Briefing for a Descent Into Hell - Doris May Lessing [60]
He is sleeping well, doctor, yes, he is resting well, yes,
he is very quiet, yes, he is no trouble at all.
But I must wake up.
But I am tied hands and feet, I am wrapped about and around with strands of seaweed from the Sargasso Sea, and I roll helpless on the ocean floor, down among the dead men, and my eyes are blacked out, sleep is heavier in me than the need is to wake and fight.
I must wake up.
Doctor he is very weak now. Yes he is restless between shots. Yes, he seems confused, bewildered, unable to feed himself, seems to want to go back to sleep, does not want to wake up, was angry when I said to him, We think you should wake up now.
Nurse how can I wake when you hush me, hush me, hush me, Hushhhhhh, shhhhh, I’m down among the dead men, and sweet sleep has dreams that daylight never knew, better to sleep where the dreams may come and visit, sweet promising dreams, marvelling visitors from there who know and tell that behind (or before) and down (or up) is the door up and out into the sweet light of day.
Well now, and how are you feeling?
Feeling?
We’d like to know how you are? Are?
You’ve had a good sleep and we think that now you are rested you ought to be able to remember who you are.
Who are you?
I’m Doctor Y.
I’ve never known anyone of that name.
Don’t you remember me?
That’s not what I have to remember.
No. Not if you don’t want. But who are you?
Why, can’t you see me?
I can see you very well indeed.
Then there you are.
Can you remember your name now perhaps?
My name! But I’ve had so many names.
You see, we have found out a little about you, but it would be better if you remembered it for yourself. Can you try?
I can.
Well then?
There’s something I ought to be doing, I know that. Yes, I know that.
What?
Not this, not here. There.
There? Where? Can you remember at all?
Yes, remembering.
What?
No, who.
Yes, that’s what I mean.
It was there, I know it was. We have to. We have to remember.
We?
It’s the law of God.
Ah. I see. Well, well. Well, rest a bit now. You’ve not done badly for your first time really awake.
Oh but I’ve been much more awake than this. This isn’t awake at all.
Oh good, good.
It’s knowing, Harmony. God’s law. That’s what it is. Let me … let me … I must … let me get up.
Now now shhhhhh, don’t get so excited, there’s a good chap. Nurse, will you come here a minute? Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Professor.
Tomorrow? No, that’s too late. I must get up.
Sleep dear. That’s it, sleep. There’s a good boy.
He is Professor Charles Watkins, Classics, Cambridge. Married, two sons. Aged 50. A wallet found in the street in Parliament Square with family photograph, the rest of contents missing. Police matched photograph with the photograph taken by them at station the night he was picked up. Wife has been told her husband is here. Spoke to her on telephone. Suggested she should wait until he remembers who he is. Took this sensibly. But, find out why wife did not report him missing? I probed, but I caught something evasive here. Saw patient this morning. He is obviously rested, no longer talking to himself; in short, better. He did not respond to his name. Suggest trial of half a dozen E.C.T.
DOCTOR X.
In view of strong doubt whether treatment has in fact benefitted patient, suggest advisable postpone electric shocks for some days. Have written to Mrs. Watkins. Surely she ought to be told more than can have been possible in a telephone call.
DOCTOR Y.
Well, how are you today?
Is it today?
It is Monday the 15th September.
I should be doing something. I should be.
A lecture? A class? An address?
Yes yes yes. That’s it. They told me. They said it would be. But I ought—I must get up.
You aren