didn’t know anything I didn’t know.”

Sutter laughed. “Did you tell him that?”

“No.”

“You should have. He could have done a better job.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I can’t practice. I’m not insured.”

“Insured?”

‘The insurance company cancelled my liability. You can’t practice without it.”

“I’m not asking you to practice. I only want to know what you know.”

But Sutter only shrugged and turned back to the Colt.

“Why did they cancel your insurance?” the engineer asked desperately. There was something he wanted to ask but he couldn’t hit on the right question.

“I got the idea of putting well people in the hospital and sending the truly sick home.”

“Why did you do that?” asked the engineer, smiling slightly. He was not yet certain when the other was joking.

Again Sutter shrugged.

The engineer was silent.

Sutter rammed a wad through the barrel. “I had a patient once who lived under the necessity of being happy. He almost succeeded but did not quite. Since he did not, he became depressed. He became very unhappy that he was not happy. I put him in the terminal ward of the hospital, where he was surrounded by the dying. There he soon recovered his wits and became quite cheerful. Unfortunately — and by the purest bad luck — he happened to suffer a serious coronary before I sent him home. As soon as it became apparent that he was going to die, I took it upon myself to remove him from his oxygen tent and send him home to his family and garden. There he died. The hospital didn’t like it much. His wife sued me for a half a million dollars. The insurance company had to pay.”

The engineer, still smiling faintly, was watching the other like a hawk. “Dr. Vaught, do you know what causes amnesia?”

“Causes it? Like a virus causes chicken pox?”

“Have you seen many cases?”

“Do you regard yourself as a case?”

“I would like to know.”

“You are a very persistent young man. You ask a great many questions.”

“And I notice you don’t answer them.”

The pistol was assembled. Sutter sat down, shoved in the clip, pulled back the breach and rang up a bullet. He clicked the safety and took aim at the Arab physician. The engineer screwed up one eye against the shot, but Sutter sighed and set the pistol down.

“All right, Barrett, what’s wrong?”

“Sir?”

“I’m listening. What’s wrong?”

Now, strangely, the engineer fell silent for a good twenty seconds.

Sutter sighed. “Very well. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

Sutter was like an unwilling craftsman, the engineer perceived, a woodworker who has put on his coat and closed up shop. Now a last customer shows up. Very well, if you insist. He takes the wood from the customer, gives it a knock with his knuckles, runs a thumb along the grain.

“Are you a homosexual?”

“No.”

“Do you like girls much?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Very much.”

“Do you have intercourse with girls?”

The engineer fell silent.

“You don’t like to speak of that?”

He shook his head.

“Did you speak of it with your psychiatrist?”

“No.”

“Do you mean that for five years you never told him whether you had intercourse with girls?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It was none of his business.”

Sutter laughed. “And none of mine. Did you tell him that?”

“No.”

“You were not very generous with him.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“Do you believe in God?”

The engineer frowned. “I suppose so. Why do you ask?”

“My sister was just here. She said God loves us. Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know.” He stirred impatiently.

“Do you believe that God entered history?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

Sutter looked at him curiously. “Where are you from?”

“The Delta.”

“What sort of man was your father?”

“Sir? Well, he was a defender of the Negroes and—”

“I know that I mean what sort of man was he? Was he a gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Did he live in hope or despair?”

“That is hard to say.”

“What is the date of the month?”

“The nineteenth.”

“What month is it?”

The engineer hesitated.

“What is the meaning of this proverb: a stitch in time saves nine?”

“I would have to think about it and tell you later,” said the engineer, a queer light in his eye.

“You can’t take time off to tell me now?”

“No.”

“You really can’t tell me, can you?”

“No.”

“Why can’t you?”

“You know why.”

“You mean it is like asking a man hanging from a cliff to conjugate an irregular verb?”

“No. I’m not hanging from a cliff. It’s not that bad. It’s not that I’m afraid.”

“What is it then?”

The engineer was silent

“Is it rather that answering riddles does not seem important to you? Not as important as—” Sutter paused.

“As what?” asked the engineer, smiling.

“Isn’t that for you to tell me?”

The engineer shook his head.

“Do you mean you don’t know or you won’t tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“All right. Come here.”

Sutter took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and for the second time turned the other into the light. “You won’t feel this.” He twisted a corner of the handkerchief and touched the other’s cornea. “O.K.,” said Sutter and sitting down fell silent for a minute or two.

Presently the engineer spoke. “You seem to have satisfied yourself of something.”

Sutter rose abruptly and went into the kitchenette. He returned with half a glass of the dark brown bourbon the engineer had noticed earlier.

“What is it?” the latter asked him.

“What is what?”

“What did you satisfy yourself about?”

“Only that you were telling the truth.”

“About what?”

“About when you believe someone has something to tell you, you will then believe what he tells you. I told you you would not feel the handkerchief, so you didn’t. You inhibited your corneal reflex.”

“Do you mean that if you tell me to do something I will do it?”

“Yes.”

The engineer told him briefly of his déjà vus and of his theory about bad environments. The other listened with a lively expression, nodding occasionally. His lack of surprise and secret merriment irritated the engineer. He was even more irritated when, as he finished his account, the other gave a final nod as much as to say: well, that’s an old story between us — and spoke, not of him, the engineer, but of Val. Evidently her visit had made a strong impression on him. It was like going to a doctor, hurting, and getting harangued about politics. Sutter was more of a doctor than he knew.

“Do you know why Val came up here? This concerns you because it concerns Jimmy.”

“No, I don’t,” said the engineer gloomily. Damnation, if I am such an old story to him, why doesn’t he tell me how the story comes out?