“Denise!” I called out in alarm.
“Are you ready?” she called back. “I’ll send the next lady right in.”
“No! No!” I protested. “Just come in here and look at this!”
She came in and looked. “What a beautiful shade!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I’ve been trying to match some curtain material exactly that color. I’ll have to take you along for it, like a swatch.”
“Swatch, my—! Look at it, Denise! Just look!”
“Oh, my! It’s changing color! Isn’t that remarkable?”
“Remarkable, hell! What are we going to do about it?”
“Can you make it turn purple?” She stared intently.
“Don’t you understand? I’m not doing it. I can’t control it. It’s happening all by itself!”
“It is? Isn’t that remarkable?”
“You said that,” I reminded her. “The thing is, what are we going to do about it?”
“I could charge extra for women who come in while it’s happening. I mean, after all, it is an added attraction.”
“Dammit! Don’t you ever think of anything but money? This could be very dangerous! I could be very sick! And I’m not going to service any more women until it gets better!”
“But what will we do, Steve? How will we live?”
“The same way you lived before.”
“Oh, I could never do that. It’s not the same. We’ve established a much higher standard of living, and I could never be happy if I had to give it up.”
“I don’t care! I will not perform until this condition is straightened out!”
“Yes, it should be straightened out,” she agreed. “After all, we don’t want any dissatisfied customers. A fulfilled clientele is our best advertisement. Still, what can we do?”
“First of all cancel all my appointments for tonight. Get rid of all those dames waiting outside. Then I’m going to see a doctor.”
Finally, Denise agreed. She got rid of the waiting women and then we went to the American sector of Saigon to seek out a doctor. Finally we located one, a Frenchman recommended by a black marketeer friend of Denise’s. She accompanied me into his inner office where the doctor was waiting.
“Your name?” he asked by way of greeting.
“Steve Victor.”
“How do you do?” He shook my hand. “I am Dr. Louis Pasteur8 .”
“That’s a very eminent name,” I told him. “It has a reassuring ring to it.”
“Yes, I know.” He walked over to a sideboard and opened it. “Would you like a glass of milk?” he asked politely. He was already pouring one for himself.
“No thanks.” I declined.
Denise shook her head.
“It’s pasteurized,” he assured me.
“I expected it would be.”
“There’s even some that’s container flavored, if you prefer,” he offered.
“No, thanks.”
“Well, when did you notice the first symptoms, Mr. Victor?”
“Just today. I looked down and my genitals were turning different colors.”
“Your what?”
“My penis. I was blue at first, and then—-”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dr. Pasteur told me.
“What kind of doctor are you?” I demanded.
“A rabies specialist. I only treat cases of rabies.”
“But there can’t be many rabies cases,” I said. “Nobody gets rabies any more.”
“That’s true,” he admitted, sipping his milk contentedly. “Business is rather slow.”
“I guess it must be. When was the last case of rabies you treated?” I asked, curious.
“I’ve never had a case.” He poured himself a moo juice refill.
“Then why -?”
“We live in an age of medical specialization, Mr. Victor. Somebody had to have the dedication to specialize in rabies even if it isn’t the most lucrative field of medicine. I decided I owed it to humanity to make the sacrifice,” he gurgled.
“Very admirable,” I told him. “But I don’t really think you can help me. I don’t have rabies.”
“Of course not,” he sighed. “Nobody does nowadays. It’s really quite discouraging. Sometimes, when I’m all by myself, I just sit and pray for just one mad dog. But there are no more mad dogs anymore, only people.”
“Well, thanks anyway--” I started to leave.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Victor!” He strode over to me and whispered into my face with an air of great conspiracy. His breath smelled of milk. “Can I trust you?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“All right then. I have this little black market operation on the side.” He took a deep breath and confessed. “I’m a G.P.”
“A G.P.?”
“Yes. A general practitioner. But you must keep my secret. If it ever came out, I’d be drummed out of the A.M.A. It’s against every tenet of the Code of Specialization.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured him. “All I care about is your ability to treat my particular ailment.”
“Then just put yourself in my hands.”
.I winced.
“Now then,” Dr. Pasteur continued, “just which part of your body is it that’s bothering you?”
“My genitals, I told you,” I reminded him.
“I never heard of it,” he said firmly. “You’ll have to explain.”
I explained.
Slowly, a light of understanding seemed to break over his face. “Ah, yes. Like the appendix and the umbilical cord. One of those organs that has no function. But how is it that it wasn’t removed at birth, Mr. Victor?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“I’ll say!” Denise murmured.
“But removal of such vestigial organs is automatic.” Dr. Pasteur was still puzzled.
“Nevertheless, I still have mine. Look, I’ll prove it.” I unzipped my pants and showed him.
“Hmmm,” he mused. “I’ve been trying to find a tie that color. It goes perfectly with a new sport jacket I bought.”
“It can turn purple!” Denise exclaimed.
“It must be a wild sport jacket,” I said.
“Isn’t that remarkable?” enthused Denise.
“Will you please stop saying that?” I told her.
The doctor was examining the source of my trouble. “Hmm,” he opined finally, “if it turns such a pretty color, maybe it shouldn’t be removed at birth. Maybe it should be left—you know-—just as a decoration.”
“You don’t understand!” I was getting exasperated. “It’s not supposed to turn color. That’s what’s wrong with it!”
“Aha! But I have only your word for that, Mr. Victor. I mean, after all, there’s no way I can be sure of that medically when I’ve never seen one before. For all I know, its purpose is to turn color. What other purpose could it have?”
“You’d be surprised,” Denise murmured.
‘In any case,” said Dr. Pasteur, straightening up, “I know of no medical reason for the change in color. If you’re right in what you say, then perhaps the cause is psychosomatic.”
“You mean I should see a psychiatrist?” I asked Dr. Pasteur.
“That would be a good idea,” he granted.
“Can you recommend one?”
“I’m afraid not. There are no psychiatrists in Saigon.”
“You mean nobody ever suffers from mental illness here?” I was surprised.
“Certainly not. It’s against government regulations.”
“Whose government?” I wondered.
“Take your pick.” Dr. Pasteur shrugged. “The U.S. government long ago realized that mental illness is an impossibility for Americans in Vietnam. Paranoia is the American way of life here. It starts with Americans being here in the first place—the initial divorcement from reality being the reasons for being here, as it were. Once those reasons were granted, aberration became the norm. An American in Vietnam is either mentally healthy or he’s a traitor. And they shoot traitors.”