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The French Connection
It’s a miserable, annoying sound, the noise of a
whipper-snipper. Especially when you’re trying to sleep
in, on Sunday morning, and you’re desperately trying to
recapture one of the most beautiful, mysterious dreams
of your life so far – a sloth, your favourite animal
from that wide animal kingdom, is dangling from a tree
branch and seems to be undulating in front of your
dreaming eyes. Undulating has to be the right word for
it; the sloth is like languorous streams of water
pulsing through your warm dreams, and his movements
appear to be saying something to you; it’s not sexual,
but like some sort of indecipherable code about the
meaning of life, or something serious along those lines.
Anyway, try as you might, you can’t recapture the dream
so, now, you must be officially awake, with only the
miserable sound of the whipper-snipper to drive you out
of bed and into the day. But you dally beneath the
sheets, while the torture continues until, finally, you
force yourself to get up.
Who are you? You’re Dr. Cynthia Rowntree, a country G.P.,
and tomorrow begins another week of fourteen hour days,
hospital rounds, and performing surgery all day on
Thursday. There will be short consultations, longer
consultations, and really long consultations, and
scripts to be written. There will be prognosis,
diagnosis, and even a bit of halitosis when one of your
patients inadvertently breathes on you. There will also
be misdiagnosis, possible law suits, and large
overheads. All this because you thought working as a G.P.
in a country practice might be good for you.
But, hang on, why is the sloth your favourite animal?
You think back to that colourful picture book of animals
your grandmother gave you when you were about eight –
opening up a page where there was a picture of a sloth,
several sloths in fact, hanging around in the leafy
jungle like they were at a birthday party. You fell in
love immediately and, now, you remember when you saw a
real-live sloth in a zoo somewhere. You were mesmerized
by its slow motion and liquidity, and ambience, for want
of a better word.
You make a mental note to ring your friend, Dean
Stocker, the Jungian analyst, in Sydney, to ask him the
meaning of the sloth dream and, as you do that, the new
day has somehow accepted you – you make two slices of
wheat toast with vegemite and eat it washed down with a
large glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed from the
night before, if the word “fresh” can be applied to
orange juice made the previous night. Gotta watch that
weight.
You are debating whether to drive to the beach to have a
swim or walk into the village to search for a coffee,
when the phone rings.
“Hello.”
It’s your friend, Dean Stocker, in Sydney.
“This is soooo synchronistic,” you blurt out.
“That term’s outmoded,” Dean says, in his
matter-of-a-fact way.
When you tell him about your sloth dream, Dean offers
the following analysis, “It looks like your genuine,
deep feelings are in a state of flux. This can be for
good or ill. When your feelings finally resolve
themselves the results could be really positive or you
could end up a valiumed-out, female sloth yourself.”
“Thanks a lot, Dean.”
It was just a social call, and you still think it’s very
synchronistic, despite what Dean said.
You decide to kill two birds with one stone by driving
to the beach and having a coffee there. The beach is
only twenty minutes away, towards the coast, or is that
a tautology, you think to yourself. You’re in the Merc,
and driving along, when you switch on the radio. It’s a
programme on Radio National about people suffering from
depression in country areas. Should interest you as a
rural doctor, but it doesn’t. Farmers affected by the
drought, teenagers, anyone really. Really, too
depressing to listen to. You don’t suffer from it, thank
Gaia, although there are moments …
Snapping out of that little one, you turn off the radio,
and look at the cane-fields, flashing past on both sides
of the road. When you first arrived in this area you
didn’t like the cane – reminded you of Deliverance
country, gave you a feeling of oppression. But, as you
settled into country life, the cane-fields grew on you,
like the whole place did, and you ended up really liking
them, although you still imagine, sometimes, the town of Pottiwood, where you live, is composed entirely of
middle-aged men with paunches who whipper-snipper lawns
on Sunday mornings when you’re trying to sleep.
Not many romantic-looking men, in other words. You think
of your separated husband, writing the "Great Australian
Novel", down in Sydney, and probably not missing you.
Yes, there are moments.
In Glenra, the ocean looks a bit cold for a swim
so you settle for a coffee on the boulevard. As you sip
your latte, you’re thinking about the forthcoming
federal election and who you’re going to vote for. Don’t
tell anyone who you’re going to vote for, especially
your mother. We all know who she votes for.
Apart from the dearth of romantic-looking men around
here, what you really miss is a bit of intellectual
stimulation and conversation, which basically means a
French movie with your ex- husband and a discussion
about the film afterwards – you love the sound of the
French language as you listen to that movie and busily
half translate what is being spoken and, at the same
time, read the translation in the subtitles. You love
talking in broken French to your ex -husband, who speaks
it fluently, and you will go to Paris one day. You are a
confirmed, unapologetic Francophile and that’s what you
miss in this area.
“Je parle francais,” you mutter uncertainly to yourself.
“Un peu,” you add, hesitantly.
