A Stick of Plato's Gravy, Part Two, continued
"How do you mean?" Footsteps outside; rain lashed the window. The small room held mementos: silvergraphs of college and Army reunions, a Chrestian bible, a pipe of ivory carved with leaping seals, a silhouette of a boy. "The easy part?"
"Henry, Mr Alexander, I'm going to help you, and I'm going to bill you for dyspepsia. But I need to know....something." He took a deep breath. "You need to tell me the woman's name."
"The...woman." Henry's face was unreadable.
"The woman who was the source of your infection. You need to understand that I will keep it secret, unless required by law." No court had yet tested the Oath, but tales went back to Hippocrates of doctors who kept patients' secrets. "I am required by law to seek her out and to provide treatment; I bill the city, if necessary." Or he paid for it himself. On one occasion, one case of clap had led to finding seventy-nine other cases, all of whom his mentor had diagnosed and treated ere losing the trail. "I will treat her and prevent her from infecting anyone else."
"I see. Damned pesky government. What will they slap at us next? Tax what I earn?"
"I can't do much about that." Though he did have the vote, and a few Manichees sat on city councils and schoolboards. "But I can help you and your...young friend." A bell, and he noticed a clockwork dumbwaiter in one panel of curly poplar. A handy feature for the gentleman who shared oysters and Prosecco with his doxy? He got up, opening it, and retrieved the promised Grahamist dishes, complete with a half-bottle of Niagara on ice. Carrying them to a small table that folded out, he said Grace and began to eat.
"This is excellent; thanks again," he said after several bites of the crepes and gratin. Henry joined him at the table and drank rye on ice.
"Marcel never disappoints," the older man said.
"You were in the Californias, I presume?" Henry looked surprised.
"I was, with the Fourth Minnesota," he said. "How-"
"Your pipe- it looks to be Yurok work. I was there myself, with the Second California, in the Humboldt and Umpqua campaigns."
"Bloody work, dealing with those Russians." Far memories were in Henry's eyes.
"Bloody work for me, anyhow: I was a company surgeon. Learned a sight more than I did in Paris." He scraped his plate and had more of the Niagara. "Saved an Injun's life and can't get him to go home." He smiled. "You do," he realized out loud, "know the girl's name, at least the name under which she.....works?" This could be a problem. "If you don't, then tell me what you do know."
"Well, Dr Mago-"
"Joseph, please-"
"Joseph. Please." His face was grim. "You need to understand. This is....confidential."
"I am a doctor." It was his experience that Stoics and Platonists, Chrestian as they were, lacked the formal Confession that the Roman sect mandated, and as such confided in medical men as often as not. Which meant that they confided in him, as often as not. Which meant that he knew far too much about his patients, far more than he wanted too.
He wondered what they would think of-
"It was not a girl. It was a, a boy."
Adamy, for an ancient, burning city, was the sin's name among the ferocious Stoic preachers, who hanged men for it; the gentler Platonists of Pennsylvania contented themselves with whipping and exile for what a man did alone, or with other men. As a Manichean, he was condemned by the Divine only when he made life wrongfully; as a doctor, he knew that nearly all men had either done it or considered it. Here was a worse problem. He knows.
"Of course." Of course? "I understand." What was this man's goal? Divorce? Blackmail? Murder? Far worse, was the man attracted to him? Mentally he slapped himself upside the head. Focus, Joey! This man was a patient, and needed help, and could trust no Chrestian to keep his secret, and could send for a doctor only at night. Alexander was desperate.
Calm on his face, he said, "Tell me what happened."
"Henry, Mr Alexander, I'm going to help you, and I'm going to bill you for dyspepsia. But I need to know....something." He took a deep breath. "You need to tell me the woman's name."
"The...woman." Henry's face was unreadable.
"The woman who was the source of your infection. You need to understand that I will keep it secret, unless required by law." No court had yet tested the Oath, but tales went back to Hippocrates of doctors who kept patients' secrets. "I am required by law to seek her out and to provide treatment; I bill the city, if necessary." Or he paid for it himself. On one occasion, one case of clap had led to finding seventy-nine other cases, all of whom his mentor had diagnosed and treated ere losing the trail. "I will treat her and prevent her from infecting anyone else."
"I see. Damned pesky government. What will they slap at us next? Tax what I earn?"
"I can't do much about that." Though he did have the vote, and a few Manichees sat on city councils and schoolboards. "But I can help you and your...young friend." A bell, and he noticed a clockwork dumbwaiter in one panel of curly poplar. A handy feature for the gentleman who shared oysters and Prosecco with his doxy? He got up, opening it, and retrieved the promised Grahamist dishes, complete with a half-bottle of Niagara on ice. Carrying them to a small table that folded out, he said Grace and began to eat.
"This is excellent; thanks again," he said after several bites of the crepes and gratin. Henry joined him at the table and drank rye on ice.
"Marcel never disappoints," the older man said.
"You were in the Californias, I presume?" Henry looked surprised.
"I was, with the Fourth Minnesota," he said. "How-"
"Your pipe- it looks to be Yurok work. I was there myself, with the Second California, in the Humboldt and Umpqua campaigns."
"Bloody work, dealing with those Russians." Far memories were in Henry's eyes.
"Bloody work for me, anyhow: I was a company surgeon. Learned a sight more than I did in Paris." He scraped his plate and had more of the Niagara. "Saved an Injun's life and can't get him to go home." He smiled. "You do," he realized out loud, "know the girl's name, at least the name under which she.....works?" This could be a problem. "If you don't, then tell me what you do know."
"Well, Dr Mago-"
"Joseph, please-"
"Joseph. Please." His face was grim. "You need to understand. This is....confidential."
"I am a doctor." It was his experience that Stoics and Platonists, Chrestian as they were, lacked the formal Confession that the Roman sect mandated, and as such confided in medical men as often as not. Which meant that they confided in him, as often as not. Which meant that he knew far too much about his patients, far more than he wanted too.
He wondered what they would think of-
"It was not a girl. It was a, a boy."
Adamy, for an ancient, burning city, was the sin's name among the ferocious Stoic preachers, who hanged men for it; the gentler Platonists of Pennsylvania contented themselves with whipping and exile for what a man did alone, or with other men. As a Manichean, he was condemned by the Divine only when he made life wrongfully; as a doctor, he knew that nearly all men had either done it or considered it. Here was a worse problem. He knows.
"Of course." Of course? "I understand." What was this man's goal? Divorce? Blackmail? Murder? Far worse, was the man attracted to him? Mentally he slapped himself upside the head. Focus, Joey! This man was a patient, and needed help, and could trust no Chrestian to keep his secret, and could send for a doctor only at night. Alexander was desperate.
Calm on his face, he said, "Tell me what happened."