The Bohemian Girl

Chapter TWENTY
The surgeon who had removed the piece of bullet from near his spine was named Gallichan, a black-bearded, handsome man in his forties with the sort of good belly that announced success and appetite. Presumably Irish, he was in fact as English as the new king, whom he slightly resembled. He wore fawn trousers, a broadcloth morning coat in blue-black, a waistcoat that was daring in that it didn’t match and was silk, not wool - in fact an anachronism, pale grey with embroidered floral designs.
‘I’m told you had trouble standing,’ he said genially.
‘I’d have collapsed if they hadn’t held me up.’
‘Of course you would.’ Gallichan smiled as if this was the best news in the world. ‘Let’s have a look at this leg of yours.’ The sister pulled back the sheet. Denton didn’t want to look at it, forced himself to: the leg looked pasty-white, inert, like something made from dough. Gallichan said ‘Mmm-hmmm’ several times, very low, and hummed something unidentifiable. ‘Does that hurt?’
‘What?’
‘Mmm.’ He pushed the leg this way and that. ‘Raise your foot, please.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Raise your knee.’
He couldn’t do that, either.
Gallichan took a tool from his bag and drew it up the sole of Denton’s foot. Denton felt something like the weakest of electric currents.
‘Feel that?’
‘A little.’
‘Aha!’
Gallichan sent the sister away and then moved the sheet aside to reveal Denton’s groin. ‘Feel that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did I do?’
‘You felt my, you know - parts.’
‘We say testicles; I’d understand “nuts” or “balls”, too, if Latin bothers you. Feel that? And that? Mmm-hmm.’ He pulled the sheet back and arranged it over the leg.
‘Well? I want to know the worst.’
Gallichan pulled a white metal chair away from a wall and placed it near the foot of the bed. He sat, crossed his legs and leaned back with one arm over the back of the chair. He looked like a man about to light up a cigar, perhaps order a small brandy. He hooked his left thumb into the armhole of his waistcoat. ‘I was called in again because I am what is called a nerve specialist. Some think me a nervy specialist.’ He laughed. Denton didn’t. ‘I did the surgery to remove the bit of lead that had given up the ghost near your spine. It’s a tricky place. Rather like Piccadilly Circus - traffic coming in from all directions and rushing about and going out all over the shop.’ He looked into his satchel, found a piece of paper and a patent fountain pen and put the paper down on the bedsheet. After a moment, he cleared the tray on the bedside table of its water pitcher and glass and put the paper on it and began to draw. ‘The lower vertebrae look like something with wings, in profile - not important; I’m not Michelangelo - at any rate, there are holes along the side through which blood vessels and the nerves pass. Your bit of bullet lodged like so - close to the nerves and vessels but not in them, do you see? If it had gone into them, we’d have had the devil of a time, but as it was, we were able to get in and out - seventeen minutes, quickly done - and not have to do any cutting in nerve tissue. So the problem is bruising, not cutting. You follow me?’
Denton nodded. The drawing nauseated him.
‘Bruising, not cutting. Tissue is elastic, you see. The piece of bullet struck, as it were, a net of India rubber, which absorbed its velocity by stretching and yielding to it, then returning to its shape. But the yielding bruised the nearby tissues, eh? The nerves and vessels coming out on the right side of the vertebrae.’ He blacked in the nerves and vessels on the drawing. He looked at Denton for a response and, getting none, put the pen down and sat back again and resumed his old position. ‘The nerves there go to the right leg and to areas of the groin.’
‘Get to it. Is it permanent?’
Gallichan frowned, the kind of man who despite his jollity was vain and didn’t like to be denied his accustomed veneration. ‘I don’t give snap judgements.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘You can’t stand; you can’t move the leg. You have feeling in the sole of the foot, the testes and the glans penis. With time, I think, the leg can be made to function.’
‘Function? ’
‘I believe it will bear weight again. Some degree of movement, we might hope.’
Denton stared at him.
The doctor said, ‘You’re a good healer. I expect good results, if you work at it.’
‘Will I walk?’
‘I don’t predict the future, Mr Denton. I don’t plant false hopes. I think - think - you will recover some use of the leg, but I can’t promise it. And the rest, as well.’
‘What rest?’
