Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson Page A

Gert-Jan,” the man says. “I would be very pleased to help you. This is my nature. I know a doctor. It is very fortunate that he is not far away.” I haven’t agreed to anything but there is something about his demeanor that feels reassuring.
    Gert-Jan maintains a brisk commentary while we walk. There are details about his sick friend and the location of the doctor, but I’m more interested in the store fronts. The shops are closed and the lights extinguished. As we pass, I scour the glass for signs of illness in my reflection. I try to detect what Gert-Jan has noticed. Maybe others have seen it and been too polite or indifferent to react. Of course we’re moving too quickly for a proper diagnosis. But I do strike myself as particularly pale and hollow-eyed.
    We hurry through a small concrete courtyard and descend a flight of metal stairs to a basement office. “Here it is,” Gert-Jan announces. We stand in front of a frosted glass door with the emblem of a medical cross neatly etched across the front. A comforting sight. There’s a doctor’s name and traces of some other information in a smaller font. Gert-Jan brandishes a silver key and lets us inside.
    The office is deserted. The overpowering odor of disinfectant stings the air. The wooden floor is scarred with scratch marks. Narrow windows line the top of the walls so that only the dingiest light filters in from the street above. I would feel better if the staff was present but before I can voice my concerns, Gert-Jan hastens to explain.
    â€œOf course it is Sunday,” he says. “Naturally, everyone is at home. They have the equipment you need. This doctor is a good
friend of mine. We went to medical school together, only I never finished.” I find myself caught in a constant and slippery stream of information and it’s all I can do to keep my balance. I’ve felt invisible on the streets for so long that I have no idea how to cope with this unfamiliar undertow of kindness. Gert-Jan leads us down a narrow hallway to a circular room. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I know exactly what to do.”
    Inside the operating theater, Gert-Jan unspools a fresh roll of paper for the examining table; positions the swiveling lamps so they shine brilliantly overhead; explains how he will run several quick and painless tests. He scrubs his hands, snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, and rummages for supplies. He sets about his tasks as precisely as a technician preparing a movie set for the next shot.
    While I lie on the examining table, I make a mental note of my surroundings: Small cabinets on wheels, monitors with digital displays, thin steel tools soaking in jars of colored fluid. The sidewalk is visible from a rectangular window near the ceiling and several pairs of shoes march past. On the counter lies a nylon muzzle. On the back of the door hangs a poster of a golden retriever snaring a Frisbee. I flash on a terrifying thought: This is a veterinarian’s office.
    I don’t bolt out the door. I don’t scream for help. I can’t explain why I continue to lie prone on the chilly exam table. Maybe part of me is still hoping Gert-Jan will cure my supposed illness. Maybe part of me doesn’t care anymore. My eyes remain shut until it’s over. I struggle to keep my body wholly unresponsive while Gert-Jan ties my wrists, but my left pinky keeps bucking and jerking, as if it’s acquired its own nervous system.
    Afterward, he removes the gag and cups my chin while I cough. “You are cured,” he announces. He still wears one of the powdery green surgical gloves. It’s dappled with droplets of blood.
    For a long time, I lie motionless on the examining table.
Everything feels unreal, as if a critical part of myself has been unplugged. When I finally sit upright, he regards me with something approximating tenderness, maybe what you might feel for an injured pet. Gert-Jan holds out a