Doctor Fisher of Geneva

9

The disagreeable manservant, whom I had hoped never to see again, opened the door. There were five expensive cars lounging in the drive, two of them with chauffeurs, and I thought that he looked at my little Fiat 500 with disdain. Then he looked at my suit and I could see that his eyebrows went up. ‘What name?’ he asked, though I felt sure that he remembered it well enough. He spoke in English with a bit of a cockney twang. So he had remembered my nationality.

‘Jones,’ I said.

‘Doctor Fischer’s engaged.’

‘He’s expecting me,’ I said.

‘Doctor Fischer’s dining with friends.’

‘I happen to be dining with him myself.’

‘Have you an invitation?’

‘Of course I have an invitation.’

‘Let me see the card.’

‘You can’t. I left it at home.’

He scowled at me, but he wasn’t confident - I could tell that. I said, ‘I don’t think Doctor Fischer would be very pleased if there’s an empty place at his table. You’d better go and ask him.’

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Jones.’

‘Follow me.’

I followed his white coat through the hall and up the stairs. On the landing he turned to me. He said, ‘If you’ve been lying to me… If you weren’t invited…’ He made a motion with his fists like a boxer sparring.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘What’s that to do with you?’

‘I just want to tell the Doctor how you welcome his friends. ‘

‘Friends,’ he said. ‘He has no friends. I tell you, if you weren’t invited.. ‘

‘I am invited.’

We turned the opposite way from the study where I had last seen Doctor Fischer and he flung open a door. ‘Mr Jones,’ the man grunted and I walked in, and there stood all the Toads looking at me. The men wore dinner jackets and Mrs Montgomery a long dress.

‘Come in, Jones,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘You can serve dinner as soon as it’s ready, Albert.’

The table was laid with crystal glasses which caught the lights of a chandelier overhead: even the soup plates looked expensive. I wondered a little at seeing them there: it was hardly the season for cold soup. ‘This is Jones, my son-in-law,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘You must excuse his glove. It covers a deformity. Mrs Montgomery, Mr Kips, Monsieur Belmont, Mr Richard Deane, Divisionnaire Krueger.’ (Not for him to mistitle Krueger.) I could feel the fumes of their hostility projected at me like tear-gas. Why? Perhaps it was my dark suit. I had lowered what apartment builders would call the ‘standing’.

‘I have met Monsieur Jones,’ Belmont said as though he were a prosecution witness identifying the accused.

‘Me too,’ said Mrs Montgomery, ‘briefly.’

‘]ones is a great linguist,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘He translates letters about chocolates,’ and I realized he must have made inquiries about me from my employers. ‘Here, ]ones, at our little parties we use English as our common language because Richard Deane, great star though he may be, speaks no other, though he sometimes attempts a kind of French in his cups - after his third one. On the screen you’ve only heard him dubbed in French.’

Everyone laughed as though on cue except Deane who gave a mirthless smile. ‘He has the qualities after a drink or two to play Falstaff except a lack of humour and a lack of weight. The second tonight we shall do our best to remedy. The humour, I’m afraid, is beyond us. You may ask what is left. Only his fast-diminishing reputation among women and teenagers. Kips, you are not enjoying yourself. Is something wrong? Perhaps you miss our usual aperitifs, but tonight I didn’t want to spoil your palates for what’s coming.’

‘No, no, I assure you nothing is wrong, Doctor Fischer. Nothing.’

‘I always insist,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘at my little parties that everybody enjoys himself.’

‘They are a riot,’ Mrs Montgomery said, ‘a riot.’

‘Doctor Fischer is invariably a very good host,’ Divisionnaire Krueger informed me with condescension.

‘And so generous,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘This necklace I’m wearing - it was a prize at our last party.’ She was wearing a heavy necklace of gold pieces they seemed to me from a distance to be Krugerrands.

‘There is always a little prize for everyone,’ the Divisionnaire murmured. He was certainly old and grey and he was probably full of sleep. I liked him the best because he seemed to have accepted me more easily than the others.

‘There the prizes are,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘I helped him choose.’ She went over to a side-table where I noticed now a pile of gift-wrapped parcels. She touched one with the tip of a finger like a child testing a Christmas stocking to tell from the crackle what is within.

