Read Online Legion by William Peter Blatty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Peter Blatty
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The aphasias were connected to lesions of the brain
Amfortas sipped coffee and tried to concentrate. He couldn’t. He set down his pen and stared at a photograph propped on his desk. A golden young girl.
The door to his office flew open and Freeman Temple, the Chief of Psychiatry, bounded in with jaunty, lithe steps, springing upward on his toes a little as he walked. He careered to a chair near the desk and flopped down. “Boy, have I got a girl for you!’’ he said gaily. He stretched out his legs and crossed them comfortably while he lit a cigarillo and tossed the fanned–out match to the floor. “I swear to God,” he continued, “you’d love her. She’s got legs running all the way up to her ass. And tits? Jesus, one of them’s big as a watermelon, and the other one’s really big! It also happens she loves Mozart. Vince, you’ve gotta take her out!”
Amfortas observed him without expression. Temple was short and in his fifties, but his face had a puckish, youthful look with a constant merriment about it. Yet his eyes were like wheat - fields stirring in a breeze, and at times had a deadly, calculating look. Amfortas neither trusted him nor liked him. When Temple wasn’t bragging of his amorous conquests, he adverted to his boxing matches in college, and he tried to get everyone to call him “Duke.” “That’s what they called me at Stanford,” he would say. “They called me ‘Duke.’ “ He would tell all the prettier nurses that he always avoided a fight because “under the law, my hands are considered to be lethal weapons.” When he drank he was insufferable, and the boyish charm turned into meanness. He was drunk right now, Amfortas suspected, or high on amphetamine, or both.
“I’ve been dating her girlfriend,” Temple rushed on headlong. “She’s married, but hell. So what? What’s the difference? Anyway, the one for you is single. Want her number?”
Amfortas picked up his pen and looked down at his papers. On one, he made a note. “No, thanks. I haven’t dated in years,” he said quietly.
Abruptly the psychiatrist seemed to sober, and he stared at Amfortas with a hard, cold squint. “I know that,” he said evenly.
Amfortas continued to work.
“What’s the problem? Are you impotent?” Temple demanded. “That happens a lot in your situation. I can cure it with hypnosis. I can cure anything with hypnosis. I’m good. I’m really, really good. I’m the best.”
Amfortas continued to ignore him. He made a correction on a paper.
“The goddamn EEG’s broken down. Can you believe it?”
Amfortas was silent and continued to write.
“Okay, what the hell’s this?”
Amfortas looked up and saw Temple reaching into a pocket. He extracted a folded sheet of memo paper and tossed it onto the desk. Amfortas picked it up and unfolded it. When he read it, he saw, in what appeared to be his writing, the cryptic statement, “The life is less able.”
“What the hell does that mean?” repeated Temple. His manner had now grown openly hostile.
“I don’t know,” said Amfortas.
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t write it.”
Temple bolted from his chair and to the desk. “Christ, you gave it to me yesterday in front of the charge desk! I was busy and just stuck it in my pocket. What’s it mean?”
Amfortas put the note aside and continued with his work. “I didn’t write it,” he repeated.
“Are you crazy?” Temple grabbed the note and held it out before Amfortas. “That’s your writing! See those circles there over the i’s? Incidentally, those circles are a sign of a disturbance.”
Amfortas erased a word and wrote over it.
The white–haired psychiatrist’s face turned crimson. He sprang to the door and yanked it open. “You’d better make an appointment with me,” he snorted. “You’re a goddamn hostile, angry man and you’re fucking crazier than a loon!” Temple slammed the door behind him.
For a time, Amfortas stared at the
The aphasias were connected to lesions of the brain
Amfortas sipped coffee and tried to concentrate. He couldn’t. He set down his pen and stared at a photograph propped on his desk. A golden young girl.
The door to his office flew open and Freeman Temple, the Chief of Psychiatry, bounded in with jaunty, lithe steps, springing upward on his toes a little as he walked. He careered to a chair near the desk and flopped down. “Boy, have I got a girl for you!’’ he said gaily. He stretched out his legs and crossed them comfortably while he lit a cigarillo and tossed the fanned–out match to the floor. “I swear to God,” he continued, “you’d love her. She’s got legs running all the way up to her ass. And tits? Jesus, one of them’s big as a watermelon, and the other one’s really big! It also happens she loves Mozart. Vince, you’ve gotta take her out!”
Amfortas observed him without expression. Temple was short and in his fifties, but his face had a puckish, youthful look with a constant merriment about it. Yet his eyes were like wheat - fields stirring in a breeze, and at times had a deadly, calculating look. Amfortas neither trusted him nor liked him. When Temple wasn’t bragging of his amorous conquests, he adverted to his boxing matches in college, and he tried to get everyone to call him “Duke.” “That’s what they called me at Stanford,” he would say. “They called me ‘Duke.’ “ He would tell all the prettier nurses that he always avoided a fight because “under the law, my hands are considered to be lethal weapons.” When he drank he was insufferable, and the boyish charm turned into meanness. He was drunk right now, Amfortas suspected, or high on amphetamine, or both.
“I’ve been dating her girlfriend,” Temple rushed on headlong. “She’s married, but hell. So what? What’s the difference? Anyway, the one for you is single. Want her number?”
Amfortas picked up his pen and looked down at his papers. On one, he made a note. “No, thanks. I haven’t dated in years,” he said quietly.
Abruptly the psychiatrist seemed to sober, and he stared at Amfortas with a hard, cold squint. “I know that,” he said evenly.
Amfortas continued to work.
“What’s the problem? Are you impotent?” Temple demanded. “That happens a lot in your situation. I can cure it with hypnosis. I can cure anything with hypnosis. I’m good. I’m really, really good. I’m the best.”
Amfortas continued to ignore him. He made a correction on a paper.
“The goddamn EEG’s broken down. Can you believe it?”
Amfortas was silent and continued to write.
“Okay, what the hell’s this?”
Amfortas looked up and saw Temple reaching into a pocket. He extracted a folded sheet of memo paper and tossed it onto the desk. Amfortas picked it up and unfolded it. When he read it, he saw, in what appeared to be his writing, the cryptic statement, “The life is less able.”
“What the hell does that mean?” repeated Temple. His manner had now grown openly hostile.
“I don’t know,” said Amfortas.
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t write it.”
Temple bolted from his chair and to the desk. “Christ, you gave it to me yesterday in front of the charge desk! I was busy and just stuck it in my pocket. What’s it mean?”
Amfortas put the note aside and continued with his work. “I didn’t write it,” he repeated.
“Are you crazy?” Temple grabbed the note and held it out before Amfortas. “That’s your writing! See those circles there over the i’s? Incidentally, those circles are a sign of a disturbance.”
Amfortas erased a word and wrote over it.
The white–haired psychiatrist’s face turned crimson. He sprang to the door and yanked it open. “You’d better make an appointment with me,” he snorted. “You’re a goddamn hostile, angry man and you’re fucking crazier than a loon!” Temple slammed the door behind him.
For a time, Amfortas stared at the
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