The Madman's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page B

turned and saw that the first orderly was immense, well over six and a half feet tall and probably close to three hundred pounds. He had massively muscled arms, and legs that were like barrels. His partner, the other black man, was a wiry, thin man, dwarfed by his partner. He had a small goatee, and a bushy Afro haircut that failed to add much stature to his modest height. Together, the two men steered him into a waiting wheelchair.
    “Okay,” said the little one. “Now we’re going to take you in to see the doc. Don’t you worry none. Things may seem nasty-wrong and bad and lousy right now, but they gonna get better soon enough. You can take that to the bank.”
    He didn’t believe this. Not a word.
    The two orderlies steered him forward, into a small waiting room. There was a secretary behind a gray steel desk, who looked up as the procession came through the doorway. She seemed an imposing, prim woman, on the wrong side of middle age, dressed in a tight blue suit, hair teased a bit too much, eyeliner a little too prominent, lip gloss slightly overdone, giving her a contradictory sort of appearance, a demeanor that seemed to Francis Petrel to be half librarian and half streetwalker. “This must be Mr. Petrel,” she said brusquely to the two black orderlies, although it was instantly obvious to Francis that she didn’t expect an answer, because she already knew it. “Take him straight in. The doctor is expecting him.”
    He was pushed through another door, into a different office. This was a slightly nicer space, with two windows on the back wall that overlooked a courtyard. He could see a large oak tree swaying in the wind pushed up by the rainstorm. And, beyond the tree, he could see other buildings, all in brick, with slate black rooflines that seemed to blend with the gloom of the sky above. In front of the windows was an imposing large wooden desk. There was a shelf of books in one corner, and some overstuffed chairs and a deep red oriental carpet resting on top of the institutional gray rug that covered the floor, creating a small sitting area off to Francis’s right. There was a photograph of the governor next to a portrait of President Carter on the wall. Francis took it in as rapidly as possible, his head swiveling about. But his eyes quickly came to rest upon a small man, who rose from behind the desk, as he came into the room.
    “Hello, Mister Petrel. I am Doctor Gulptilil,” he said briskly, voice high-pitched, almost like a child’s.
    The doctor was overweight and round, especially in the shoulders and the stomach, bulbous like a child’s party balloon that had been squeezed into a shape. He was either Indian or Pakistani. He had a bright red silk tie fastened tightly around his neck, and sported a luminous white shirt, but his ill-fitting gray suit was slightly frayed at the cuffs. He appeared to be the sort of man who lost interest in his appearance about midway through the process of dressing in the morning. He wore thick, black-rimmed glasses, and his hair was slicked back and curled over his collar. Francis had difficulty telling whether he was young or old. He noticed that the doctor liked to punctuate every word with a wave of his hand, so that his speech became a conductor’s movement with his baton, directing the orchestra in front.
    “Hello,” Francis said tentatively.
    Be careful what you say!
One of his voices shouted.
    “Do you know why you are here?” the doctor asked. He seemed genuinely curious.
    “I’m not at all sure,” Francis replied.
    Doctor Gulptilil looked down at a file and examined a sheet of paper.
    “You’ve apparently rather scared some people,” he said slowly. “And they seem to think you are in need of some help.” He had a slight British accent, just a touch of an Anglicism that had probably been eroded by years in the United States. It was warm in the room, and one of the radiators beneath the window hissed.
    Francis nodded. “That was a mistake,” he