‘Mmm, well—The, mmm, rectum and the anal sphincter could be implicated - nerves run close to the path of the bullet - and they are so far somewhat affected, are they not? We shall see about them. The penis, the, mmm, let us say the mechanism, although it’s far from a machine; it’s most wonderfully organic - but that system that causes the tumescence of the organ is perhaps implicated. You see, there are muscles that are meant to shut down the flow of blood—’ He had picked up his pen and bent over the paper again.
‘You’re saying I’m impotent.’
‘We don’t know yet. Time will tell.’
‘My God, what else are you keeping from me? Tell me!’ He had forced himself up on his elbows; his upper arms shuddered from the effort.
The doctor flinched back and turned the movement into one of standing, as if he had meant to do that instead of recoiling. ‘You mustn’t excite yourself.’
Denton fell back. ‘You bastard.’
‘My dear sir—’
‘Don’t dear sir me, you sonofabitch. Tell me the worst!’
Gallichan took hold of the lapels of his coat with both hands. He drew himself up, then settled himself, shot his chin out and pulled it back. ‘I have told you the worst,’ he said.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You are in a disturbed mental state, sir. It has been a constant worry to us. Are you aware that twice you fought with the sisters - that male attendants had to be called? You pulled out your tubing! This was early on, I grant you; you were feverish. But you are a violent man, Mr Denton, and you do violent things and make violent statements. Now, I am telling you - your mental condition is abnormal and you are not seeing things clearly. I have told you the truth and you should believe me!’
‘Go away.’
‘I am here to help you. I will not go away.’
‘Go to hell.’
Gallichan looked at him. His face showed disgust. He cleared it almost feature by feature, settling it into the somewhat cautious physician’s face - a kind of cheerful blandness, ready at any moment to be sombre - that he usually wore. He sat again in the metal chair, put his right ankle on his left knee, and hooked his thumbs again into the armholes of his waistcoat. ‘My work on the nerves has led me to an interest in the mind.’
Denton, consumed with his helplessness, said nothing.
‘The mind drives the body. The healthy mind enables the healthy body. I want you to begin a course of exercises to repair your leg. I quite understand that what I told you about your bowels and your erectile tissue has disturbed you, but those things will, I hope, take care of themselves. It’s the leg I want to work on.’
Denton was looking at the ceiling. ‘So if I fill my pants or can’t get it up, it isn’t your province. Thank you.’
‘You’re trying to drive me away by being deliberately offensive, but you won’t. I’m the one who can make you better. Whether I can make you the man you were is up to you. Oh, yes, to you - you have to do the real work. I’m just a jolly fat man who studied medicine. You’re the one living in that body. As for damage other than the leg, yes, I’ve suggested indignity and horror to you. They may lie in your future. I don’t want them to be your future; I want you to be the man you were before you were shot. But you won’t be if you shout vulgarities at me and try to send me away. If your mind won’t help me to cure your body, Mr Denton, you will lie in that bed until you rot.’
Denton raised his head. ‘That’s a hell of a thing to say.’
‘I meant it to be. Get hold of yourself, man. I’m not your problem. ’
Denton’s head dropped back. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ ‘First, I want you to apologize to sister. You hurt and upset her.’
‘She was trying to force me to do things.’
‘On Bernat’s orders and with your good health in mind. I want you to apologize to her and then I want you to do as she asks.’
‘To hell with both of you.’
‘Mr Denton, I want you out of that bed. For one thing, you’ve bedsores on your buttocks. You don’t feel them because you’re full of morphine, but they’re getting worse and they’re going to go septic. Then I want you on your feet and getting about so you can get out of this nursing home and into familiar surroundings. It isn’t good for you here. Your mental state is made worse by isolation - if you don’t see it, I do. Now, will you apologize to sister?’
‘Why not?’
‘Then you’ll begin a course of exercises. I also want somebody from your household to learn them so you can do them when you leave here.’
The doctor tapped a finger on his lower lip. His eyes narrowed. ‘Will you talk with me - frankly, honestly - another time?’
‘About what?’
‘I shall tell you then. About your mind.’
‘My mind is my business.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you think so. Will you talk with me?’
Denton said nothing for several seconds. ‘I can’t keep you from coming.’
