She wore a coarse, black, scallop-necked wool sweater over a pleated black skirt, stockings tinted to mimic a Caribbean tan, and black loafers. No jewelry. Her hair was straight, brown, and long, drawn back very tightly from a low, flat brow, and fastened above each ear with wide, black, wooden barrettes. A houndstooth jacket was draped over her lap. Near one shoe was a black leatherette attache case.
As I sat down, she watched me, hands resting upon one another, spindly and white. The top one was sprinkled with some sort of eczematous rash. Her nails were cut short. One cuticle looked raw.
Bork stepped between us and spread his arms as if preparing to conduct a symphony.
“Dr. Delaware, Dr. Katarina de Bosch. Dr. de Bosch, Alex Delaware, our acting chief psychologist.”
I turned to her and smiled. She gave a nod so tiny I might have imagined it.
Bork backed away, rested a buttock on his desk, and cupped both his hands over one knee. The desk surface was twenty square feet of lacquered walnut shaped like a surfboard, topped with an antique padded leather blotter and a green marble inkwell. Centered on the blotter was a single rectangle of stiff blue paper. He picked it up and used it to rap his knuckles.
“Do you recall Dr. de Bosch’s writing to you suggesting a collaborative venture with your division, Alex?”
I nodded.
“And the disposition of that request?”
“I turned it down.”
“Might I ask why?”
“The staff’s been asking for things directly related to inpatient management, Henry.”
Looking pained, Bork shook his head, then handed the blue paper to me.
A program for the conference, still smelling of printer’s ink. Full schedule, speakers, and registration. My name was listed below Katarina de Bosch’s as co-chair. My picture below, lifted off the professional staff roster.
My face broiled. I took a deep breath. “Looks like a fait accompli, Henry.” I tried to hand him the brochure, but he put his hands back on his knees.
“Keep it for your records, Alex.” Standing, he sidled in front of the desk, taking tiny steps, like a man on a ledge. Finally, he managed to get behind the surfboard and sat down.
Katarina de Bosch was inspecting her knuckles.
I considered maintaining my dignity but decided against it. “Nice to know what I’m doing in November, Henry. Care to give me my schedule for the rest of the decade?”
A small, sniffing sound came from Katarina’s chair. Bork smiled at her, then turned to me, shifting his lips into neutral.
“An unfortunate misunderstanding, Alex-a snafu. Something naturally always fouls up,’ right?”
He looked at Katarina again, got nothing in return, and lowered his eyes to the blotter.
I fanned the blue brochure.
“Snafu,” Bork repeated. “One of those interim decisions that had to be made during the transition between Dr. Greiloff’s and Dr. Franks’ sabbaticals and your stepping in. The board offers its regrets.”
“Then why bother with a letter of application?”
Katarina said, “Because I’m polite.”
“I didn’t know the board got involved in scheduling conferences, Henry.”
Bork smiled. “Everything, Alex, is the province of the board. But you’re right. It’s not typical for us to get directly involved in that type of thing.
However. ..”
He paused, looked again at Katarina, who gave another tiny nod.
Clearing his throat, he began fingering a cellophaned cigarone of a trio of Davidoffs sharing pocket space with a white silk handkerchief.
“The fact that we have gotten involved should tell you something, Alex,” he said. His smile was gone.
“What’s that, Henry ?”
“Dr. de Bosch-both Dr. de Bosches are held in extremely high esteem by. .
. Western’s medical community.”
Are. So the old man was still alive.
“I see,” I said.
“Yes, indeed.” The color had risen in his cheeks, and his usual glibness had given way to something tentative, shaky.
He removed the cigar from his pocket and held it between his index fingers.
From the corner of my eye I saw Katarina. Watching me.
Neither of them spoke, I felt as if the next line was mine and I’d flubbed it.
“High esteem,” said Bork finally, sounding more tense.