The Doctor Is Sick by Anthony Burgess Page A

said to Nigel, who had taken out a small drawing-pad and was sketching preliminary studies of Edwin. ‘You put this idea of food into my head. Let’s go and eat.’
    â€˜All right,’ said Nigel. ‘And let’s not forget to collect the laundry.’ He was a kind young man beneath the veneer of artist. He took up in his arms a bundle of socks, underwear, pyjamas from the bedside locker, with a faint ça pue wrinkling of his snub nose. And off they went to collect the dirty shirt from the outside locker used for outside clothes and suitcases. Sheila peered in again gaily when they had done this, waving the shirt, blew a kiss which also embraced R. Dickie and the sneerer, smiled brilliantly, lovingly, and sardonically at Edwin, then left.
    â€˜Quite a card, your missis,’ said R. Dickie later.
    Just before dinner Edwin told the ward sister that he wasn’t feeling well enough for visitors and could he please have screens put round his bed. This was done, and in the process of straightening his bedclothes the negro orderly found the preliminary sketch that Nigel had discarded. It showed, thought Edwin, little talent.
    â€˜Dyin’, is he, that one?’ one of R. Dickie’s visitors was heard to ask in a loud whisper palpitant with excitement.
    â€˜Naw,’ whispered R. Dickie back, ‘not him. I think his missis upset him a bit, that’s all. If it is his missis, that is.’ A softer susurrus of speculation ensued.

CHAPTER TEN
    â€˜This, my little friend, is clearing the deck for activity.’ The negro orderly, shedding light from every facet of his skin, his glasses splintering with light, giggled at the daring of the image and began to fiddle with his tray of instruments. He had an apprentice standing by him, a morose tall Italian who had just joined the service, and to him he explained what the instruments were.
    â€˜Scissors.’
    â€˜Si.’
    â€˜Clippers.’
    â€˜Si, si.’
    â€˜Electric razor.’
    â€˜Si, si, capito.’
    Sheila had had, apparently, no time for a letter, much less a visit, but she had sent a telegram: BEST OF LUCK WILL BE THINKING OF YOU LOVE . He had in the past received such messages at commercial hotels in strange towns, on the eve of an interview for a new job. Now he was going to travel to the ultimate bourn of thingness from which return was possible. A pilgrimage, but he was to be turbaned before Mecca was sighted. The negro began his work. Humming nonchalantly he pulled on rubber gloves. Then he said: ‘Scissors.’ Scissors were handed to him. Whorls of hair began to fall. Edwin said:
    â€˜What’s your name?’ The negro said:
    â€˜Please be so good as not to be distracting.’ But, as more and more swathes drifted down, he relented and said: ‘Ifyou must know, my name is Mr Southey. Mister,’ he emphasised, as if to disparage Edwin’s own title, ‘like Mr Begbie, eminent specialist.’
    The rapid autumn continued, the deciduous down-drift of brown bunches and wheels. ‘Very bad dandruff,’ said the specialist. ‘That way you lose your hair.’ The Italian watched every detail of the operation closely, nodding frequently to show that, despite the language barrier, he understood perfectly what was being done. Edwin began to feel cool, light and lamb-like. ‘Clippers,’ said Mr Southey.
    Here was a new and voluptuous sensation, a curious abandon as total nakedness drew nearer. Hair was coming down as a whole Koran of Arabic letters mingled with a Pitman manual. In broad mowing strokes Mr Southey drove his purring instrument over a hill which, for thirty-eight years, had hidden its contours from the air. Aware of achievement, he sang. In mid-strophe he said:
    â€˜Razor.’
    Now came the final stages of depilation. The Italian’s mouth was half-open and he panted a little. The razor maintained its irritable buzz, the negro’s song grew