‘Good. I want you to start having visitors, as well. Seeing people will be good for you.’
‘I don’t want to see anybody.’
Gallichan sighed. ‘Mmmm.’ He stood, lifted his satchel to the bed next to Denton’s leg, and put his pen and the paper into it. He replaced the tray and the pitcher and glass. He said, ‘I’ve told you the worst. This is the bottom - the abyss of illness. Now we climb out.’ He snapped the satchel with a click. ‘Do apologize to sister.’
‘I had dreams. They’re gone now.’
Dr Gallichan nodded. ‘Fever and morphine. They’ll do that. What do you remember?’
‘Nothing.’ He frowned.
‘You were violent, as I told you. You pulled out your catheter. You also shouted in your sleep, enough that you disturbed other patients on the ward.’
‘What about?’
Gallichan hesitated. ‘I think you were afraid of someone.’
‘There was somebody—With a shotgun. He shot me in the back. I died.’ He said it with wonder.
‘In the dreams, you mean.’ When Denton said nothing, the doctor went on. ‘You were shot in the back, after all. Was it the same man?’
Denton shook his head. ‘I don’t remember being shot. It’s - I’m not sure it was a man—’ He croaked out a laugh. ‘It’s like a dream.’
‘Well, the dreams. You were under a long time. What else?’
‘I don’t—I did the same things. That’s what I remember, the sense of doing things again and again. Over and over.’
‘Being shot?’
‘Ye-e-e-s, but—Boxes.’
‘Boxes.’
‘Yes, boxes. That’s all I remember.’
‘I was always looking for something in the boxes. It was horrible, but there was nothing horrible about it. It was just - the boxes. Over and over. And the person - thing - with the shotgun. Not Struther Jarrold.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The man who shot—’ He raised himself on his elbows. ‘I remember! I think. Not in the dream, in - life. Struther Jarrold with a revolver, standing over me. Laughing.’ He put his head back. ‘He seemed so - pleased.’
‘You’re sure this wasn’t in the dream?’
‘I’m not sure of anything. Maybe you’re a dream, doctor.’
‘More a nightmare, I expect. How’s that leg?’
‘White. Dead.’
‘I was told you went down the corridor yesterday.’
‘Carried by two sisters.’
‘Mmmm.’ Gallichan pinched his upper lips with thumb and forefinger. ‘You use guns yourself, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Carry one?’
‘Usually.’
‘You’ve shot someone?’
‘I was in a war. Then there was the time they write all their crap about. The dime-novel hero. Three minutes that made me famous. Or infamous.’
‘You killed someone?’
‘Four men. They were going to rob people; I was a peace officer.’
‘You shot them?’
‘I did.’
‘In the back?’
‘Of course not.’
‘With what sort of weapon?’
‘A shotgun.’ Denton lay still. ‘Oh, I see what you’re getting at. No, I think you’re wrong.’

Somebody named Jack Pendry had shot the town marshal in the back with a shotgun. They gave Denton ten dollars a month and a free room in the hotel for being the new marshal. After a couple of months, when he was making his early-morning rounds of the town, nobody up yet, the town dead, he found a man with a rifle on the roof of the building opposite his office. He brought the man down and tossed him into the one-cell jail. The man told him he’ d been supposed to shoot him because Jack Pendry was coming on the train with a gang to rob the bank and tear up the town.
He’d got a ten-gauge goose gun from the rack and gone to the blacksmith’s and cut the barrels down to eighteen inches and filled his pockets with buck-and-ball loads. Then he’d waited in the shadows where he could see the railroad station. The town stood a dozen feet above it on a little bluff. A stairway ran from the wooden sidewalk by the station up to the town.
When the morning train came in, eight people got off. One of them was one of the biggest men he’d ever seen. That was Jack Pendry. Six of them gathered around him, and he sent one of them up the pole to cut the telegraph line. The others began to check guns that they had in their pockets and their waistbands and in holsters on extra belts that they took out of their carpet bags. A man and a woman hurried up the stairs and Denton let them go.
Then Denton stepped out and said, ‘Anybody else who isn’t with Jack Pendry, get out of the way. There’s going to be some killing.’
