Invisible man - Ralph Ellison [98]
"Take his arm," one of them said.
"I can do it," I said, climbing fearfully out.
I was told to stand while they went over my body with the stethoscope.
"How's the articulation?" the one with the chart said as the other examined my shoulder.
"Perfect," he said.
I could feel a tightness there but no pain.
"I'd say he's surprisingly strong, considering," the other said.
"Shall we call in Drexel? It seems rather unusual for him to be so strong."
"No, just note it on the chart."
"All right, nurse, give him his clothes."
"What are you going to do with me?" I said. She handed me clean underclothing and a pair of white overalls.
"No questions," she said. "Just dress as quickly as possible."
The air outside the machine seemed extremenly rare. When I bent over to tie my shoes I thought I would faint, but fought it off. I stood shakily and they looked me up and down.
"Well, boy, it looks as though you're cured," one of them said. "You're a new man. You came through fine. Come with us," he said.
We went slowly out of the room and down a long white corridor into an elevator, then swiftly down three floors to a reception room with rows of chairs. At the front were a number of private offices with frosted glass doors and walls.
"Sit down there," they said. "The director will see you shortly."
I sat, seeing them disappear inside one of the offices for a second and emerge, passing me without a word. I trembled like a leaf. Were they really freeing me? My head spun. I looked at my white overalls. The nurse said that this was the factory hospital . . . Why couldn't I remember what kind of factory it was? And why a factory hospital? Yes . . . I did remember some vague factory; perhaps I was being sent back there. Yes, and he'd spoken of the director instead of the head doctor; could they be one and the same? Perhaps I was in the factory already. I listened but could hear no machinery.
ACROSS the room a newspaper lay on a chair, but I was too concerned to get it. Somewhere a fan droned. Then one of the doors with frosted glass was opened and I saw a tall austere-looking man in a white coat, beckoning to me with a chart.
"Come," he said.
I got up and went past him into a large simply furnished office, thinking, Now, I'll know. Now.
"Sit down," he said.
I eased myself into the chair beside his desk. He watched me with a calm, scientific gaze.
"What is your name? Oh here, I have it," he said, studying the chart. And it was as though someone inside of me tried to tell him to be silent, but already he had called my name and I heard myself say, "Oh!" as a pain stabbed through my head and I shot to my feet and looked wildly around me and sat down and got up and down again very fast, remembering. I don't know why I did it, but suddenly I saw him looking at me intently, and I stayed down this time.
He began asking questions and I could hear myself replying fluently, though inside I was reeling with swiftly changing emotional images that shrilled and chattered, like a sound-track reversed at high speed.
"Well, my boy," he said, "you're cured. We are going to release you. How does that strike you?"
Suddenly I didn't know. I noticed a company calendar beside a stethoscope and a miniature silver paint brush. Did he mean from the hospital or from the job? . . .
"Sir?" I said.
"I said, how does that strike you?"
"All right, sir," I said in an unreal voice. "I'll be glad to get back to work."
He looked at the chart, frowning. "You'll be released, but I'm afraid that you'll be disappointed about the work," he said.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You've been through a severe