The Doctor’s office was on the second floor of the Maison Gravel, an elegant limestone mansion built in 1934 by architects Jean-Julien Perrault and Joseph-Romeo Gadbois, located within the Golden Square Mile in Montreal, then one of the richest districts in Canada. The Institute had risen rapidly in power and influence, riding the coattails of the Great Depression. With its non-medical directors now including representatives of the city’s business and professional elite, the Institute wasted no time in acquiring multiple non-descript buildings and towers on the overlooking hills, known collectively as the ‘Institute’. The paint on the walls of the Gravel House was barely dry when the Gravel family donated the Gravel House to the services of the Institute. Despite its lower position on the hill, the Directors decided not to renovate it into conformity with the other structures, which were mostly of the Moderne style. To many it remained the Gravel House, although some began to refer to it as the Hill House or the Hill Clinic, hosting both clinical practices and research facilities. It was unique among the ubiquitous cells of the collective Institute in that it retained an aura of openness, resembling, in a superficial way, any other public medical clinic.
Click here for Chapter 3, "The Train"
In the corner of the Doctor’s office was a white folding examination table, with a white foot stool, on the seat of which rested the Doctor’s stethoscope. The ceiling was white, the wood paneled walls more of an off white or pale yellow. The examination table had been folded into a “chair” position, presumably to allow the last patient to sit up. On the wall behind the examination table hung the Doctor’s medical diploma, that same old, sun-faded diploma that had always graced the walls of his clinic in Boston and now in Montreal, long before his suspension and reinstatement. In the far corner was a glass cabinet filled with brown labelled bottles of various sizes, some filled with liquids, others with white pills, on top of which cabinet rested a large black microscope. Next to the window was the dog-eared eye chart, and below that, a white wheeled trolley with basins, bowls, beakers and what looked like “spittoons” of various sizes. A baby scale lay on a small white draped table in the opposite corner next a wall rack for his white medical gowns. One hook was unoccupied, undoubtedly having held the gown the Doctor wore today on his rounds at the Clinic or perhaps elsewhere on the Hill.
The Doctor was late. Michel leaned up against the wall, put his hands in his pockets and crossed his legs. On the chair next to him was his hat, cane and gloves, laid out haphazardly. He pulled out his pocket watch and noted the Doctor was a full 30 minutes behind his time. Michel had a look of a fierce bird, his deep set unblinking eyes framed in exceptionally painted brows. A photograph of Michel taken in Egypt and resting on Irene’s vanity, cast an apt emblem of himself, a fiercely aloof bird of prey, sitting on the base of a 10-foot stone statue of the Egyptian god Horus. His aquiline nose increased his hawk-like appearance. Although from a long line of peasant stock, somewhere along his humble pedigree a bitch had gotten over the fence; perhaps some French officer of the Royal Roussillon Regiment being the source of his tall and finely drawn figure. His aristocratic features were as brown as walnut, the dark pigments of his skin highlighted by his pitch-black moustache.
On the counter next to an open metal syringe case was what appeared to be a box of cigars. Michel broke his pose of impatience and walked over to give the cigars a closer inspection. Resting on top he noted an opened envelope and extracted the letter.
Dear Doctor:
As discussed at the last symposium, I enclose a little token of our appreciation for your work at the Institute, courtesy of the Ministry. You may also wish to thank our dear friend, and a close associate of the “Pharaoh Kih-Oskh” out of Alexandria, who remains interested your progress. The cause of public health certainly makes strange bed, or rather tomb, fellows!
Affectionately yours,
Dr. Seraphim Boucher
Director Department of Health
Michel opened the case and retrieved one of a number of cigars, lying loosely over a thin sheet of rice paper, under which, illuminated by a sun beam, was what appeared to be some kind of round objects. The cigar band bore the mark of the “Pharaoh” referenced in Mr. Boucher’s letter, appearing to Michel as a cocktail olive on a twisted toothpick, or perhaps some sort of martial arts’ symbol. Michel smiled as he was familiar with the process by which opium for domestic markets was formed into cakes and wrapped with oiled paper. Opium for export was rolled into gum-like balls and pressed into bowls. These bowls were lined with a layer of petals. When the balls dried, they were covered in powdered leaves, capsules and stems. Lastly, they were stored in a dry place until ready to be packed into chests or, in this case, a cigar box. “Yes,” these were opium balls alright. He considered putting one in his jacket pocket, but then thought better of it. Michel closed the box gently and replaced the letter, retained only the cigar which he lit, while resuming his pose by the door.
