Kleinzeit

At Dr Pink’s

‘The hypotenuse is a funny organ,’ said Dr Pink in his Harley Street surgery. Dr Pink was fifty-five or so, every inch a gentleman, and looked as if he’d go another hundred years without even breathing hard. There were about £200 worth of magazines in the waiting room. The surgery was equipped with a tin of Band-Aids, a needle for taking blood samples, a little rack of test tubes, and an electric fire of the Regency period. Dr Pink had a stethoscope too. He examined it, flicked some earwax off it. ‘We don’t know an awful lot about the hypotenuse,’ he said. ‘Nor the diapason either, for that matter. You can go right through life without ever knowing you have either of them, or they can act up and give you no end of trouble.’

‘It’s probably nothing, eh?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Just this little twinge from A to B…’ There it went again, this time like a red-hot iron bar jammed crosswise in him. ‘This little twinge from A to B,’ he said. ‘Probably everybody has it now and then, I suppose, hmm?’

‘No,’ said Dr Pink. ‘I doubt that I get three cases a year.’

Three cases of what, Kleinzeit almost asked, but didn’t. ‘And they’re nothing serious, eh?’ he said.

‘How’s your vision?’ said Dr Pink. He opened Kleinzeit’s folder, looked into it. ‘Any floating spots or specks?’

‘Doesn’t everybody have those?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘What about your hearing?’ said Dr Pink. ‘Ever hear a sort of seething in a perfectly silent room?’

‘Isn’t that just the acoustics of the room?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I mean, rooms do seethe when there’s silence, don’t they? Just the faintest high-pitched sibilance?’

‘Your barometric pressure’s good,’ said Dr Pink, still looking into the folder. ‘Your barometric pressure’s like that of a much younger man.’

‘I go for a run every morning,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Mile and a half.’

‘Good,’ said Dr Pink. ‘We’ll book you into hospital right away. Tomorrow all right for you?’

‘Lovely,’ said Kleinzeit. He sighed, leaned back in his chair. Then he sat up straight. ‘Why do I have to go to hospital?’ he said.

‘Best see where we are with this,’ said Dr Pink. ‘Run off a few tests, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Right,’ said Kleinzeit. That afternoon he bought a pair of adventurous-looking pyjamas, selected from his shelves books for the hospital. He packed Ortega y Gasset, Meditations on Quixote. He’d already read that, wouldn’t have to read it again. Thucydides he would carry in his hand.