‘Prizes for what?’ I asked.

‘Certainly not for intelligence,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘or the Divisionnaire would never win anything.’ Everyone was watching the pile of gifts.

‘All we have to de is just to put up with his little whims,’ Mrs Montgomery explained, ‘and then he distributes the prizes. There was one evening - can you believe it? - he served up live lobsters with bowls of boiling water. We had to catch and cook our own. One lobster nipped the General’s finger.’

‘I bear the scar still, ‘ Divisionnaire Krueger complained.

‘The only wound in action which he has ever received,’ Doctor Fischer said.

‘It was a riot,’ Mrs Montgomery told me as though I might not have caught the point.

‘Anyway it turned her hair blue,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘Before that night it was an unsavoury grey stained with nicotine.’

‘Not grey - a natural blonde - and not nicotine-stained. ‘

‘Remember the rules, Mrs Montgomery,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘If you contradict me once again you will lose your prize.’

‘That happened once at one of our parties to Mr Kips,’ Monsieur Belmont said. ‘He lost an eighteen-carat gold lighter. Like this one. ‘ He took a leather case from his pocket.

‘It was little loss to me,’ Mr Kips said. ‘I don’t smoke. ‘

‘Be careful, Kips. Don’t denigrate my gifts - or yours might disappear a second time tonight.’

I thought: But surely this is a madhouse ruled by a mad doctor. It was only curiosity which kept me there - certainly it was not for any prize that I stayed.

‘Perhaps,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘before we sit down to dinner - a dinner I very much hope that you’ll enjoy and do full justice to as I have given a great deal of thought to the menu - I should explain to our new guest the etiquette we observe at these dinners.’

‘Most necessary,’ Belmont said. ‘I think - if you will excuse me - you should perhaps have put his appearance here - shall we say? - to the vote? After all, we are a kind of club.’

Mr Kips said, ‘I agree with Belmont. We all of us know where we stand. We accept certain conditions. It’s all in the spirit of fun. A stranger might misunderstand.’

‘Mr Kips in search of a dollar, ‘ Doctor Fischer said. ‘You are afraid that the value of the prizes may be reduced with another guest just as you hoped the value would rise after the death of two of our number.’

There was a silence. I thought from the expression in his eyes that Mr Kips was about to make an angry reply, but he didn’t: all he said was, ‘You misunderstand me.’

Now all of this, read by someone not present at the party, might well sound no more than the jolly banter of clubmen who insult each other in a hearty way before sitting down to a good dinner and some heavy drinking and good companionship. But to me, as I watched the faces and detected how near the knuckle the teasing seemed to go, there was a hollowness and a hypocrisy in the humorous exchanges and hate like a rain cloud hung over the room - hatred of his guests on the part of the host and hatred of the host on the part of the guests. I felt a complete outsider for, though I disliked every one of them, my emotion was too weak as yet to be called hatred.

‘To the table then,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘and I will explain to our new guest the purpose of my little parties, while Albert brings in the dinner.’

I found myself sitting next to Mrs Montgomery who was on the right of the host. I had Belmont on my right and the actor Richard Deane opposite me. Beside every plate was a bottle of good Yvorne, except beside our host’s, who, I noticed, preferred Polish vodka.

‘First,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘I would ask you to toast the memory of our two - friends shall I call them on this occasion? - on the anniversary of their deaths two years ago. An odd coincidence. I chose the date for that reason. Madame Faverjon died by her own hand. I suppose she could no longer stomach herself - it was difficult enough for me to stomach her, though I had found her at first an interesting study. Of all the people at this table she was the greediest - and that is saying a good deal. She was also the richest of all of you. There have been moments when I have watched each one of you show a sign of rebelling against the criticisms I have made of you and I have been forced to remind you of the presents at the end of dinner which you were in danger of forfeiting. That was never the case with Madame Faverjon. She accepted everything and anything in order to qualify for her present, though she could easily have afforded to buy one of equal value for herself. She was an abominable woman, an unspeakable woman, and yet I had to admit she showed a certain courage at the end. I doubt if one of you would ever show as much, not even our gallant Divisionnaire. I doubt if one of you has even contemplated ridding the world of his unnecessary presence. So I’ll ask you to toast the ghost of Madame Faverjon.’

