Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [192]
“You a shrink?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Let me tell you something, then. I don’t hold with shamans, witch doctors, or psychiatrists. Shakespeare, Tolstoy, or even Dickens, understood more about the human condition than ever occurred to any of you. You overrated bunch of charlatans deal with the grammar of human problems, and the writers I’ve mentioned with the essence. I don’t care for the glib manner in which you stereotype people. Or how easily you can be paid to be a professional trial witness. One for the defence, the other for the prosecution — two so-called experts at odds, both pocketing big cheques. You play mind games with people, doing them more harm than good. And from what I’ve read recently, like my friend Morty here, you’ve given up the couch for chemicals. Swallow these twice a day for paranoia. Munch this before meals for schizophrenia. Well now, I take single malts and Montecristos for everything, and I recommend that you do the same. That will be two hundred dollars, please.”
“I’d like you to do a little test.”
“I pissed before I got here.”
“It won’t take long. Think of it as a game.”
“Don’t you dare patronize me.”
“Barney, that’s enough.”
“Will this take long?”
“No.”
“All right, then. Let’s go.”
“What is the day of the week?”
“I knew this would be ridiculous. Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s the day before Tuesday.”
“Which is?”
“You first.”
But he wouldn’t bite.
“Let me see. Saturday, Sunday … it’s Monday.”
“And the date today?”
“Look, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I could never remember my car licence number, or my social security number, and if I’m writing a cheque I always have to ask somebody the date.”
“What month is it?”
“April. Gotcha, didn’t I?”
“The season?”
“Boy, I’m going to be first in the class. If it’s April, it has to be summer.”
Tears began to slide down Solange’s cheeks. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“What’s the year?”
“In the calendar of my people or in the Christian area? I mean era.”
“The Christian era.”
“Nineteen ninety-six.”
“Where are we?”
“This is child’s play. We’re in Morty Herscovitch’s office.”
“What floor are we on?”
“My father was the detective in the family, not me. We got into an elevator. Solange pressed a button, and here we are. Next?”
“What city are we in?”
“Montreal.”
“And the province?”
“This is getting to be fun. We are in the blessed province that’s squeezed between Alberta90 and the other one, on the continent of North America, the World, the Universe, as I used to write on the brown paper cover of my grade four whatcha-ma-callit book.”
“And the country we’re in?”
“Canada, for the time being. Solange is an indépendentiste. Sorry, slip of the tongue. She’s for here. For Quebec going-it-alone. So we’ve got to be careful what we say.”
“I want you to repeat the following words for me. Lem——”
“She’s a separatist, for Christ’s sake. Mornings are not my best time.”
“Lemon, key, balloon.”
“Lemon, key, balloon.”
“Now I want you to begin with the number one hundred and count backwards by seven.”
“Look, I’ve been very patient until now, but this is just too silly. I’m not going to do it. I could. But I’m not,” I said, lighting up a Monte-cristo. “Hey, I bit off the right end. Do I get any points for that?”
“Would you be good enough to spell the word ‘world’ backwards for me?”
“Did you read Dick Tracy when you were a kid?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, when he went undercover, he called himself ‘Reppoc.’ That’s ‘cop’ spelled backwards.”
“How about ‘world’ backwards?”
“D, r, l, and the rest of it. Okay?”
“Do you remember the three words I asked you to repeat before?”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you be nervous doing a test like this?”
“Yes.”
“Orange was one of them. The words. I’ll give you the other two if you can name the Seven Dwarfs.”
“What is this I’m holding?”
“It’s a fucken not-ink-point-pen, for sakes Christ, and you know what you strain spaghetti with? A colander. Ha.”
“What’s this on my wrist?”
“It’s what you use to tell the time with. A clock.