Although the youngest of the Caron brothers, Michel was anything but a runt. In fact, he quickly overtook the second youngest, his brother Gilles, in height and strength. His other six, still older, brothers mostly left him alone, as you would a dog that bites. He was sharp witted, physically agile and a quick study. He particularly liked anything mechanical and collected instruction manuals. Gilles, dull, awkward and clumsy, bored Michel who took pleasure in his torment through random acts of violence, including near strangulation, blows to the head with a hammer and other blunt objects, and several shoves down the stairs into the basement, after which he would turn out the light. Michel didn’t understand why he did these things, and was, on two or three occasions, when Gilles was taken to hospital, briefly remorseful, but such sensations did not last. He was good at school, and always well liked, but his attendance sporadic. He was named team quarterback twice, but would fail to show up to any game of significance and then quit. He occupied himself after chores with minor acts of criminality, seduction, and his ongoing study of how things worked. He would stop a police officer on his beat, physically block his path, and then insist the officer answer him, with deadly seriousness, as to whether he liked his job, whether he had ever killed anyone, whether he liked it, and how that gun worked, all the while fiddling with a stolen watch in his pocket. The object of his attention always complied. He was a favourite of his father Hector and mother Annie, which affection was assisted on occasion by successfully blaming his brother Gilles or Sylvain for his random acts of destruction and gross neglect, including cutting off the cat’s whiskers with a pair of scissors, breaking Annie’s favourite teapot with his football, and losing the motor to his father’s motorboat in the lake, when he forgot to chain it up. There was that time when he was 10, and his beloved dog Max was crushed under a milk truck. The driver gave him a nickel and tossed the dog in a dumpster as he watched. Michel did not cry, but sat on the curve and stared at the truck as it drove away, until it was entirely out of view. He thought about that feeling often. He kept the nickel. When his grandfather died, the wake was held in the family living room with an open casket. When all was dark and still, Michel managed to extract his grandfather’s ring with great difficulty, requiring removal of the finger with a knife.
At 17, he got his girlfriend Denise pregnant and left town. She was lovely but the compulsion to flee swept him away. That memory of loveliness soon faded as it always did in other pursuits. His parents were frantic to track him down, his older brother Arthur eventually following his scent to Ocean Falls, a flourishing pulp mill town on the central coast of British Columbia. It was here where Michel learned basic seamanship on a trawler, a smallness in the enormity of a Pacific swell, a fear of drowning, and that great sense of relief when the Captain agreed to lower the stabilizers. For the first time, a calmness set in, as the sea and sky and earth turned about him.
But it was in Nanaimo that he met a future business associate George Reifel, son of Henry Reifel, President of Brewers and Distillers Ltd., of Vancouver. With prohibition, Reifer senior sponsored Michel’s initial foray into a highly successful bootlegging and rum-running enterprise. His ship, the Behave, would join rum row, in international waters, forming a floating warehouse where smaller vessels could resupply and head south. The Behave specialized in supplies of Caribbean rum, Canadian beer and whiskey, and French champagne. While the Reifels were eventually prosecuted (unsuccessfully) by American authorities, Michel avoided prosecution, and partnered with George in the building of Casa Mia mansion and Vogue theatre in Vancouver. It was on a business trip to Boston with George, and during a stop at the Cocoanut Grove nightclub, that he first met the Doctor, and his mysterious colleague, a “Messieurs G”, an Armenian and therefore subject of the Ottoman Empire, but also a British citizen, who engaged Michel in conversation on their common interest in luxury yachting and art collecting, then turned Michel’s imagination, quite by chance, and by suitable shifts in tone and digression, to the Middle East. Messieurs G, noting Michel’s interest, began to wax eloquently on the subject of the cradle of civilization, recounted his many travels to Egypt, to Mesopotamia, drifting then to speculation concerning treasures beyond description, to the lucrative trade in antiquities, to rumors of undiscovered tombs, palaces lost and forgotten beneath the sands, and, in passing, made mention to some of his own business interests, with very brief mention of an enormous oil pool in Iraq, waiting only for the right combination of men, syndicates, luck and political circumstances for exploitation.
