familiar.
At his next visit, I explained all of this to Benjamin—apart from the strange feeling I had about the coils—and he seemed fairly happy with my explanation. Another problem was occupying him by now. He had something in his eyes. That’s how he put it, and I couldn’t get a better explanation out of him. I examined his eyes and could see nothing out of the ordinary, apart from a redness that could have been caused by a thousand and one things, most of them not worthy of attention. But when I examined his right eye through an ophthalmoscope I saw it: a tiny grey circle, barely visible against the redness of the retina.
There was one in his left eye, too.
They both seemed familiar, just like the coils on his wrist. They also seemed, as hard as it was for me to believe when looking at something that was real and not an image, unconnected to the flesh. If the coils in his arm seemed like foreign bodies that had entered by mistake into the field of vision of the X-ray camera, then the circles in his eyes seemed like foreign bodies that had entered by mistake into the field of vision of reality.
I think I managed to hide the shock I felt. I gave Benjamin eye-drops, closed the clinic early and went home to rest. And watch TV. And think.
And in the morning I arrived at the clinic two hours before opening time and dismantled the ophthalmoscope. I examined all of the parts through a magnifying-glass, but found nothing to explain those little grey circles that looked like the little grey coils, that looked like nothing I knew—even though my brain insisted otherwise.
I didn’t know how to reassemble the device, and so decided to just buy another. I had money, after all, and besides it was tax-deductible. I spent the rest of the time before the arrival of my first patient in thoughts of this nature, that were relaxing in their simplicity and mundanity but which led me nevertheless, in one way or another, to the mystery of Benjamin’s grey parts, thoughts that were only halted with the appearance of the man himself.
“Benjamin,” I said, surprised. He had never come to me two days in a row. “Is everything all right?”
Usually, on his visits, he would merely point at the source of pain or discomfort, speaking as little as possible, and let me complete the diagnosis on my own. Not today.
“I have a crop circle,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“A crop circle. You know. Like the ones aliens make.”
“Benjamin...” I said, but he had already launched into an explanation that was exceptional both in its length and its content. Crop circles are giant circles, and sometimes more complex shapes, that are formed in wheat or corn fields by the pressing down of the stalks. All kinds of attributes are ascribed to them, and stories are told of strange things that have happened within the circles. There are people who believe that they are proof of the existence of aliens. The rest of the world, of course, knows that it was all merely a practical joke.
“Fine,” I said. “I don’t really believe in aliens, but let’s get back to you , Benjamin.”
He looked at me. “I have a crop circle,” he said again. “On my tummy.”
I stared at him, thinking of whether I needed to send him to see a psychiatrist. Then I laid him down on the examination table, turned on the overhead lamp, and opened his shirt. I asked him to point to the place where the circle was, and he did.
Despite everything, I needed all my will power not to laugh.
“Benjamin,” I said, “That’s your navel. Your belly button.”
“It’s a crop circle. Look at the hairs there, see what happened to them.”
“It’s only natural that the hairs around...” I said, and then I saw.
They were bent. Or stood erect, at unnatural angles. Circles within circles, around the navel. But more than that—they were grey.
I passed my hand over his stomach, touching them. I wasn’t sure I was touching them all. It seemed to me that some passed
At his next visit, I explained all of this to Benjamin—apart from the strange feeling I had about the coils—and he seemed fairly happy with my explanation. Another problem was occupying him by now. He had something in his eyes. That’s how he put it, and I couldn’t get a better explanation out of him. I examined his eyes and could see nothing out of the ordinary, apart from a redness that could have been caused by a thousand and one things, most of them not worthy of attention. But when I examined his right eye through an ophthalmoscope I saw it: a tiny grey circle, barely visible against the redness of the retina.
There was one in his left eye, too.
They both seemed familiar, just like the coils on his wrist. They also seemed, as hard as it was for me to believe when looking at something that was real and not an image, unconnected to the flesh. If the coils in his arm seemed like foreign bodies that had entered by mistake into the field of vision of the X-ray camera, then the circles in his eyes seemed like foreign bodies that had entered by mistake into the field of vision of reality.
I think I managed to hide the shock I felt. I gave Benjamin eye-drops, closed the clinic early and went home to rest. And watch TV. And think.
And in the morning I arrived at the clinic two hours before opening time and dismantled the ophthalmoscope. I examined all of the parts through a magnifying-glass, but found nothing to explain those little grey circles that looked like the little grey coils, that looked like nothing I knew—even though my brain insisted otherwise.
I didn’t know how to reassemble the device, and so decided to just buy another. I had money, after all, and besides it was tax-deductible. I spent the rest of the time before the arrival of my first patient in thoughts of this nature, that were relaxing in their simplicity and mundanity but which led me nevertheless, in one way or another, to the mystery of Benjamin’s grey parts, thoughts that were only halted with the appearance of the man himself.
“Benjamin,” I said, surprised. He had never come to me two days in a row. “Is everything all right?”
Usually, on his visits, he would merely point at the source of pain or discomfort, speaking as little as possible, and let me complete the diagnosis on my own. Not today.
“I have a crop circle,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“A crop circle. You know. Like the ones aliens make.”
“Benjamin...” I said, but he had already launched into an explanation that was exceptional both in its length and its content. Crop circles are giant circles, and sometimes more complex shapes, that are formed in wheat or corn fields by the pressing down of the stalks. All kinds of attributes are ascribed to them, and stories are told of strange things that have happened within the circles. There are people who believe that they are proof of the existence of aliens. The rest of the world, of course, knows that it was all merely a practical joke.
“Fine,” I said. “I don’t really believe in aliens, but let’s get back to you , Benjamin.”
He looked at me. “I have a crop circle,” he said again. “On my tummy.”
I stared at him, thinking of whether I needed to send him to see a psychiatrist. Then I laid him down on the examination table, turned on the overhead lamp, and opened his shirt. I asked him to point to the place where the circle was, and he did.
Despite everything, I needed all my will power not to laugh.
“Benjamin,” I said, “That’s your navel. Your belly button.”
“It’s a crop circle. Look at the hairs there, see what happened to them.”
“It’s only natural that the hairs around...” I said, and then I saw.
They were bent. Or stood erect, at unnatural angles. Circles within circles, around the navel. But more than that—they were grey.
I passed my hand over his stomach, touching them. I wasn’t sure I was touching them all. It seemed to me that some passed
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