Invisible man - Ralph Ellison [90]
Left alone, I lay fretting over my identity. I suspected that I was really playing a game with myself and that they were taking part. A kind of combat. Actually they knew as well as I, and I for some reason preferred not to face it. It was irritating, and it made me feel sly and alert. I would solve the mystery the next instant. I imagined myself whirling about in my mind like an old man attempting to catch a small boy in some mischief, thinking, Who am I? It was no good. I felt like a clown. Nor was I up to being both criminal and detective -- though why criminal I didn't know.
I fell to plotting ways of short-circuiting the machine. Perhaps if I shifted my body about so that the two nodes would come together -- No, not only was there no room but it might electrocute me. I shuddered. Whoever else I was, I was no Samson. I had no desire to destroy myself even if it destroyed the machine; I wanted freedom, not destruction. It was exhausting, for no matter what the scheme I conceived, there was one constant flaw -- myself. There was no getting around it. I could no more escape than I could think of my identity. Perhaps, I thought, the two things are involved with each other. When I discover who I am, I'll be free.
It was as though my thoughts of escape had alerted them. I looked up to see two agitated physicians and a nurse, and thought, It's too late now, and lay in a veil of sweat watching them manipulate the controls. I was braced for the usual shock, but nothing happened. Instead I saw their hands at the lid, loosening the bolts, and before I could react they had opened the lid and pulled me erect.
"What's happened?" I began, seeing the nurse pause to look at me.
"Well?" she said.
My mouth worked soundlessly.
"Come on, get it out," she said.
"What hospital is this?" I said.
"It's the factory hospital," she said. "Now be quiet."
They were around me now, inspecting my body, and I watched with growing bewilderment, thinking, what is a factory hospital?
I felt a tug at my belly and looked down to see one of the physicians pull the cord which was attached to the stomach node, jerking me forward.
"What is this?" I said.
"Get the shears," he said.
"Sure," the other said. "Let's not waste time."
I recoiled inwardly as though the cord were part of me. Then they had it free and the nurse clipped through the belly band and removed the heavy node. I opened my mouth to speak but one of the physicians shook his head. They worked swiftly. The nodes off, the nurse went over me with rubbing alcohol. Then I was told to climb out of the case. I looked from face to face, overcome with indecision. For now that it appeared that I was being freed, I dared not believe it. What if they were transferring me to some even more painful machine? I sat there, refusing to move. Should I struggle against them?
"Take his arm," one of them said.
"I can do it," I said, climbing fearfully out.
I was told to stand while they went over my body with the stethoscope.
"How's the articulation?" the one with the chart said as the other examined my shoulder.
"Perfect," he said.
I could feel a tightness there but no pain.
"I'd say he's surprisingly strong, considering," the other said.
"Shall we call in Drexel? It seems rather unusual for him to be so strong."
"No, just note it on the chart."
"All right, nurse, give him his clothes."
"What are you going to do with me?" I said. She handed me clean underclothing and a pair of white overalls.
"No questions," she said. "Just dress as quickly as possible."
The air outside the machine seemed extremenly rare. When I bent over to tie my shoes I thought I would faint, but fought it off. I stood shakily and they looked me up and down.
"Well, boy, it looks as though you're cured," one of them said. "You're a new man. You came through fine. Come with us," he said.
We went slowly out of the room and down a long white corridor into an elevator, then swiftly down three floors to a reception room with rows of chairs. At the front were a number of private offices with frosted glass doors and walls.