Irene wound her way up Peel Street, clutching her hat with one hand, holding her light summer dress down with the other, a sudden gust of wind adding to her efforts. She was almost there. She would meet Michel outside the Clinic after his meeting with the Doctor. She had been to the Hill House, as she called it, many times and knew where she would wait for him, on her favourite bench, in the gentle, cool shade of the oak trees. She hummed as she sat, placing her purse on the wooden bench beside. The sky darkened momentarily by a grey cloud, vast but broken. She calculated the seconds the cloud would take to travel to free another ray of light. When she stared long enough at the trees, they took on new lives, a million micro motions of leaves and branches, ebbing and flowing with every breath of air, uniting evocatively, imploringly, emitting odes, declamations. She imagined the Titans were calling to her, personally, they knew her, “Come closer!” They prayed, recalling things incapable of memory, times and places, so distant they have no names.
Now, she could see the Institute above, sharply in the clear air, made sharper when the next ray of light pierced through. From shade to light the structures moved menacingly. Everything here below had a name, moved freely, was alive. But on the Hill, the buildings of the Institute seemed static, colourless, motionless, nameless. The Institute was nothing like a hospital, nothing like a modern palace, but rather an extended complex consisting of both multi-storeyed and many lower buildings set close together, and three distinct taller structures, looking like windowless watchtowers, submarines without periscopes. Flocks of seagulls wheeled around them. If she didn’t know it was the Institute, she would have taken it for the little town where she was born, on the south banks of the Saint Lawrence, silhouetted against the setting sun.
“Mademoiselle?” came a hesitant voice behind her. She turned and was visibly startled by the long, hooked nose and closely set grey eyes leaning into her.
“Oh… yes. What can I do for you?”
“I am sorry to bother you, but do you know the Doctor?” the voice contorting and twisting his neck as if trying to suffocate himself as he spoke. “I’ve seen you sitting here before. Waiting for the tall gentlemen.”
“Why do you ask?”
“He knows the Doctor, doesn’t he?” The scarecrow was disheveled, probably in his 30s, but looking much older, thin, prematurely grey, with a reseeding hairline. He clutched a battered black brief case tightly to his breast. Irene noticed that he had buttoned his sweater in haste, leaving the bottom button dangling and a buttonhole atop rubbing his blotchy grey and red cheek. His shoes were of old cracked brown leather, with his little toe on the left side exposed by a hole. He was sockless.
“I am sorry, but that is none of your business. Now leave me alone.”
“Please miss, please,” grabbing her arm. “You see I have to get into the Institute, I must. But they won’t let me in. They say I have to wait. Perhaps the gentleman can help me get me and early appointment. And I have been waiting so long.”
Irene screamed and tore herself away from his grip and clear of the bench. Spinning around, she stopped to see the man muttering to himself over a now empty bench. He wasn’t following her. In fact, he seemed oblivious to her presence now, a few metres away. He bent over the bench as if suspended like a marionette. Irene composed herself, checked to see that she had, instinctively, grabbed her purse (she had), and adjusted the shoulder strap. She walked briskly across the street and into the bustling café Peel, where she proposed to wait for Michel in safety. By the time she crossed the street, and glanced back, the disheveled man was gone without a trace.
“Doctor, what a pleasant surprise!” Michel stated with full mock solemnity. “How were the rounds?”
“Interesting, interesting. Sit down, sit down, interesting case. Please, oh good, you found the cigars!” tossing a file onto on pile on the counter. Michel exhaled two smoke rings before adding, “Indeed. I see you are well supplied. You should be more careful.”
The Doctor paused, then smiled, “Yes.” He walked over to the cigar case, lifted the box lid, his lips visibly counting. He kept an eye on Michel throughout. He chuckled, and shook his head.
“These are challenging times. The interests of science and public health require bending the rules a little here and there.”
“Have you spoken to the Directors about our little project?”
“They know. You’ll just have to be patient. It’s different now, more complicated. There is a process. Other wheels are turning, and I scarcely know half of it, but the Institute is already producing great results, I am expecting wonderful things.”
“I imagine so. Who is your contact? I’ve been waiting a long time.”
“There is nothing like that. It’s not a person. When they need something, they let me know. In the meantime, I have a free hand here. This Gravel Clinic is like a gateway and I’m the gatekeeper. No one gets in except through me. The work is too important. Interesting cases, suitable subjects, move up. Think of it as a family. And remember, a free hand. Do you know how splendid that is? A free hand. You Michel, of all people, will appreciate what the unhindered pursuit of a project means.”
“Sounds like an invisible hand.” Michel stared passed the Doctor, through the window into the leaves of the oak tree beyond, to the telegraph tat-ter of a dead branch pecking at the window. He walked over to the file the Doctor had tossed on the table, opened it and began reading aloud.
