The Reflection by Hugo Wilcken Page A

a school in the city. Would anyone have cried at their son’s funeral?
    A strange thing had happened. The bizarre conversation with the doctor had conjured up another “Dr. Manne” in my mind. I had this image of a shadowy character, born of me and yet not me, stalking me through my life, if indeed it wasn’t me who was stalking him through his. It was hard to shake off this disorientating image. And no sooner had I learned of the existence of this “Dr. Manne” than I’d also learned of his death … I turned away from the window, and for the thousandth time let my eyes run over the white walls and ceiling.
    I’d been so involved in my own private struggle here in the hospital that I hadn’t really concerned myself with my disappearance as it would appear to the outside world. I felt a twinge of gratitude toward my secretary for being “distraught” by my “death.” Who else would be? My removal from thefabric of New York would go relatively unremarked. I imagined the desultory conversation in some Manhattan bar: “Remember that guy David Manne?” “You mean at med school, the one who married the actress?” “Yeah. Used to run into him every now and then. His office was a block down from mine. Apparently killed himself the other day.” “You’re joking.” “Nope. Can’t say I’m too surprised though. Moody guy.” How many conversations like that might have taken place? A dozen or so, I guessed. I pictured D’Angelo’s wife, as he broke the news to her. Perhaps she’d felt something, a moment of despair, because after all she’d liked me, had seemed to have been attracted to me, even if she’d hardly known me. And then it would be over. After a while, no more bar conversations breaking the news. My apartment would be cleared out and put on the market again, my few possessions disposed of. The new tenant certainly wouldn’t be told that the previous one had killed himself there. My office too would be let out, to a proper Park Avenue specialist this time, who’d have to spend good money redecorating the premises before moving in, given the general decline over my ten years’ occupancy. Within a matter of months, the city would have smoothed over my death, gotten the wrinkle out; it would be as if it had never happened, as if
I
had never happened.
    And life would go on.

4
    My relationship with Dr. Peters had moved on. Gone was the relentless questioning and probing of my life story. Now, things were out in the open, the trench lines clearly demarcated. The focus was almost entirely on what in my mind I called the “last days.” We would talk about Smith/Esterhazy, my thoughts about the man following me, why he might have wanted to kill me … the doctor was gently leading me toward the inconsistencies of my narrative, as if I weren’t aware of them. Of course, I knew the strategy from having used it myself, and I played along, taking some sort of pleasure in the duel.
    “Tell me,” the doctor asked one afternoon, “do you enjoy the movies?”
    I shrugged. “I like to go once in a while. Same as anyone else. It’s not exactly a passion.”
    “What kind of movies do you like?”
    “I don’t know …” I was trying to think of one I’d seen recently, or indeed any movie, but my mind was blank.
    “What about
Gone With the Wind
?”
    “Yes. I’ve seen that.”
    “Did you like it?”
    “I guess. I don’t really remember.”
    “Not really your cup of tea, though.”
    “Maybe not.”
    “What about Jimmy Cagney movies?”
    “I’ve seen a few of those.
The Roaring Twenties, The Public Enemy
 …” Scenes from these came back to me. I could remember them much better than
Gone With the Wind
.
    “They’re more to your taste.”
    “Probably.”
    “What about books? Do you read them?”
    “When I was younger I read a lot. The classics. Dickens, Tolstoy, Balzac. These days I don’t have the energy for those kinds of books.”
    “You don’t read any more?”
    “I