Making Things Better by Anita Brookner Page B

evening’s occurrence had alarmed him sufficiently to arrange to see the doctor, but now that he had done so he decided that the incident was at an end. This consultation had disappointed him—the computer, the watercolour, the curious air of distraction that coloured the doctor’s attention—displeased him to the extent of inspiring a certain anger. This was unusual: he was not given to anger. But he felt his politeness threatening to desert him. He would have appreciated more of a dialogue, was conscious of demanding more than he was likely to receive, recognized this as part of his unavailing desire for closeness, intimacy. His Freudian comparison had fallen on deaf ears, yet to him it was a matter of some significance. If he could ascribe the weakness of the previous evening to some profound metaphysical cause he would feel sufficiently heartened to carry on the struggle. If, however, it proved to be some sort of physical mishap he was on shakier ground. For all his faith in remote as opposed to immediate causes he knew that the mind cannot always outwit the body, and that the body that one took for granted could at any moment reveal itself as fragile, and worse, treacherous. He preferred to consider the knocking of his heart to be caused by anger at what he thought a dull-witted performance, regretted once again the grave seniority of the German doctor—so long ago!—even regretted his previous fortitude, which now threatened to desert him. He did not want to die, still less did he want to succumb to illness, yet that was the condition of seeking help. And the help that was available was to his mind inadequate. Above all he was conscious of boring this man, of wasting his time, not merely by presenting routine symptoms, common, he supposed, to all old people, but by seeking to interest him in speculations of a no doubt discredited nature. Freud was old hat now: young people, especially young doctors, had no time for him. He turned his anger on himself, felt confused, foolish, prepared to leave, aware that the interview was over, that the computer was even now spewing out a prescription, that he was in alien territory, where only the verifiably physical was important, and all theory could be ignored.
    â€˜I want you to take a blood-pressure pill every day, and to come back in a couple of weeks’ time. People of your age should take blood pressure seriously.’
    â€˜You think that’s all it was, then?’
    â€˜At this stage I can’t say. You seem fit enough.’
    But how could he know? As an investigation this left much to be desired. Above all it had proved to be strangely tedious. He tried to imagine the doctor at home, with the watercolour-painting wife, and the requisite images failed him.
    â€˜I expect you will be going on holiday?’ he asked, in a last effort to establish some kind of mutuality, on the doctor’s terms, if necessary.
    â€˜I’ve had a couple of weeks. I prefer to go away in the winter. Get away from all the winter ailments.’ He laughed conspiratorially.
    At once Herz understood this man. He was simply not cut out to be a doctor, loathed medicine, loathed the care he was obliged to take, even loathed himself for this kind of emotional failure. This would account for his morose attitude, his preference for the computer over the living body, his all too palpable conscientiousness.
    â€˜A medical family?’ he enquired, testing his theory.
    â€˜Yes. Clever of you to guess that. It was assumed that I would carry on where my father left off.’
    â€˜Difficult to disappoint him, I suppose?’
    â€˜Oh, yes.’ In his voice Herz heard a lifetime of thwarted wishes.
    â€˜It is indeed difficult to fight one’s family’s expectations.’
    And you would rather be doing something else, anything else, he thought. You would have preferred your freedom, and you were denied it. You made a good enough job of necessity.