“Val Tomczak. 33 years old. Married. Two children. Worked in public relations for major department store. Loved her job. Father had abandoned family when she was 17 years old and her younger sister was only 11. Mother was supportive. Worked outside the home. Never remarried. Patient was happy with her life. Quit job when pregnant with first child. Difficult pregnancy. Labour lasted three hours. She haemorrhaged and needed a blood transfusion. Newborn did not digest food well. Patient became “obsessed with the one, tiny alimentary tract” of the baby. World became small. Now Frigid. Withdrawn. Character flaws. Came to clinic with husband. He is “concerned, at wit’s end”. Dx Neurosis? Depressed?”
“Is that your interesting case?”
“Yes. I administered an insulin shock therapy. Some call it an insulin induced coma. I’ve used this before to treat a morphine addict with great success. That patient experienced an improvement in mental clarity and reduced symptoms of drug withdrawal. Dr. Mandred Sakel, a Polish psychiatrist and friend of mine, is convinced this treatment will rid patients of mental health conditions. He swears by it.”
“Maybe she really doesn’t like her life,” said Michel. “Sounds dreadful. Public relations?”
“The results here have been disappointing, certainly. You bring them back to a waking state with glucose. Then repeat daily. I may discontinue if we don’t see results in 14 days. Electroshock therapy may be more effective.”
“Have you tried bleeding?”
The Doctor froze as if consider the option seriously, then smiled. “Come now, there aren’t the Dark Ages!” and guffawed.
Michel smiled picked up hit hat, gloves and cane. He opened the door, and walked through, paused, then leaned back in.
“Any other recommendations?” the Doctor, smirked.
“Just one. Leave Irene out of it. Consider it a personal favour … No… More than that. More than a favour. Agreed?” He smiled.
The Doctor nodded affirmatively, as the door closed, the echoes of Michel’s steps on the wooden floor following him down the stairs. The Doctor replaced the Tomczak file onto the steep pile of files of other patients. Then slid the Tomczak file down slightly, very slightly, with his right hand, to reveal the name on the file below:
“Irene Beaudoin”
Michel and Irene stood arm in arm before the portrait of Elizabeth Lowndes-Stone. “She was the wife of a country gentleman. The painting is by Gainsborough. She sat, or rather stood, for this bridal portrait in 1775. I picked it up through an antique dealer for $168,750. What do you think?”
“She is lovely. Why is the forest behind her so angry?”
Michel paused and leaned forward. He had always stopped at the beauty of this lovely brunet in the foreground in her pink wedding dress (who reminded him of Denise), her ginger and white dog, a Cavalier perhaps, pointing her forward into life. But Irene was right. The forest behind her was dark, foreboding, menacing. What was that all about?
“Well, funny you say that,” Michel considered a response. “Well, all that gloom of unmarried life is behind her now, I am thinking. She is getting married. Nothing but marital bliss ahead and a house full of children. And a wealthy husband.”
Irene remained fixated on a dark trees behind the artist’s subject. “Something very strange happened today while I was waiting for you.”
“What? Is that why you were in the café?”
“A man, a homeless man, grabbed my arm, he said he knew you… or of you… that you were a friend of the Doctor ...”.
“What!”
“… He wanted you to help him get him into the Institute, that’s what he said. He was desperate to see the Doctor.”
“Insane. The man is obviously a lunatic. He should be in an asylum. Although that is exactly the kind of person who should be seeing the Doctor!” Irene’s pupils dilated, the blood rushing from her head.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I know the Doctor saved your life. You know that the Doctor and I are old friends. I am loyal in that way. Business friends, you know that. But Irene, all that’s in the past right? You don’t need to go to the Clinic anymore. You are well. Look at you! Promise then, you won’t go back.”
“I don’t understand, what about that strange man?”
“He was nobody. Forget it. Forget him. Now, let’s have a look at some other beautiful women,” tugging her along the gallery, playfully.”
Irene smiled and relented, but turned back again, resisting almost inperceptively, drawn by a kind of magnetism, which acted as if to pull her from Michel’s arms … as if the Titans behind her, in the depths of the forest at dusk, were calling her name.
(to be continued)
This is a work of fiction. Although its form, content and narrative may at times suggest real people, real documents and records, autobiography or that the work is historical non-fiction, it is a product of the imagination. Space and time have been rearranged to suit the convenience of the book, and with the exception of public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s.