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as a cobblestone street and several blemished white houses； separated by overgrown grass shooting up from dried earth and sand。 What remained of the verandas were patched lattice…work and crumbling stucco supported by hastily implanted piles。 The residences had seen better days a number of decades ago when the residents mistakenly believed lie de Port Noir might bee another Mediterranean playground。 It never did。
All the houses had paths to the street； but the last house in the row had a path obviously more trampled than the others： It belonged to an Englishman who had e to Port Noir eight years before under circumstances no one understood or cared to； he was a doctor and the waterfront had need of a doctor。 Hooks； needles； and knives were at once means of livelihood and instruments of incapacitation。 If one saw le medecin on a good day； the sutures were not too bad。 On the other hand； if the stench of wine or whisky was too pronounced； one took one's chances。
Ainsi SoiI'll。 He was better than no one。
But not today； no one used the path today。 It was Sunday and it was mon knowledge that on any Saturday night the doctor was roaring drunk in the village； ending the evening with whatever whore was available。 … Of course； it was also granted that during the past few Saturdays the doctor's routine had altered； he had not been seen in the village。 But nothing ever changed that much； bottles of Scotch whisky were sent to the doctor on a regular basis。 Me was simply staying in his house； he had been doing so since the fishing boat from La Ciotat had brought in the unknown man who was more corpse than man。
Dr Geoffrey Washburn awoke with a start； his chin； settled into his collar bone； causing the odour of his mouth to invade his nostrils； it was not pleasant。 He blinked； orienting himself； and glanced at the open bedroom door。 Had his nap been interrupted by another incoherent monologue from his patient？ No； there was no sound。 Even the gulls outside were mercifully quiet； it was lie de Port Noir's holy day； no boats ing in to taunt the birds with their catches。
Washburn looked at the empty glass and the half…empty bottle of whisky on the table beside his chair。 It was an improvement。 On a normal Sunday both would be empty by now； the pain of the previous night having been spiralled out by the Scotch。 He smiled to himself； once again blessing an older sister in Coventry who made the Scotch possible with her monthly stipend。 She was a good girl； Bess was； and God knew she could afford a hell of a lot more than she sent him； but he was grateful she did what she did。 And one day she would stop； the money would stop； and then the oblivions would be achieved with the cheapest wine until there was no pain at all。 Ever。
He had e to accept that eventuality。。。 until three weeks and five days ago when the half…dead stranger had been dragged from the sea and brought to his door by fishermen who did not care to identify themselves。 Their errand was one of mercy； not involvement。 God would understand； the man had been shot。
What the fishermen had not known was that far more than bullets had invaded the man's body。 And mind。
The doctor pushed his gaunt frame out of the chair and walked unsteadily to the window overlooking the harbour。 He lowered the blind； closing his eyes to block out the sun； then squinted between the slats to observe the activity in the street below； specifically the reason for the clatter。 It was a horsedrawn cart； a fisherman's family out for a Sunday drive。 Where the hell else could one see such a sight？ And then he remembered the carriages and the finely groomed geldings that carried tourists through London's Regent's Park during the summer months； he laughed out loud at the parison。 But his laughter was short…lived； replaced by something unthinkable three weeks ago。 He had given up all hope of seeing England again。 It was possible that might be changed now。 The stranger could change it。
Unless his prognosis was wrong； it would happen any day； any hour or minute。 The wounds to the legs； stomach and chest were deep and severe； quite possibly fatal were it not for the fact the bullets had remained where they had lodged； self…cauterized and continuously cleansed by the sea。 Extracting them was nowhere near as dangerous as it might have been； the tissue primed； softened； sterilized； ready for an immediate knife。 The cranial wound was the real problem； the penetration was subcutaneous； but it appeared to have bruised the thalamus and hippocampus fibrous regions。 Had the bullet entered millimetres on either side the vital functions would have ceased； they had not been impeded； and Washburn had made a decision。 He went dry for thirty…six hours； eating as much starch and drinking as much water as was humanly possible。 Then he performed the most delicate piece of work he had attempted since his dismissal from Macleans Hospital in London。 Millimetre by agonizing millimetre he had brush…washed the fibrous areas； then stretched and sutured the skin over the cranial wound； knowing that the slightest error with brush； needle or clamp would cause the patient's death。
He had not wanted this unknown patient to die for any number of reasons。 But especially one。
When it was over and the vital signs remained constant； Dr Geoffrey Washburn went back to his chemical and physiological appendage。 His bottle。 He had got drunk and he had remained drunk； but he had not gone over the edge。 He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing at all times。 Definitely an improvement。
Any day now； any hour perhaps。 The stranger would focus his eyes and intelligible words would emerge from his lips。
Even any moment。
The words came first。 They floated in the air as the early morning breeze off the sea cooled the room。
'Who's there？ Who's in this room？'
Wash burn sat up in the cot； moved his legs quietly over the side； and rose slowly to his feet。 It was important to make no jarring note； no sudden noise or physical movement that might frighten 'the patient into a psychological regression。 The next few minutes would be as delicate as the surgical procedures he had performed； the doctor in him was prepared for the moment。
