The old man took one. She watched him carefully. His brown eyes were rimmed with red; they looked apologetic.
“I smoke too much,” he said. “But I can’t quit.”
She gave him a light. “More people around here are quitting every day.”
Havelmann exhaled smoothly. “What can I do for you?”
What can I do for you, sir.
“First, I want to play a little game.” Evans took a handkerchief out of a pocket. She moved a brass paperweight, a small model of the Lincoln Memorial, to the center of the desk blotter. “I want you to watch what I’m doing, now.”
Havelmann smiled. “Don’t tell me—you’re going to make it disappear, right?”
She tried to ignore him. She covered the paperweight with the handkerchief. “What’s under this handkerchief?”
“Can we put a little bet on it?”
“Not this time.”
“A paperweight.”
“That’s wonderful.” Evans leaned back with finality. “Now I want you to answer a few questions.”
The old man looked around the office curiously: at the closed blinds, at the computer terminal and keyboard against the wall, at the pad of switches in the corner of the desk. His eyes came to rest on the mirror opposite the window. “That’s a two-way mirror.”
Evans sighed. “No kidding.”
“Are you recording this?”
“Does it matter to you?”
“I’d like to know. Common courtesy.”
“Yes, we’re being videotaped. Now answer the questions.”
Havelmann seemed to shrink in the face of her hostility. “Sure.”
“How do you like it here?”
“It’s O.K. A little boring. A man couldn’t even catch a disease here, from the looks of it, if you know what I mean. I don’t mean any offense, doctor. I haven’t been here long enough to get the feel of the place.”
Evans rocked slowly back and forth. “How do you know I’m a doctor?”
“Aren’t you a doctor? I thought you were. This is a hospital, isn’t it? So I figured when they sent me in to see you you must be a doctor.”
“I am a doctor. My name is Evans.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Evans.”
She would kill him. “How long have you been here?”
The man tugged on his earlobe. “I must have just got here today. I don’t think it was too long ago. A couple of hours. I’ve been talking to the nurses at their station.”
What she wouldn’t give for three fingers of Jack Daniels. She looked at him over the steeple of her fingers. “Such talkative nurses.”
“I’m sure they’re doing their jobs.”
“I’m sure. Tell me what you were doing before you came to this . . . hospital.”
“You mean right before?”
“Yes.”
“I was working.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’ve got my own company—ITG Computer Systems. We design programs for a lot of people. We’re close to getting a big contract with Ma Bell. We swing that and I can retire by the time I’m forty—if Uncle Sam will take his hand out of my pocket long enough for me to count my change.”
Evans made a note on her pad. “Do you have a family?”
Havelmann looked at her steadily. His gaze was that of an earnest young college student, incongruous on a man of his age. He stared at her as if he could not imagine why she would ask him these abrupt questions. She detested his weakness; it raised in her a fury that pushed her to the edge of insanity. It was already a bad day, and it would get worse.
“I don’t understand what you’re after,” Havelmann said, with considerable dignity. “But just so your record shows the facts: I’ve got a wife, Helen, and two kids. Ronnie’s nine and Susan’s five. We have a nice big house and a Lincoln and a Porsche. I follow the Braves and I don’t eat quiche. What else would you like to know?”
“Lots of things. Eventually I’ll find them out.” Evans’ voice was cold. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me? How you came to be here? How long you’re going to have to stay? Who you are?”
His voice went similarly cold. “I know who I am.”
“Who are you, then?”
“My name is Robert Havelmann.”
“That’s right,” Doctor Evans said calmly. “What year is it?”
Havelmann watched her warily, as if he were about to be tricked. “What are you talking about? It’s 1984.”
“What time of year?”
“Spring.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“What do I have under this handkerchief?”
Havelmann looked at the handkerchief on the desk as if noticing it for the first time. His shoulders tightened and he looked suspiciously at Evans.
“How should I know?”
HE WAS BACK again that afternoon, just as rumpled, just as innocent. How could a person get old and still be innocent? She could not remember things ever being that easy. “Sit down,” she said.
“Thanks. What can I do for you, doctor?”
“I want to follow up on the argument we had this morning.”
Havelmann smiled. “Argument? This morning?”
“Don’t you remember talking to me this morning?”
“I never saw you before.”
Evans watched him coolly. The old man shifted in his chair.
“How do you know I’m a doctor?”
“Aren’t you a doctor? They told me I should go in to see Dr. Evans in room 10.”
“I see. If you weren’t here this morning, where were you?”
Havelmann hesitated.
“Let’s see—I was at work. I remember telling Helen—the wife—that I’d try to get home early. She’s always ragging me because I stay late. The company’s pretty busy right now: big contract in the works. Susan’s in the school play, and we have to be there by eight. And I want to get home soon enough before then to do some yardwork. It looked like a good day for it.”
Evans made a note: “What season is it?”
Havelmann fidgeted like a child, looked at the window, where the blinds were still closed.
“Spring,” he said. “Sunny, warm—very nice weather. The redbuds are just starting to come out.”
Without a word Evans got out of her chair and went to the window. She opened the blinds, revealing a barren field swept with drifts of snow. Dead grass whipped in the strong wind and the sky roiled with clouds.
“What about this?”
Havelmann stared. His back straightened and he leaned forward. He tugged at his earlobe.
“Isn’t that a bitch. If you don’t like the weather here—wait ten minutes.”
“What about the redbuds?”
“This weather will probably kill them. I hope Helen made the kids wear their jackets.”
Evans looked out the window. Nothing had changed. She slowly drew the blinds and sat down again.
“What year is it?”
Havelmann adjusted himself in his chair, calm again. “What do you mean? It’s 1984.”
“Did you ever read that book?”
“Slow down a minute. What are you talking about?”
Evans wondered what he would do if she got up and ground her thumbs into his eyes. “The book by George Orwell titled 1984.” She forced herself to speak slowly. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Sure. We had to read it in college.” Was there a trace of irritation beneath Havelmann’s innocence? Evans sat as silently and as still as she could.
“I remember it made quite an impression on me,” Havelmann continued.
“What kind of impression?”
“I expected something different from the professor. He was a confessed liberal. I expected some kind of bleeding heart book. It wasn’t like that at all.”