“Age.”
“Retire.”
“Rat.”
“Enemy.” Could have done better there.
“Accuse.”
“Defend.”
“Traitor.”
“Spy.”
“Hang.”
“Kill” was the word but O’Farrell didn’t say it: his mind wouldn’t produce a substitute and Symmons said, “Quicker! You’re not allowed to consider the responses! You know that! Hang.”
“Picture.”
“Sex.”
“Wrong.” Why the hell had he said that; it didn’t even make sense! O’Farrell hoped the perspiration wasn’t obvious on his face.
“Gamble.”
“Streak.”
“Family.”
“Life.”
“Wife.”
“Protector.” Better: much better.
“Sentence.”
“Justice.” Damn again! Why hadn’t he said someming like “words” or “book”!
“Evil.”
“Destroy.” How he felt. But maybe there should have been a different reply. It sounded like a piece of dialogue from one of those ridiculous revenge films where the hero bulged wim muscles and glistened with oil and could take out twenty opponents with a flick of his wrist without disarranging his hairstyle.
“Dedication.”
Once more O’Farrell stopped short of the instinctive response—“absolute”—but without the hesitation that had brought about the previous rebuke. He said, “Resolution.”
Symmons raised both hands in a warding-off gesture and said, “Okay. Enough!”
Enough for what or for whom? queried O’Farrell. He wasn’t sure (careful, never decide upon anything unless you’re absolutely sure) but he had the impression of another change from their earlier encounters: before this Ping-Pong of words had always seemed to last longer than it had today. Continuing the analogy, O’Farrell wondered who had won the game. He wanted desperately to ask the psychologist how he had done, but he didn’t. The question would have shown an uncertain man and he could never be shown to be uncertain. O’Farrell said, without sufficient thought, “You sure?”
Symmons smiled, a baring of teeth more than a humorous expression. He said, “That’s the trouble. Ever being sure.”
Don’t react, thought O’Farrelclass="underline" the stupid bastard was playing another sort of word game. What the fuck (obscene, he remembered) right did this supposedly scientific, aloof son of a bitch have to make judgments on the state of someone else’s mind? Didn’t statistics prove that these jerks—psychiatrists or psychologists or whatever they liked to call themselves—had the highest mentally disordered suicide rates of any claimed medical profession? Important to present the correct reaction, O’Farrell thought: glibly confident, he decided. He said, “Your problem, doc: you’re the one who’s got to be sure.”
“You’re right,” agreed the other man, discomfortingly. “My problem; always my problem.”
Symmons smiled, waiting, and O’Farrell smiled back, waiting. The silence built up, growing pressure behind a weakened dam about to burst. Mustn’t break, O’Farrell told himself. Mustn’t break; couldn’t break. It had to be Symmons who spoke first: who had to give in.
He did. The psychologist said, “How do you feel about colors?”
O’Farrell smiled again, enjoying his victory, and said, “Why don’t you find out?”
O’Farrell considered the color test—matching colors, identifying colors, blending colors into the right sections of a spectrum divided into primary hues—easier than the verbal inquisition and finished it feeling quite satisfied that he had made no errors; done well, in fact.
The physical examination was as complete as the mental probe. O’Farrell, well aware of the procedure, stripped to a tied-at-the-back operation gown and subjected himself to two hours of intense and concentrated scrutiny. Symmons put him in a soundproof room for audio tests and plunged it into absolute blackness for the eyesight check. Before putting O’Farrell on a treadmill, the man took blood samples, as well as checking blood pressure and lung capacity. The man gradually increased the treadmill speed, pushing O’Farrell to an unannounced but obviously predetermined level. O’Farrell was panting and weak-legged when it finished.
O’Farrell was weighed and measured—thighs and chest and waist as well as biceps—and touched his toes for Symmons to make an anal investigation and spread his legs and coughed when Symmons told him to cough.
O’Farrell dressed unhurriedly, wanting some small redress for the indignities. He fixed and then refixed his tie and arranged the tuck of his shirt around a hard waist to spread the creases and carefully parted and combed his hair. The reflected image was of a neat, unobtrusive, unnoticed man, fading fair hair cropped close against the encroaching gray; smooth-faced; open, untroubled eyes; no shake or twitching mannerisms visible at all. All right, thought O’Farrell, actually moving his lips in voiceless conversation with himself; you’re all right, so don’t worry.
“Will I live?” he demanded as he emerged from the dressing area, caught by the cynicism of a further attempt at glibness. That was all right, too: Symmons didn’t know. Only a very few people knew.
Symmons stayed hunched over the formidable bundle of files and documents and folders that constituted O’Farrell’s medical record. Symmons said, “A shade over one hundred and forty-eight pounds?”
“I saw it register on the machine.”
“The same as you were twenty years ago.” Symmons smiled up at him. “That’s remarkable at forty-six: there’s usually a weight increase whether you like it or not.”
“I suppose I’m lucky.”
“Still not smoking?”
“Hardly likely I’ll start now, is it?”
“And still only one martini at night?”
“No more.” That was near truth enough.
“What about worries?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Everyone has something to worry about,” challenged the man.
But what precisely was the something—the doubt—making him feel as he did? O’Farrell said, “Lucky again, I guess.”
“That makes you a very unusual guy indeed,” Symmons insisted.
“I don’t think of myself being unusual in any way,” O’Farrell said. Didn’t he?
“What about money difficulties?”
Damn that reaction to the financial question. O’Farrell said, with attempted forcefulness, “None.”
“None at all?” pressed Symmons.
“No.”
“What about sex? Everything okay between you and Jill?”
They did not make love with the regularity or with the need they’d once had, but when they did, it was always good. O’Farrell said, “Everything’s fine.”
“What about elsewhere?”
“Elsewhere?” O’Farrell asked, choosing to misunderstand.
“Any sudden affairs?”
It was a fairly regular question, acknowledged O’Farrell. Getting satisfaction from the reply, he said, “None.”
“You’ve said that before,” the doctor reminded him unnecessarily.
“It’s been true before, like it is now.”
“Not a lot of guys who say that are telling the truth.”
“I am,” said O’Farrell, who was. He’d never ever considered another woman, knew he never would.
“Jill must be a very special lady.”
“She is,” said O’Farrell, bridling.
The psychologist discerned the reaction at once. “It worry you to talk about her?”
“It worries me to talk about her in the context of screwing somebody else.” Where was he being led? “Jill hasn’t got any part of this,” he said.
“Any part of what?”
“What I do.” Fucked you, you self-satisfied bastard, he thought, knowing that Symmons couldn’t ask the obvious follow-up question.