I obeyed like all the others.

Albert entered carrying a silver tray on which there was a large pot of Caviare and little silver dishes of egg and onion and sliced lemons.

‘You will excuse Albert for serving me first,’ Doctor Fischer said.

‘I adore Caviare,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘I could live on it.’

‘You could afford to live on it if you were prepared to spend your own money.’

‘I’m not such a rich woman as all that.’

‘Why bother to lie to me? If you weren’t as rich as you are you would not be sitting at this table. I invite only the very rich.’

‘What about Mr Jones?’

‘He is here as an observer rather than as a guest, but of course, as he is my son-in-law, he may imagine he has great expectations. Expectations too are a form of wealth. I am sure Mr Kips could arrange him substantial credits, and expectations are not taxable - he wouldn’t need to consult Monsieur Belmont. Albert, the bibs.’

For the first time I noticed that there were no napkins by our places. Albert was fastening a bib round Mrs Montgomery’s neck. She gave a squeal of pleasure.

‘Ecrevisses! I love ecrevisses.’

‘We haven’t toasted the late lamented Monsieur Groseli, the Divisionnaire said, adjusting his bib. ‘I won’t pretend that I ever liked that man.’

‘Hurry up then, while Albert fetches your dinner. To Monsieur Groseli. He only attended two of our dinners before dying of cancer, so I had no time to study his character. If I had known of the cancer I would never have invited him to join us. I expect my guests to entertain me for a much longer time. Ah, here is your dinner, so I can now begin my own.’

Mrs Montgomery gave a high shriek. ‘Why, this is porridge, cold porridge.’

‘Real Scotch porridge. You should appreciate it, with your Scotch name.’ Doctor Fischer gave himself a helping of Caviare and poured himself out a glass of vodka.

‘It will destroy all our appetite,’ Deane said.

‘Don’t be afraid of that. There is nothing to follow.’

‘This is going too far, Doctor Fischer,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘Cold porridge. Why, it’s totally inedible.’

‘Don’t eat it then. Don’t eat it, Mrs Montgomery. By the rules you will only lose your little present. To tell you the truth I ordered porridge especially for Jones. I had thought of some partridges, but how could he have managed with one hand? ‘

To my astonishment I saw that the Divisionaire and Richard Deane had begun to eat and Mr Kips had at least picked up his spoon.

‘If we could have a little sugar,’ Belmont said, ‘it might perhaps help. ‘

‘I understand that the Welsh - no, no, I remember, Jones - I mean the Scots - consider it a blasphemy to spoil their porridge with sugar. They even eat it, I am told, with salt. You may certainly have salt. Offer the gentlemen salt, Albert. Mrs Montgomery has decided to go hungry.’

‘Oh no, I won’t ruin your little joke, Doctor Fischer. Give me the salt. It can’t make the porridge any worse than it is.’

Within a minute or two to my wonder they were all eating in silence and with a grim intensity. Perhaps the porridge clogged their tongues. ‘You don’t attempt yours, Jones?’ Doctor Fischer asked me and he helped himself to a little more Caviare.

‘I’m not hungry enough.’

‘Nor rich enough,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘For several years now I have been studying the greediness of the rich. “To him that hath shall be given” - those cynical words of Christ they take very literally. “Given” not “earned”, you notice. The presents I hand out when the dinner is over they could easily afford to give themselves, but then they would have earned them if only by signing a cheque. The rich hate signing cheques. Hence the success of credit cards. One card takes the place of a hundred cheques. They’ll do anything to get their presents for nothing. This is one of the hardest tests I’ve submitted them to yet, and look how quickly they are eating up their cold porridge, so that the time for the presents will arrive. You, I am afraid, will get nothing, if you don’t eat.’

‘I have something of more value than your present waiting for me at home.’

‘Very gallantly put,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘but don’t be too confident. Women don’t always wait. I doubt if a missing hand aids romance. Albert, Mr Deane is ready for a second helping.’

‘Oh no,’ Mrs Montgomery said, ‘no, not second helpings. ‘

‘It’s for the sake of Mr Deane. I want to fatten him so that he can play Falstaff.’

