damp, evergreen smell. The old woman inhaled deeply. She walked quickly, her hips squirming in her skirt. “Don’t be nervous,” she said.
“I’m not nervous.”
“There ’s nothing wrong with being nervous.” They turned onto a street of houses behind low walls with white iron gates. An open-air motorcar drove past them, its engine snapping. The driver, a man in a leather golf hat, waved at the old woman. “Here we are,” the woman said on a corner across from the harbor, at a blue building so indistinguishable it could have been a bakery. She squeezed Einar’s arm, just under the pit. Then she hooked up her collar and headed toward the sea.
Einar had to wait in Dr. Hexler’s examination room for almost an hour. Half the room looked like a parlor, with a carpet and a cabinet-sofa and bookshelves and a spider plant in a stand. The other half had a rubber floor, a padded table, glass jars of clear liquids, and an oversized lamp on casters.
Dr. Hexler entered, saying, “Didn’t the nurse ask you to remove your clothes?” His chin was long and extended with a cleft deep enough to sink a slot. His hair was silver, and when he sat in the chair opposite Einar he revealed a pair of Scottish argyle socks. The woman from the train had said he was equally known for his rose garden, which, outside the clinic’s window, was cropped for the winter.
“Trouble in the marriage?” he said. “Is that what I understand?”
“Not exactly trouble.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Six years,” Einar said. He recalled their wedding in St. Alban’s Church in the park; the young deacon was English and, that morning, nicked by his razor. He had said, in a voice as light as the air floating through the pink- glass windows and into the laps of their wedding guests, “This is a special wedding. I see something special here. In ten years the two of you will be extraordinary people.”
“Any children?” Dr. Hexler asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not really sure.”
“You do conduct intercourse, is that right?” Dr. Hexler’s face was stony, and Einar could imagine him in his rose garden with that same face, discovering with grave disappointment a petal-eating mite. “There is regular copulation?”
By now Einar had stripped down to his underpants. The pile of clothes on the chair looked sad, the white shirtsleeves reaching limply from the waist of his trousers. Dr. Hexler waved him to sit on the cabinet-sofa. Through a hose with a funnel on the end he ordered his nurse to bring in coffee and a dish of candied almonds.
“Is there ejaculation?” he continued.
Around Einar, bricks of indignity were being laid. Each insult, from Greta, and now from Dr. Hexler, was a red brick of hurt stacking with the others to build a wall. “Sometimes,” Einar answered.
“Good enough.” Dr. Hexler flipped a page in his notepad. And then, “Your wife tells me you like to dress as a woman.”
“Is that what she said?” Then the nurse entered, a woman with frizzy red hair. She set down the coffee and the almonds. “Sugar?” she asked.
“Mrs. Wegener told me about a girl,” Dr. Hexler continued. “A girl named Lili.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Wegener?” the nurse asked. “Sugar?”
“No. Nothing for me.” She poured the coffee for Dr. Hexler and then left.
“Mr. Wegener, I’m a specialist. There’s virtually no trouble I haven’t treated. If you are embarrassed, please remember that I’m not.”
Einar didn’t know why, but he suddenly wanted to believe Dr. Hexler would understand; that if he were to tell Hexler about the tunnel that led to Lili’s lair, that if Einar were to admit Lili wasn’t really him but someone else, Hexler would tap a pencil against his lips and say, “Ah, yes. No need to worry. I’ve seen this before.”
Einar began, “Sometimes I feel a need to go find Lili.” He’d come to think of it as a hunger. Not like a hungry stomach an hour before dinner; it was more like when you’ve missed several meals, when you’re hollow. When you’re concerned about where your next plate of food will come from, if it will ever come. It could make Einar dizzy. “Sometimes I lose my breath when I think about her,” Einar said.
“Where do you go to find her?” Dr. Hexler asked. His thick glasses made his eyes look as huge as pickled eggs in a jar of oil.
“Inside me.”
“And is she always there?”
“Yes. Always.”
“What would you think if I were to tell you to stop dressing as her?” Dr. Hexler leaned forward in his chair.
“Do you think I should, Doctor? Do you think I’m hurting something by doing this?” Einar felt small in his underpants, the crack of the couch’s cushions nearly swallowing him. Now Einar wanted some coffee, but he could barely reach to the table for the urn.
Dr. Hexler switched on the examination lamp, its silver bowl whitening with light. “Let’s have a look,” he said. He briefly pressed his hand on Einar’s shoulder as he stood.
“Please stand,” Dr. Hexler said, wheeling over the lamp, its casters trembling. He aimed the light at Einar’s stomach. The few freckles around his navel looked garishly brown, the few black hairs reminding Einar of the dust that gathers in a corner. “Do you feel anything when I do this?” Dr. Hexler asked, his palm against Einar’s stomach.
“No.”
“And this?”
“No.”
“What about here?”
“No.”
“I see.” He was sitting in front of Einar on a steel stool. More than anything else Einar wanted Dr. Hexler to declare that there was nothing wrong with Lili and Einar, that their shared body was no more a malnor mality than a nailless toe, or even Dr. Hexler’s long chin with the cleft so deep it could nearly receive a key.
“How about down there?” he said, pointing a tongue depressor at Einar’s crotch. “May I have a look?”
When Einar lowered his underpants, Dr. Hexler’s face stopped, only his nostrils, with their pores jammed with dots of black, moving. “Appears to be all there,” he said. “You can pull them up again. You seem to be in quite good health. There ’s nothing else you want to tell me about?”
Only the day before, Einar had crammed a rag into his underpants. Had Greta told the doctor about that as well? Einar felt cornered. “There’s something else I suppose I should mention,” he began.
When Einar told him about the bleeding, Dr. Hexler’s shoulders pressed together into a hump. “Yes, your wife said something about this. Is there anything in the blood? Is it clotty?”
“I don’t think so.” Another brick of indignity was mortared into place. The only relief Einar could find just then was from shutting his eyes.
“It’s time for an X ray,” Dr. Hexler said. He seemed surprised when Einar said he’d never had one before. “It will tell us if there ’s something wrong,” Dr. Hexler said. “It may also drive this desire out of you.” From the way his eyebrows lifted above his spectacles, Einar could tell that Dr. Hexler was proud of his clinic’s technology. He went on to discuss gamma rays and natural radium emanating from radium salts. “Ionizing radiation is turning out to be the miracle cure for all sorts of things. It works on ulcers, dry scalp, and most certainly impotence,” he said. “It’s become the treatment of choice.”
“What will it do to me?”
“It will look inside you.” And then, as if offended, “It will
“Do I really need one?”
But Dr. Hexler was already sending orders through the funnel.
When they were ready for Einar, a skinny man with a sharp Adam’s apple led him out of Dr. Hexler’s office. This was Vlademar, Hexler’s assistant, and he led Einar to a room with tile walls and a floor raked for runoff, a drain in the corner covered with mesh. White canvas straps hung from the gurney in the middle of the room, the buckles shiny under the lights.
“Let’s strap you in,” Vlademar said. Einar asked if it was necessary. Vlademar grunted his reply, his Adam’s
