"I know," he said. "That was the fee for the exam. What I am asking now is the fee for a consultation."
"This is the first time I've heard of charging for a consultation," I said in amazement.
He didn't bother to answer me, but merely pointed his finger at a sign on the wall without even turning his head.
The sign-which I hadn't noticed before-proclaimed that patients are allowed one follow-up visit within a week of the diagnosis at a fee of one pound.
I said agitatedly, "But this is exploitation, pure and simple!"
He took no notice of my argument, but said coldly, "This is our system. Take it or leave it."
The patients and their companions, seated nearby, had silently followed our discussion. Their poker faces betrayed no shadow of their thoughts. In front of them I was embarrassed to appear so concerned with such a paltry sum as one pound, so in the end, humiliated, I paid what was requested.
Because my visit was for advice and not a diagnosis, my turn came quickly. I stalked into the doctor's cubicle and sat next to his desk. At once I noticed his pallor and the strange luster of his skin.
He surprised my by saying, "So in your opinion I'm a profiteer?"
I was amazed at how he could know what his assistant and I had talked about. My heartbeat sped up immediately, but I didn't back down. I answered, "Do you have some other name for what you do?"
"I thought I was performing a humanitarian service."
"Listen, you demanded a whole five pounds from me for a service that costs almost nothing in a public hospi tal, which is where you ought to be. What's humanitarian in that?"
"A clinic like this is expensive," he said. "Furthermore, there's no hospital whose services you can trust."
I said hysterically, "You and your ilk have been the ruin of public hospitals to the advantage of private shops. You have conspired to fleece anyone with the bad luck to fall into your hands."
He stiffened and said disdainfully, "It's my right to set the fee for the services I offer in any way I see fit."
"And I'm entitled to free treatment from you," I said.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, "How so?"
Gesturing with my good arm to include the doctor as well as the furniture, the air conditioner, the sound system, and the medical equipment, I leaned over the desk, saying, "None of this has resulted from your unique genius. You and your ilk benefit from a system of inherited privileges that over time have been wrested from me and from others, our fathers and forefathers. Above and beyond this, you are from the generation that had a free education, a free ride on me and others like me."
He stood up, shaking with anger. "Enough. I don't want to argue with you. I want you to leave my clinic now. Your kind has no right to my services."
As he pressed the buzzer firmly with both hands, I said, "I admit I made a mistake in coming to you. As soon as you return the pound I paid today, I'll leave."
He said superciliously, "My time is valuable and you've wasted too much of it already. Therefore, I don't owe you anything. If you don't go now, I'll have the medic toss you out in the street."
The medic who appeared in the door was a strapping young man and I was afraid the incident on the bus would be repeated. I got up slowly and said, "I'll go. But I know what to do about my pound. We still have law and order around here."
Naturally, I didn't believe that, but it was a way of saving face, helping me face the critical looks that met me outside and the insults with which the medic escorted me to the door.
I walked along seething, hardly noticing anything around me. I wasn't aware of myself until a woman bumped my forearm and it hurt. At that point I started walking toward my apartment, picking my way with difficulty around the ditches, the dirt, the garbage that nobody has an incentive to remove or even complain about, and the piles of imported goods and crates of Coca-Cola filling the sidewalk.
I began to look around at the people who were crowding the streets, shopping enthusiastically, cracking seeds, and listening to songs. I blamed myself that my fear of pain had exposed me to humiliation by the physician. In fact, when considering the fate awaiting me, it hadn't been worth the effort.
I bought enough food for a few days. I told the doorman to tell anyone who asked for me that I was away. I climbed to my apartment.
There were a few things I had to take care of right away. I got busy at this, even though moving my arm was painful. I went through my old papers and put them in order. I spent some pleasant moments, although they were tinged with sorrow, in going over my accomplishments and the resulting comments and reverberations. Old government applications, tickets, letters, bills, and receipts helped me trace the course I had taken since I stood on my own feet.
I lingered over a picture of my father. I contemplated his legacy, laden with pain, negative attitudes, and delusions, and also laden with the hopes he had pinned on me. Time hadn't allowed him to witness the outcome. Thank God he wouldn't see my fate.
I spent a whole day sorting through pictures of individuals who had crossed my path and women I had been linked with, all of whom I had pinned my hopes on at different stages. I dwelt on everything that had combined to shatter those hopes, looking one last time for where things had gone wrong.
Naturally, this preoccupation stirred up certain feelings. So I got out my porno books and with the aid of my fantasies and memories sought to live for the last time those charged moments, during which life floods every cell of the body and a caress anywhere arouses waves of ecstasy that inevitably crest.
The following day I was entirely occupied with my old diaries and the notes I had made in moments suffused with suffering and hope. At one time their possibilities seemed limitless, but now they appeared faded, yet still tinged with sorrow. The great plans I had at one time mapped out enthusiastically and the ensuing frustrations leaped out at me from the yellowing pages.
Numerous quotations I had copied from my readings at various times stared out at me. Most of them spoke of the ideal way of life. I spent hours staring at these lines by Mayakovsky, which he most likely spoke shortly before his tragic end:
His fate reminded me of my tragedy. I recalled the events that had happened to me since I had prepared myself for my first interview with the Committee. I reviewed the stages of the whole experience and how it had opened my eyes-completely-to the whole dreadful truth, even though this came too late.
When I visualized the details of the last interview, I regretted my complaisance and how, before the whole Committee, I had lost the glibness and courage which were part of me when dealing with individuals, like Stubby, the giant on the bus, and the physician.
I was engaged in finding an explanation for this phenomenon, when, after some examination, I realized it was rooted in the distant past, in the first test I had ever taken, at just a few years of age, and each time thereafter when I stood naked before the cold, indifferent eyes of ruthless people who belonged to a world other than mine. The life of each of them revolves in an independent sphere, not dependent in any way on the outcome of any confrontation between us, which is contrary to my own case.
I wished I was standing before the Committee members again, so that I could make them listen to me. I imagined myself facing them confidently. I went on to pick precise, exact expressions. I got carried away. Sud denly I stood up, put an empty tape in the recorder, and set it cn the table. I faced it as if it were the Committee.
My voice rang out strong and steady in the empty room. "I committed-from the beginning-unpardonable errors. I shouldn't have stood before you, but against you. Every noble effort on this earth should be aimed at eliminating you.