'A friend；' he said softly。
'Friend？'
'You speak English。 I thought you would。 American or Canadian is what I suspected。 Your dental work didn't e from the U。 K。 or Paris。 How do you feel？'
'I'm not sure。'
'It will take a while。 Do you need to relieve your bowels？' 'What？'
Take a crapper； old man。 That's what the pan's for beside you The white one on your left。 When we make it in time； of course。'
I'm sorry。'
'Don't be。 Perfectly normal function。 I'm a doctor； your doctor。 My name is Geoffrey Washburn。 What's yours？'
'What？'
'I asked you what your name was。'
The stranger moved his head and stared at the white wall streaked with shafts of morning light。 Then he turned back； his blue eyes levelled at the doctor。 'I don't know。'
'Oh； my God。'
'I've told you over and over again。 It will take time。 The more you fight it。 the more you crucify yourself； the worse it will be。' 'You're drunk。'
'Generally。 It's not pertinent。 But I can give you clues； if you'll listen。'
'I've listened。'
'No you don't； you turn away。 You lie in your cocoon and pull the cover over your mind。 Hear me again。'
'I'm listening。'
'In your a … your prolonged a … you spoke in three different languages。 English； French and some goddamned twangy thing I presume is Oriental。 That means you're multi…； lingual； you're at home in various parts of the world。 Think geographically。 What's most fortable for you？'
'Obviously English。！
'We've agreed to that。 So what's most unfortable？'
'I don't know。'
'Your eyes are round； not sloped。 I'd say obviously not Oriental。'
'Obviously。'
'Then why do you speak it？ Now； think in terms of association。 I've written down words； listen to them。 I'll say them phonetically。 Ma … kwa。 Tarn … Kwan。 Kee … sah。 Say the first thing that es to mind。'
'Nothing。'
'Good show。'
'What the hell do you want？'
'Something。 Anything'
'You're drunk。'
'We've agreed to that。 Consistently。 I also saved your bloody life。 Drunk or not； I am a doctor。 I was once a very good one。'
'What happened？'
'The patient questions the doctor？'
'Why not？'
Washburn paused； looking out of the window at the waterfront。 'I was drunk；' he said。 'They said I killed two patients on the operating table because I was drunk。 I could have got away with one。 Not two。 They see a pattern very quickly； God bless them。 Don't ever give a man like me a knife and cloak it in respectability。'
'Was it necessary？'
'Was what necessary？'
'The bottle。'
'Yes； damn you；' said Washburn softly； turning from the window。 'It was and it is。 And the patient is not permitted to make judgments where the physician is concerned。'
'Sorry。'
'You also have an annoying habit of apologizing。 It's an overworked protestation and not at all natural。 I don't for a minute believe you're an apologetic person。'
Then yon know something I don't know；'
About you； yes。 A great deal。 And very little of it makes sense。'
The man sat forward in the chair。 His open shirt fell away from his taut frame； exposing the bandages on his chest and stomach。 He folded his hands in front of him； the veins in his slender； muscular arms pronounced。 'Other than the things we've talked about？' 'Yes。'
'Things I said while in a？〃
'No； not really。 We've discussed most of that gibberish。 The languages； your knowledge of geography … cities I've never or barely heard of … your obsession for avoiding the use of names； names you want to say but won't； your propensity for confrontation … attack； recoil； hide； run … all rather violent； I might add。 I frequently strapped your arms down； to protect the wounds。 But we've covered all that。 There are other things。'
'What do you mean？ What are they？ Why haven't you told me？'
'Because they're physical。 The outer shell； as it were。 I wasn't sure you were ready to hear。 I'm not sure now。'
The man leaned back in the chair； dark eyebrows below the dark brown hair joined in irritation。 'Now it's the physician's judgment that isn't called for。 I'm ready。 What are you talking about？'
'Shall we begin with that rather acceptable looking head of yours？ The face； in particular。'
'What about it？'
'It's not the one you were born with。'
'What do you mean？'
'Under a thick glass； surgery always leaves its mark。 You've been altered； old man。'
'Altered？'
'You have a pronounced chin； I daresay there was a cleft in it。 It's been removed。 Your upper left cheekbone … your cheekbones are also pronounced； conceivably Slavic generations ago … has minute traces of a surgical scar。 I would venture to say a mole was eliminated。 Your nose is an English nose； at one time slightly more prominent than it is now。 It was thinned ever so subtly。 Your very sharp features have been softened； the character submerged。 Do you understand what I'm saying？'
'No。'
'You're a reasonably attractive man but your face is more distinguished by the category it falls into than by the face itself。' 'Category？'
'Yes。 You are the prototype of the white Anglo…Saxon people see every day on the better cricket fields； or the tennis court。 Or the bar at Mirabel's。 Those faces bee almost indistinguishable from one another； don't they？ The features properly in place； the teeth straight； the ears flat against the head … nothing out of balance； everything in position and just a little bit soft。' 'Soft？'
'Well； 〃spoiled〃 is perhaps a better word。 Definitely self…assured； even arrogant； used to having your own way。' 'I'm still not sure what you're trying to say。' 'Try this then。 Change the colour of your hair； you change the face。 Yes； there are traces of discoloration； brittleness； dye。 Wear glasses and a moustache； you're a different man。 I'd guess you were in your middle to late thirties； but you could be ten years older； or five younger。' Washburn paused； watching the man's reactions as if wondering whether or not to proceed。 'And speaking of glasses； do you remember those exercises； the tests we did a week ago？' 'Of course。'
'Your eyesight's perfectly normal； you have no need of glasses。〃