Pendry and his men dropped their carpet bags and scrabbled for their guns. Denton took out Pendry with one barrel of the shotgun and a man near him with the other. They were shooting back with black-powder pistols. He knelt and reloaded. The remaining four split two and two, two to come up the little dusty cliff at him, two to go up the stairs. He cut down the two who were coming up at him, and the other two just kept going and hid in a barn at the edge of town, and he talked them out later without firing another shot. The man who’ d gone up the telegraph pole was still up there. Denton made him throw his pistol and then climb down.
The town raised his pay to twelve dollars a month and gave him a two per cent cut from the saloon and whorehouse across from the hotel. A few months later, he drifted on to Colorado.
They allowed him to start reading the mail that had piled up at home. Atkins sorted it, he was told; Janet Striker vetted it more carefully. Nothing was to worry him.
Twice a day, a sister with a chubby, red-cheeked face raised his right foot until the leg was bent and then pushed it up until the thigh almost touched his midriff. He was supposed to push against her. When the leg was all the way up, he was supposed to push it all the way back down.
‘The mind drives the body,’ Gallichan said. ‘We want the brain to tell the nerves to move the leg. You must think the leg to move.’
‘William James would say it’s the other way around - the leg moves and the brain thinks about moving.’
‘Mr William James is not here.’
She pushed, and he thought about pushing, and so far as he could see, nothing happened.
One day, however, he could move his toes.
‘Tell me about the boxes.’
‘They were boxes. Just—Some of them were hatboxes.’
‘Were there hats?’
They had raised his torso on pillows. A window stood next to his bed, a good placement to light the room and the bed but bad for looking out; he would have had to lean far to the left, and they wouldn’t let him lean yet. By looking out of the corners of his eyes and rolling his head, he could see the glass and the mullions. A sprinkling of snowflakes lay on them. ‘Is it Christmas?’
‘It’s the sixteenth of January. Were there hats?’
‘Women’s hats. Over and over. Why?’ He didn’t tell him about the bloody rags; he didn’t know why.
‘Do you read German?’
‘Good God, no.’
‘There’s a new book, Die Traumdeutung - Dream . . . mmm . . . Inquiry, no, Analysis. It implies that dreams have meanings.’
‘What’s the good of meanings if we forget them as soon as we wake up?’
‘Well, you didn’t, obviously.’
‘You said yourself they’re the product of fever and morphine.’
‘But not necessarily invalid for that.’
‘So I was talking to myself?’
‘Mmmmm - no, I prefer to think of it - this is all speculation - as working.’
‘It certainly seemed like work. What I remember.’
‘Working something through.’
‘Counting women’s hats? What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Were you counting them? That’s new.’
‘I was—God, I don’t know. No. Yes. There was some sort of list. It was just something I had to do over and over. There was no end to it.’ He gave a graveside chuckle. ‘There’s a cliché - “wearing two hats”. When you do two things at once.’
‘Why was there no end to it?’
‘Oh, good Judas Priest, how would I know? It was a dream.’
‘For four weeks. What in your usual life do you do over and over again?’
He thought, Try to hold on to Janet Striker, but he wouldn’t say so. He wouldn’t violate her that way, display her for this man. He partly liked Gallichan now, let himself be interested by Gallichan’s interest in him, but she was out of it. He said, ‘For a long time, I - well, call it going around and around - over my wife after she died. But I thought that was over.’ He told him about the dream he’d had after his first night with Janet Striker, although he didn’t include her - the dream about the running horses and the bleached and beautiful horse bones.
‘You astonish me, Denton - you’ve believed in the potency of dreams all along.’
‘Dreams are like jokes. I do believe that. This one - “Stop beating a dead horse.”’
‘Why a horse?’
‘It’s a saying.’ He chewed his lip. ‘I gave her a horse. After we were married. A little mare, because she thought she wanted to ride, but it got to be more like a dog. She fed it sugar and petted it and it followed her around. After she died, I sold everything. All I had was debts. I sold her horse. It was too small for me; I couldn’t keep it. It started following me—I sold it to a dealer at auction. A lot of his horses wound up in the mines. There was a horse in my dreams.’ He was weeping.
He had a pair of crutches, and he could make his way down the corridor, dragging the dead leg with him, a sister at his side to keep him from falling. He’d lost thirty pounds. When he looked down at his body, he was aware of how vain he’d been about it, hard and muscled despite his age. Now the skin sagged around his knees and his belly, and his muscles were slack and his ribs showed. He thought of the horse in his dreams.
