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Chapter 4
    ‘Time is muscle,’ said a voice. ‘Good morning.’
    Blume opened his eyes. He felt a bit nauseous. Above all, he felt frightened. The person who had spoken was a man with a bright round face which seemed unreasonably cheerful, and wisps of white hair.
    ‘It’s a phrase we doctors use,’ said the man. ‘You need to thank the gardener, Greco, with the pretty daughter who came here with you. If it hadn’t been for him, we might have wasted time listening to your nonsense. Silvana, that’s her name, the poor girl you say poisoned you. How can you say a thing like that?’
    ‘Not deliberately.’
    ‘You were never poisoned, Mr . . . Blume? Is that how you pronounce it, rhymes with boum-boum? The name was on your driver licence. Tell me, what’s your profession, Mr Blume?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘For your prognosis. If you work in an asbestos factory or a steel mill, it’s going to have an effect on your health. If you spend the day seated or standing, if your job is stressful or not: it makes all the difference.’
    ‘I understand,’ said Blume.
    ‘So what are you?’
    ‘A tax accountant.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Is that so interesting?’
    ‘Well, it is for me, because the one I have, well, he forgot to deduct his own fees from my taxable income. Can you imagine?’
    Blume could not. He was bothered by the fact the room was small yet contained an echo.
    ‘But obviously your practice is in . . . ?’
    ‘Rome. Can you lower your voice, please?’
    ‘I am speaking in a normal tone. You appear to have an overstimulated auditory sense. That’s interesting.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I am Doctor Bernardini. You are in a semi-private clinic for now. Breakfast?’
    ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Half past seven. Here, I brought you this.’ The doctor reached behind him and produced a tray holding a small carton of apricot juice, two slices of melba toast, a plastic knife and a capsule of sugar-free strawberry jam.
    ‘No coffee?’
    ‘The nuns don’t really go in for coffee, and it’s probably best not. Avoid stimulants for the next few days.’ He watched as Blume munched his way through the dry bread. ‘You seem fine. So, how do you pronounce your name?’
    ‘Blume.’
    ‘It does rhyme with Boum ! Do you know the song?’ asked the doctor. ‘No? By Charles Trenet?’ He stood back from the bed to give himself some space. ‘I’ll need to raise my voice a little for this.’
    ‘For what?’
    The doctor sang:
     
    ‘ La pendule fait tic-tac-tic-tic
    Les oiseaux du lac pic-pac-pic-pic
    Glou-glou-glou font tous les dindons . . .
     
    They almost ruined it for me by using it in a biscuit commercial. You should eat fewer biscuits. Do you take prescription drugs, Mr Blume?’
    ‘No, not really.’
     
    ‘ Mais . . . BOUM!
    Quand notre cœur fait BOUM!
    Tout avec lui dit BOUM
    Et c’est l’amour qui s’éveille.’
     
    The doctor stopped, his face flushed with pleasure. ‘I first learned that in primary school. Some time ago, now. I have always loved Trenet, Brel, Brassens, Gainsbourg. An area where the ubiquitous rhythms of English have yet to penetrate. So no drugs, but herbal poisoning? I am not sure I can possibly believe that.’
    ‘I ate these seeds . . .’
    ‘And you almost had a heart attack, but didn’t,’ finished the doctor for him. ‘Pure coincidence. This is how I see it: the burning sensation in your mouth set off a panic attack causing acute arrhythmia, but it was your own panic that did it, not the seeds, whatever they were. We could have wasted valuable time looking for poisons if we had listened to you. But Greco kept insisting it was not the plant you ate.’
    ‘How could he be so damned certain?’
    ‘Too fast, he said. The symptoms hit you too fast. Also, he knows a lot about the plants in those gardens. Greco’s quite the expert. A bit of a loner, but . . . lovely gardens. The highlight of our little town, I suppose. Usually worth a visit,