As you drive home, you wonder what the word “sloth” is
in French. Must look it up. And you’re thinking about
who might be your first patient, one hesitates to say
“customer”, tomorrow morning. Take a bet on that little
old lady with early dementia. Or maybe that guy whose
varicose veins are getting out of hand. You laugh.
Runaway varicose veins. You wonder how anyone might
translate that phrase into French.
------
You sneak surreptitiously into the consultation room,
after your hospital rounds, and glance at the file on
your desk, the file of your first patient for the day.
It’s Monday morning, and you’re not looking forward to
the week ahead. You read the name on the file. A Michael
Layton. You haven’t seen him before. Opening it up, you
have a cursory peek. Great. Michael Layton. Fifty-seven
years old. On a disability pension for schizophrenia.
Address – a caravan on a property out of town. Will he
be wearing a beanie with his fly done up with a bobby
pin, and carrying a battered leather briefcase
containing all his handwritten and highly illegible
information on the conspiracy surrounding President
Kennedy’s assassination? Sitting down you take a few
deep breaths for a couple of minutes or so, bracing
yourself for what’s ahead.
However, your first sight of Michael Layton, when your
secretary shows him in, is like a shock of recognition,
akin to a sense of déjà vu – Michael Layton is tall,
thin, gangly, with a shock of silver hair and long arms
, and you instantly recognize the sloth of that
beautiful, mysterious dream you had. You are somewhat
taken aback. You were right, though; he is badly
dressed; he’s wearing a crudely knitted dirty woollen
jumper that somehow adds to the length of those already
gargantuan arms – the tattered ends of the jumper arms
are over his hands.
He stands there awkwardly, and you ask him to take a
seat. He moves very slowly, like a sloth. He hasn’t said
anything yet. Your head’s still swimming, because he
looks so much like the sloth of your dream, and you’re
wondering what it could all mean.
“I need a script for Risperdal,” he finally says.
His voice is surprisingly deep and musical, and you’re
thinking perhaps you should tell Dean Stocker about
this. But then Michael Layton says something really
surprising –
“Je ne pense pas qu’ils me donnent un travail.”
This time you are really taken aback. He’s just told you
in French that he does not think they will give him a
job. But he’s got the tense wrong – he’s used the
present tense “donnent” instead of the future tense “donnerent”.
You realize now that Dean Stocker was right – the term
“synchronistic” was outmoded to explain a situation like
this. You’re torn between pretending to be humble and
asking him what he meant, or going a bit deeper than the
normal doctor-patient interaction by replying to him in
French. You understand that it is actually an invitation
from Michael to go just that little bit deeper with him.
“I think you got the tense wrong,” you say.
“I was just testing you out,” he jokes.
He lets out a loud laugh then, almost immediately,
sinks back into a depressed state. You’ve seen this
before with other people like him, many times.
“Tu parles francais?” he asks, perking up momentarily.
“Un peu,” you reply, non-committal.
You ring through for the authority for the Risperdal,
get the number then print out the script from the
computer. You hand the script to him, hoping that’s the
last of this little encounter. But he hasn’t finished
yet.
“J’ai ecrit une poeme francaise,” he says, hauling a
piece of notepaper out of his pocket. Yes, he’s written
a poem in French, and he wants you to read it. Right
now.
“I’m too busy to read it now, Michael,” you say, with as
much authority as you can muster.
“I’ll read it for you,” he says quickly.
Before you can say anything he’s launched into his poem.
With his nasal Australian accent it sounds atrocious.
“Je pense qu’il y a pleusieurs moments
dans la vie
quand je ne sais pas
que passe.
Je ne sais pas
quand le Dieu est
dans le chambre.
Je ne sais pas
combien de fromage
je mange.
Je ne sais pas
si j’adore
les grenouilles.
Et, c’est important,
Je ne sais pas
si je
suis moi.”
However while he’s reading, suddenly you’re very
interested. Here is a very simple, yet very funny and
witty French poem. And written by the sloth of your
dreams. You hate to admit it, but you feel a frisson of
attraction with this guy. But an amazing little poem.
“Could I try and translate it?” you ask, still amazed.
“Oui,” he answers graciously.
He hands you the piece of notepaper and here you go;
you’re actually on the spot –
“I think that there are several moments
in life
when I do not know
what is happening.
I do not know
when God is
in the bedroom.
I do not know
how much cheese
I am eating.
I do not know
if I love
frogs.
And, this is important,
I do not know
if I
am me.”
“Tres bien,” he comments, after you finish your
translation.
Then, as he’s going out the door, he turns and asks – “You bulk bill, don’t you?”
“Yes, we bulk bill, Michael,” you answer.
When he’s gone, after the delight of his little poem has
subsided and, of course, the hubris of your competent
translation, there’s this nagging intuition you have
that you should have offered him some anti-depressants.
His mood swings had been vast, even in your consultation
room. But you shake it off and steel yourself for the
rest of the day, the rest of the week, in fact, when
there is little rest for the wicked, or those who might
be somewhat up the scale towards goodness.