Deane gave him a furious look, but he accepted the second helping.

‘I’m joking, of course. Deane could no more play Falstaff than Britt Ekland could play Cleopatra. Deane is not an actor: he is a sex object. Teenage girls worship him, Jones. How disappointed they would be if they could see him without his clothes. I have reason to believe that he suffers from premature ejaculation. Perhaps the porridge will slow you down, Deane, my poor fellow. Albert, another plate for Mr Kips and I see Mrs Montgomery is nearly ready. Hurry up, Divisionnaire, hurry up, Belmont. No presents before everyone has finished.’ I was reminded of a huntsman controlling his pack with a crack of the whip.

‘Watch them, Jones. They are so anxious to be finished that they even forget to drink.’

‘I don’t suppose Yvorne goes well with porridge.’

‘Have a good laugh at them, Jones. They won’t take it amiss. ‘

‘I don’t find them funny.’

‘Of course I agree that a party like this has a serious side, but all the same… Aren’t you reminded a little of pigs eating out of a trough? You would almost think they enjoy it. Mr Kips has spilt some porridge over his shirt. Clean him up, Albert.’

‘You revolt me, Doctor Fischer.’

He turned his eyes towards me: they were like the polished chips of a pale blue stone. Some grey beads of Caviare had lodged in his red moustache.

‘Yes, I can understand how you feel. I sometimes feel that way myself, - but my research must go on to its end.

I won’t give up now. Bravo, Divisionnaire. You are catching them up. You ply a good spoon, Deane, my boy, I wish your female admirers could see you at this moment, guzzling away.’

‘Why do you do it?’ I asked.

‘Why should I tell you? You are not one of us. You never will be. Don’t count on your expectations from me.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You have a poor man’s pride, I see. After all, why shouldn’t I tell you. You are a sort of son. I want to discover, Jones, if the greed of our rich friends has any limit. If there’s a “Thus far and no further.” If a day will come when they’ll refuse to earn their presents. Their greed certainly isn’t limited by pride. You can see that for yourself tonight. Mr Kips, like Herr Krupp, would have sat down happily to eat with Hitler in expectation of favours, whatever was placed before him. The Divisionnaire has spilled porridge down his bib. Give him a clean one, Albert. I think that tonight will mark the end of one experiment. I am playing with another idea.’

‘You are a rich man yourself. Are there limits to your greed? ‘

‘Perhaps I shall find out one day. But my greed is of a different kind to theirs. I’m not greedy for trinkets, Jones.’

‘Trinkets are harmless enough.’

‘I like to think that my greed is a little more like God’s.’

‘Is God greedy?’

‘Oh, don’t think for a moment I believe in him any more than I believe in the devil, but I have always found theology an amusing intellectual game. Albert, Mrs Montgomery has finished her porridge. You can take her plate. What was I saying?’

‘That God is greedy.’

‘Well, the believers and the sentimentalists say that he is greedy for our love. I prefer to think that, judging from the world he is supposed to have made, he can only be greedy for our humiliation, and that greed how could he ever exhaust? It’s bottomless. The world grows more and more miserable while he twists the endless screw, though he gives us presents - for a universal suicide would defeat his purpose - to alleviate the humiliations we suffer. A cancer of the rectum, a streaming cold, incontinence. For example, you are a poor man, so he gives you a small present, my daughter, to keep you satisfied a little longer.’

‘She’s a very big alleviation,’ I said. ‘If it’s God who gave her to me I’m grateful to him.’

‘And yet perhaps Mrs Montgomery’s necklace will last longer than your so-called love.’

‘Why should he wish to humiliate us? ‘

‘Don’t I wish to humiliate? And they say he made us in his image. Perhaps he found he was a rather bad craftsman and he is disappointed in the result. One throws a faulty article into the dustbin. Do look at them and laugh, Jones. Have you no humour? Everyone has an empty plate but Mr Kips, and how impatient they’re all getting now. Why, Belmont is even finishing up his plate for him. I’m not sure it’s quite in accordance with my rules, but I’ll let it pass. Bear with me a moment longer, my friends, while I finish my Caviare. You can untie their bibs, Albert.’