it is. And the patient is not permitted to make judgments where the physician is concerned.”
“Sorry.”
“You also have an annoying habit of apologizing. It’s an overworked protestation and not at all natural. I don’t for a minute believe you’re an apologetic person.”
“Then you know something I don’t know.”
“About you, yes. A great deal. And very little of it makes sense.”
The man sat forward in the chair. His open shirt fell away from his taut frame, exposing the bandages on his chest and stomach. He folded his hands in front of him, the veins in his slender, muscular arms pronounced. “Other than the things we’ve talked about?”
“Yes.”
“Things I said while in coma?”
“No, not really. We’ve discussed most of that gibberish. The languages, your knowledge of geography—cities I’ve never or barely heard of—your obsession for avoiding the use of names, names you want to say but won’t; your propensity for confrontation—attack, recoil, hide, run—all rather violent, I might add. I frequently strapped your arms down, to protect the wounds. But we’ve covered all that. There are other things.”
“What do you mean? What are they? Why haven’t you told me?”
“Because they’re physical. The outer shell, as it were. I wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. I’m not sure now.”
The man leaned back in the chair, dark eyebrows below the dark brown hair joined in irritation. “Now it’s the physician’s judgment that isn’t called for. I’m ready. What are you talking about?”
“Shall we begin with that rather acceptable looking head of yours? The face, in particular.”
“What about it?”
“It’s not the one you were born with.”
“What do you mean?”
“Under a thick glass, surgery always leaves its mark. You’ve been altered, old man.”
“Altered?”
“You have a pronounced chin; I daresay there was a cleft in it. It’s been removed. Your upper left cheekbone—your cheekbones are also pronounced, conceivably Slavic generations ago—has minute traces of a surgical scar. I would venture to say a mole was eliminated. Your nose is an English nose, at one time slightly more prominent than it is now. It was thinned ever so subtly. Your very sharp features have been softened, the character submerged. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No.”
“You’re a reasonably attractive man but your face is more distinguished by the category it falls into than by the face itself.”
“Category?”
“Yes. You’re the prototype of the white Anglo-Saxon people see every day on the better cricket fields, or the tennis court. Or the bar at Mirabel’s. Those faces become almost indistinguishable from one another, don’t they? The features properly in place, the teeth straight, the ears flat against the head—nothing out of balance, everything in position and just a little bit soft.”
“Soft?”
“Well, ‘spoiled’ is perhaps a better word. Definitely self-assured, even arrogant, used to having your own way.”
“I’m still not sure what you’re trying to say.”
“Try this then. Change the color of your hair, you change the face. Yes, there are traces of discoloration, brittleness, dye. Wear glasses and a mustache, you’re a different man. I’d guess you were in your middle to late thirties, but you could be ten years older, or five younger.” Washburn paused, watching the man’s reactions, as if wondering whether or not to proceed. “And speaking of glasses, do you remember those exercises, the tests we ran a week ago?”
“Of course.”
“Your eyesight’s perfectly normal; you have no need of glasses.”
“I didn’t think I did.”
“Then why is there evidence of prolonged use of contact lenses about your retinas and lids?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“May I suggest a possible explanation?”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“You may not.” The doctor returned to the window and peered absently outside. “Certain types of contact lenses are designed to change the color of the eyes. And certain types of eyes lend themselves more readily than others to the device. Usually those that have a gray or bluish hue; yours are a cross. Hazel-gray in one light, blue in another. Nature favored you in this regard; no altering was either possible or required.”
“Required for what?”
“For changing your appearance. Very professionally, I’d say. Visas, passport, driver’s licenses—switched at will. Hair: brown, blond, auburn. Eyes—can’t tamper with the eyes—green, gray, blue? The possibilities are far-ranging, wouldn’t you say? All within that recognizable category in which the faces are blurred with repetition.”
The man got out of the chair with difficulty, pushing himself up with his arms, holding his breath as he rose. “It’s also possible that you’re reaching. You could be way out of line.”
“The traces are there, the markings. That’s evidence.”