Short Circuit

By Marcel Bisson

A national phenomenon! Just imagine a life, yours, uneventful and organized like a clock mechanism, when suddenly... BAM! You learn by chance that you have been unwittingly subjected to an unusual medical experiment. Your world is turned upside down. You have become somebody else...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcel Bisson
• Release date: Oct 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465937452

Book preview

Short Circuit

By Herve Mestron

Copyright 2008 Edition Comedia

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Sometimes in the mail there is a letter that makes you raise your eyebrows. An odd-sized envelope, a mysterious postmark, an unknown sender…

The mailman must have made a mistake. No, the address is correct: Bria, 1432 Gesd, Beloeil. Either you jump on it, like a wild beast pouncing on a scrap of meat, or you wait until you find the letter opener.

John uses his index finger to unseal the envelope, one foot on the doorstep of his house, the other on the doormat. He lets out a heavy sigh. As usual, he did not sleep well last night, and his green eyes skim the letter. Then it hits him like a bullet: it’s signed by Doctor Theodore Dagellus. A notification for a checkup. The formalities are all there:

…Dear Mr. Lamothe, our medical team would like to see you urgently to discuss a subject of the utmost importance…

Two years ago, John underwent an operation after a skull fracture following a silly collision with a car that had mixed up its left and its right while he was quietly cycling. The operation went well. He has had no after-effects since. Migraines are no more frequent than before. His excellent memory flies like a bird. In a nutshell, he had come out of it magnificently. Thanks, of course, to the outstanding surgeon, Doctor Dagellus. So why this urgent appointment two years later?

John walks slowly, his eyes riveted on his black town shoes. The anguish is there, churning in his gut. Doubt. Fear of the worst. It had to happen to him! He prefers walking off his energy to riding his motorbike. Oxygen irrigates his worried brain. Passers-by on the pavement look like blurred silhouettes. Nobody can be of the least bit of help to him. He is all alone with the letter in his pocket. Fear propels his legs.

Everything was already bad enough, he says to himself, shivering with anxiety.

He turns right, into a quiet, charming lane lined with impressive and well-preserved stone frontage. Far from reassuring him, this kind of atmosphere makes his heart race, like a drum roll. John would like to turn around, but something prevents him from doing so. He wants to know. Even if this is the big blow that is going to change the course of his life for good. It’s already happened to someone he knows. A serene guy, happy with his job, still in love with his wife, playful with his kids, and bang! From one day to the next, a cerebral haemorrhage. Prepare the coffin! Enough to scare you witless. One never really knows what goes on inside a skull. Unknown, artful mechanics, whose laws cannot be found in any textbook. The human mystery in all its splendor.

---

Doctor Dagellus, sporting a Colgate smile, welcomes him into his den with a firm handshake. The entrance looks so much like a cathedral that it could easily be mistaken for one: stained glass windows and a solemn atmosphere. Everything, from the pearly doorbell to the Oriental rug, speaks of refined taste. John remembers that, hidden away in the basement, is the private clinic.

Welcome, Mr. Lamothe. Could you please follow me?

In the surgeon’s office, a woman with long curly blond hair is lounging in an armchair. Her blue eyes stare into John’s while she welcomes him with batting eyelashes. John finds her immediately attractive.

Shanya Labelle, my assistant, says Dagellus as he sits down behind his desk.

John doesn’t know if he should bend double, bow, offer his right hand or his left cheek. He simply murmurs:

Pleased to meet you…

Please have a seat, my dear. Coffee, mineral water, whisky?

He has broken out in a cold sweat, our Johnny. He’d rather be elsewhere. He asks for some water. Shanya has already disappeared.

My dear, there is a reason for my asking you to come here today. But first of all, I would like to express my deepest gratitude, because, you must be, I’m sure, a very busy man…

Certainly, muses John, whose tired face betrays his lack of sleep.

Do remind me of your profession.

I work for ING Canada.

The surgeon begins to talk, explain, developing up his subject. Facing the practitioner, John has a sense of having a split personality, of hanging from a thread, like a puppet. He is dimly aware that he could become a medical case of the utmost importance.

Please lie down, asks the surgeon, while turning on the neon globe hanging above the table.

He examines him for a moment using a mini electronic camera. His ears, his temporal and facial zones, the back of his head…

Your fractured skull, two years ago, allowed us to test a cutting edge operating technique. It was amazingly successful. The tissues have healed perfectly. The bone graft is, if I may say so, invisible. Please stand. Come and sit down.

At that moment Shanya enters, and John notices how gracefully she pours him the glass of water.

Dear Mr. Lamothe, would you be so kind as to accept serving as a… a case study at the next international surgeons’ conference? Thanks to you, we will be able to demonstrate that our undertaking has been completely successful. I won’t hide from you that afterwards, you will most likely be hounded by a mob of journalists (John imagines himself at home, in the living-room, being interviewed by a reporter from The Observer), maybe even television crews, but what do you expect, an innovation of this sort in bone plastic surgery must not go unnoticed…

John is aware that his case is unique, and he smiles vaguely. Doctor Dagellus concentrates on a file. From his seat, John can make out the name written at the top of the folder, Lamothe John, and a number: 562 345 211. This detail reassures him, he doesn’t know why. He had heard of a tragedy that happened when some medical files got mixed up. Having been admitted for a simple appendicitis, the poor guy came out of the hospital with a pin placed in his tibia…

Any headaches lately?

No more than usual, doctor.

Sure?

I feel quite well.

Excellent… excellent…

As for the scribbling part, his Pierre Cardin pen races along as happy as a clam. The surgeon raises his head.

Any buzzing in your ears?

No more than usual.

Problems concentrating?

I don’t think so.

Excellent… excellent…

Doctor Dagellus launches into technical jargon with words whose meanings seem to be infinite. He is speaking to himself rather than his patient. John, on a cloud, mechanically nods his head. His fears have vanished. The surgeon’s words are lulling him to sleep. He agrees with everything, aware of the importance of the project. Three weeks of sick leave. Vacation, very well paid, as far as he can tell. A pause in his daily routine. Just what he needs! His skull fracture is perfectly mended, no after-effects that will cast a shadow on his future, plus a wave of that relief has just washed away his worries. He thinks with amusement of the anguish that took hold of him when he received the letter.

The appointment is set for the beginning of next week. He will be given a mild anaesthetic so that the numerous examinations he will go through will not cause him unnecessary stress. John understands. He prefers to sleep while the others look at him. The surgeon asks him for absolute discretion. He must not speak about this to anyone. Not even to his wife. For now, this affair must remain confidential. Its impact