his mind and soul: Strictly no entrance. As we enter I’m confronted with a group of white-coated people behind a large table, looking not unlike the Last Supper. My inner voice tells me: keep up the gallows humour. You’ve nothing to fear other than being made the victim of grotesque misunderstandings. Perhaps all I have to do is reverse our roles and try to save the doctors from their misguided and ineffectual profession.
Members of the interviewing committee rise as one as I approach, then sit down again. A lady sitting in the centre, taking Christ’s position as it were, welcomes me on behalf of her colleagues. ‘Good morning, Professor! We’re glad you could make it.’ Is she joking? ‘Do have a seat, please. Let me introduce to you members of the panel: on my far right, Professor Odermatt’ — an elderly Swiss lady wearing heavy horn-rimmed glasses gives me a fixed stare — ‘next to her Dr McAllister’ — a middle-aged man sporting a shock of blond hair quickly rises and sits down again — ‘at my immediate right our resident research fellow from Cambridge, Dr Enright’ — the man thus addressed gives me a good-natured wave — ‘to my far left, Dr Cohen’ — a grumpy-looking guy of uncertain age gives me a long hard stare — ‘the lady sitting next to him, Dr Leutenegger’ — with her youthful beauty she looks as though she’s made a mistake and come to the wrong hearing; her smile seems almost bashful — ‘then we have Dr Widmer,’ the lady continues with what seems to me a hint of distaste, ‘and next to me Dr Fuessli’ — a mature gentleman with a distinguished face despatches a broad grin and welcomes me with ‘ Grueziwol, Herr Juergensen‘ (it’s only then that I recognise him as a colleague at the University of Basle).
‘And I am Dr Springer,’ the woman finally concludes, ‘the chairperson of the profiling committee.’ She speaks to me in a voice of authoritative charm designed to convey that she and her Board members mean well, but will not tolerate any nonsense from me. I recognise the mixture of encouragement and intimidation. Acknowledging Dr Springer’s tone, I hear myself say: ‘I know I’m in good hands.’
How’s that for a bit of ingratiating? The experts exchange ironic glances. I think I’ve just indicated something like ‘don’t do me any harm. Leave me as I am, harmless.’ Do shrinks realise when patients are toying with them? Dr Springer ignores both my verbal and non-verbal plea. ‘We hope you’re comfortable at Humanitas, Professor. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay with us restful and agreeable.’ After a short breather she adds, ‘Not all of us will be present at every sitting, but we’re all anxious to contribute to your speedy recovery.’ She offers me a forced smile.
Her brief speech doesn’t call for a response. It’s a statement of fact that must not be challenged. To confirm my relaxed state I cross my arms and legs. In reality I’m nothing short of terrified. Eight international experts of thought and reason examining someone who’s lost his mind — isn’t that a bit like using a steam hammer to crack a nut? What’s even more frightening is that I’m beginning to wonder how serious my condition must be to attract such a group of distinguished shrinks. If it should really turn out to be a grave matter, would I ever be released from this luxurious prison?
‘We’ve left some stationery in your room, Professor, in the hope you may be able to assist us by telling us something about your life.’ Before I can say anything, she continues: ‘Of course we don’t expect you to have written enough yet to pass on to us, but do try to write at least a few pages when you feel the time is right. It would be best to think of your notes as stories you might want to tell someone, apart from us. Perhaps you might like to write them just for yourself.’
At this stage I do interrupt, gently and respectfully. ‘How can I do that when you’re going to read them?’
Dr McAllister cuts in briefly. Leaning forward, waves of hair break across his forehead. ‘Just tell it how it is. The story never lies.’
The elderly lady introduced as Professor Odermatt gives me a benevolent smile and says: ‘You’re a man of imagination with a special love and knowledge of books. Why don’t you assume you’re an author and we the readers? Don’t all writers really write for themselves?’
I have no desire to ruminate on first semester literary seminar discussions and simply nod. But when I notice it’s not enough to satisfy the Board I quickly add: ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ My inner voice rewards me with a reminder: ‘Quite so! Always appear cooperative!’
Dr Springer listens indulgently before addressing the meeting again. ‘As I say, Professor, it’s up to you whether you want to cooperate with those who are trying to help you.’ Her smile has turned positively deadly, reminding me I have to remain on my guard. I try to convey a deferential bow while assuring her: ‘But of course I will,’ then foolishly add: ‘That’s what I’m here for.’ My acquiescence is met with patronising acknowledgment. ‘Well now, if that’s settled,’ she continues, ‘perhaps we can pass on to the agenda.’ It’s a reminder as much to her colleagues as to me. Any hint of a smile is gone. This is a woman in charge, I realise, used to calling the shots. I’m sure in her earlier days she wore power suits and shoulder pads. But those times are gone. By now women are used to holding authoritative positions in most walks of life, even in a sanatorium for the mentally challenged. Seeing how much she’s enjoying being the alpha female, I decide to call her Bold Miriam.
She addresses me in a tone of curious inclusive role-playing, as if to prompt everyone present of the task ahead. ‘You see, Professor,’ she begins again, ‘we thought we might go through your medical history with you. You may be able to help us in our endeavour to find the right treatment for your condition.’ As she speaks the other members of the Board open manila folders and start rummaging about in piles of paper. Who provided them with that much information about my life? I remember an older colleague in my own department expressing surprise and irritation over having been Googled by his students. ‘Is there no privacy any more?’ he objected. I told him that not to be on the Internet was like being without a shadow. Now I must admit I understand his anger. I don’t appreciate someone prying into a person’s private life any more than my colleague, but accept the loss of social intimacy as part of the world we live in. Most of the time we don’t even know we’re being monitored by CCT, computers and a host of other technological devices.
My thoughts are interrupted by Bold Miriam’s imperious voice. ‘Now, what about those fainting spells you appear to have suffered for some time? Can you tell us what has brought them on? Did they occur as a result of overwork, too much stress, that sort of thing? Or were there other circumstances you believe may have contributed?’
I suppose it’s a fair question, but leading into an area I don’t want to go. Not because I have something to hide; it’s rather that despite its assurances I don’t believe this panel of so-called experts is going to be of any help. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Springer, I’m afraid I have no idea.’
She’s not easily discouraged. ‘You haven’t been diagnosed as an epileptic, have you?’ she persists.
‘Never,’ I reply truthfully.
‘What you experienced,’ Dr McAllister cuts in, ‘is a disorder of the nervous system causing loss of consciousness.’ I like the look of the hairy guy but can’t resist a terse response that comes across as more disdainful than it’s meant. ‘I know the symptoms of epilepsy, Doctor.’ I give him a belated smile. His colleagues give Dr McAllister a supercilious look.
Dr Fuessli attempts a rescue. Turning pages in his folder, he comments: ‘Of course you do. Your father’s a doctor, isn’t he?’ I could have been out of the woods had I just kept my mouth shut. But instinctively I reply: ‘Yes, one of them is.’
It’s enough to light up the entire Board. My examiners exchange long meaningful looks then scribble down notes in their folios. I appear