‘It was old. Terrible-looking beast. Horrible gait.’
‘What had it to do with the boxes?’
‘Nothing. It simply got me to where the boxes were. And the - figure - with the shotgun. And the girl who laughed at me.’ He’d remembered her a few days before. ‘There’s an American saying - “to get taken for a ride”. To get fooled. The horse took me for a ride, I suppose.’
‘Was the girl your wife?’
‘No, good God.’ Denton could almost laugh at the absurdity of that. ‘She was more like Mary Thomason. But she wasn’t Mary Thomason; she was—’ He told Gallichan about Mary Thomason and her brother and the drawing. When he was done, he said, ‘When Struther Jarrold shot me he shouted, “I did it, I did it!” He was pointing the revolver at me and looking deliriously happy and he said, “I did it, Astoreth.” Maybe the girl was this mad creation of his, Astoreth.’ He tried to pull himself up. ‘I need to talk to a detective named Munro at New Scotland Yard.’
‘When Jarrold shot you with your own gun, you mean.’
‘It wasn’t my own gun; I’d never shot it. It was just a gun I’d paid a couple of shillings for and kept in a drawer.’ He looked at Gallichan. ‘All right, it was my gun, in the legal sense. What are you trying to make of it?’
‘I’m only wondering what you make of it.’
‘I want to talk to Detective Munro.’
Gallichan got up and looked out of the window and made a face at what he saw of the day. He struggled into an overcoat and picked up his hat. ‘I don’t want you to become agitated.’
One day, he was able to make the muscles in his right thigh twitch. He found that he could make them twitch in a kind of order, going clockwise around the leg. He could move the toes and he could tilt the foot back about an inch when he was lying down. Then one morning he woke up with a partial erection. It was February. He announced to the doctor that he was feeling better. It was time to move things along. ‘I want to talk to Detective Munro!’
‘I’ve sent him a message.’
‘And I want to see Heseltine.’ In fact, he was hurt that Heseltine hadn’t tried to see him. ‘Have you been in touch with Heseltine?’
The doctor hesitated. ‘I’ll have a talk with Mrs Striker.’
When Janet Striker came next day, she told him that Heseltine was dead. ‘He killed himself a day or two after you were shot. I’m sorry, Denton.’
‘All this time—!’
‘The doctors didn’t want you to be upset. You weren’t rational that first month. Then I thought, what difference does it make now, and I did what they asked and kept quiet about it.’
‘But—’ The trip with Heseltine to Normandy was recent to him, the most recent thing he remembered except for being shot. His feeling was that he had seen Heseltine only a day or two ago, and suddenly the man was dead. Had been dead for months. ‘Suicide?’
‘Talk to Munro about it. I don’t know what happened.’
After she had gone, he lay in the bed and stared at the ceiling. Mary Thomason, the brother, Himple - all of that paradoxically seemed to him from some long-ago time. But Heseltine? He remembered the young man’s pleasure in the French countryside, his good humour about the bedbugs. His look of vitality when they had separated at Waterloo.
‘Heseltine wouldn’t kill himself,’ he said aloud.
Apparently she agreed. The next time she came, she confessed that she, Atkins and Cohan had been taking turns sitting at his door since he had been moved to the nursing home, and she’d warned the staff against letting anyone else in. ‘I thought somebody might try again.’
‘Why?’
‘You and Heseltine - I was afraid it wasn’t coincidence.’
‘What about yourself? You were in all that with me.’
‘I’ve changed hotels several times.’
He laughed. ‘You should talk to Dr Gallichan. You’re as crazy as I am.’
He wrote a letter to Heseltine’s father. The handwriting didn’t look like his own. He apologized for its being so late and explained that he’d been ill. He said that Heseltine had been a fine man. A few days later, the father wrote to thank him and to say that Heseltine had spoken of him and seemed to take strength from knowing him; was there anything of his son’s that Denton would like to have as a memento? Denton wrote back and said that he’d like to buy the little Dutch painting of the lion that had hung on his son’s wall. The father replied that no such painting had been found among his son’s effects. Would Denton like something else?