That night, the sloth dream again, a sloth looking very
much like Michael Layton, who seems to be beckoning you
to follow him somewhere…
-----
Sunday morning. The whipper-snipper again, drilling its
miserable sound into your sleeping brain. As you toss
and turn in your bed, trying to escape the noise, you
find yourself wondering, once more, if you’re in the land
of the living dead, or you’re actually among really
sensible people. Maybe you should go out and do some whipper-snipping? So the day eventually welcomes you once
more and, over wheat toast and orange juice “freshly”
squeezed the night before, you review the past week –
it’s been a hectic one, and you should have realized it
was going to be hectic when Michael Layton suddenly
incarnated as your first patient last Monday morning.
You’ve found you’ve been thinking about him quite a bit
over the last week. You’re thinking maybe you should
tell your friend Dean Stocker about him. You’re thinking
this when the phone rings.
“Hello.”
Yes, it is Dean Stocker in Sydney.
“This is synchronistic, Dean,” you say. “I don’t think
that term’s at all outmoded.”
When you tell Dean about meeting Michael Layton, the
living sloth of your dreams, he offers the following –
“I think your genuine feelings are about to come to the
fore. Michael Layton is showing you the way. I’d follow
him, if I were you.”
“What do you mean, follow him?” you ask incredulously.
“I don’t mean literally follow him,” Dean says. “There’s
a lesson the Universe is trying to teach you with this
guy and, I for one, want you to learn it. I don’t want
you ending up a valiumed-out sloth yourself, as I’ve
said.”
“Thanks a lot, Dean.”
Same as it ever was – you’re driving to Glenra in the
Merc for a coffee on the boulevard, watching the
cane fields flash past, when you suddenly see Michael
Layton, looking like God with his shock of silver hair
in the bright sunlight, hitching on the side of the
road. Normally you don’t pick up hitchers, but since
you’ve just talked with Dean Stocker about Michael you
decide to explore this further and pick him up.
After a brief exchange of “bonjours” Michael says very
little on the way to the turn off. He seems depressed,
and you’re worried about him. As he’s getting out of the
car, he hands you another piece of notepaper.
“My final poem,” he says ominously.
“Michael,” you call out.
But he’s walking up the road. You ease your car forward
slowly and pull up beside him. He stops and leans in the
open window.
“Michael, I want you to be at the medical centre first
thing tomorrow morning. I’ll make a special appointment
for you. I want to talk to you about a few things.”
“Okay,” he says.
Then he shuffles off, up the road.
As you’re driving along towards Glenra, you open the
folded notepaper, one handed, with your fingers. It’s
another French poem by Michael called “Les Boutons
Rouges”. The Red Buttons, if you remember correctly. And
as you begin reading it a strange thing happens – the
driver’s window is open and it’s like some invisible
spirit reaches in and pulls the poem out of your hand;
in simpler terms the poem blows out the window and
flicks back under the car.
You look in the rear view mirror but can’t see it.
“Damn,” you say.
You go back and search for it, for about half an hour.
At the same time you’re praying that Michael shows up at
the surgery tomorrow morning.
------
You didn’t know it then but that was the last time you
were to see Michael Layton. Next morning you arrive at
the hospital to start your rounds when you’re told by
the nurse in charge of Emergency that Michael Layton had
been there in a very agitated state just an hour before,
raving about having been bitten by a funnel-web spider
which, he said, had caused him to become very anxious
about who was going to win the next federal election.
The nurse had calmed him down with a cup of coffee and
Michael had slumped into a very morose state. Then he
said he was alright and apparently went home. He seemed
to have forgotten about his appointment with you.
Anyway, the very worst happened. Michael Layton drowned
in a dam, that very day, on the property where he lived,
whether purposefully or in a psychotic state or both,
who will ever know? You saw the funeral notice in one of
the local newspapers a few days later, but you couldn’t,
wouldn’t, go to the funeral.
------
A couple of weeks later you’re in the supermarket
searching for health foods that you can never seem to
find on the shelves of supermarkets in small country
towns. You’re on an eternal quest for gluten-free
bread, round and round, when this little old lady comes
up to you.
“Excuse me, Dr. Rowntree, someone told me you speak
French.”
“Oui,” you say humorously.
You’re in a great mood because, keep it under your hat,
you met a very interesting man a few days ago.
“I live on the road to Glenra and I found this on my
lawn yesterday. It seems to be written in French. Lucky
it hasn’t rained, it’d be a mess.”
Then she hauled out a very familiar piece of notepaper,
Michael Layton’s last poem, in fact. As you read it, the
tears well up, all that suppressed sadness about his
death.
The sloth waves goodbye. He disappears into the jungle.
Three years later you find you’ve specialized in
psychiatry and are still working in the country, an
almost expert in the field of treating depression. That
interesting man worked out very well; you actually
married him and you’ve had a child. You’ve got your
hands full now. You also now speak fluent French, after
a lot of tutoring from a local teacher of French, and
you’re running free French classes for people with
disabilities. Life’s like that. You often end up happy.
The Luncheon of the Boating Party, c.1881
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