Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

The Combinations

and ten minutes later I’d be ushered in. For as long as I’d been attending consultations, I never once met anoth- er patient—like a secret society, united by a common shame. The woman outside on the landing coughed. ‘At four‐thirty the door of the shop opens again and out comes the butcher a second time. The queue surges. The butcher holds up his hands. Sklavic brothers! he says. If any comrades from Yugoslavia are among you, go home, there won’t be any meat for you today. ’ I pictured Volta in his office and wondered if what he was like with the other patients was what he was like with me. The apparent melancholia—the obsession with all the great ills of society—the two things feed- ing one another. Perhaps it was all part of his doctor routine. The better to disconcert you when the mask slipped… ‘Quarter‐to‐five,’ the voice said. ‘Same thing. Shop door. Queue surging. The butcher. Sklavic brothers. Any comrades from Bulgaria… Go home, there won’t be any meat for you today. ’ Footsteps again, this time from inside Volta’s office. The door opened and Volta’s secretary came out, glared at me briefly, then went about searching for something in the filing cabinet. The charade lasted about a min- ute before he was gone again. Uncharacteristically, the good doctor was running late.

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