"The truth is I gave my physician your name and asked him to look up your credentials. Which are excellent, of course."
"I do not make a specialty" — he pronounced the word the way the British do, as if it had five syllables — "of children."
"My daughter," I said, "is twenty-seven."
"What is the problem?"
"Insomnia."
"Well, we all have sleepless hours from time to time…"
"No, no, no. She gets desperate from lack of sleep many nights in a row. And…"
"Yes?"
"She's got a Seconal problem now, I'm afraid."
"Does your daughter know you are calling me?"
I thought Dr. Koch rude. In retrospect I can see that he was not being rude at all.
"No."
"Psychotherapy has to be a voluntary process."
"I'm sure she'll agree."
"You seem to know your daughter better than most fathers do, Mr. Widmer."
He must have written down my name to remember it.
Finally he said, "I will give you an hour next Tuesday at four. Is that convenient?"
"I will make it convenient," I said, relieved and immediately wondering what meetings I would have to reschedule.
Tuesday at four turned out to be very inconvenient. I had to ask one of my partners, Whitney Armitage, to sit in for me at a meeting with the head of a foreign shipbuilding firm who would have been insulted to have met only with an associate, though the associate knew the matter better than I did and Whitney would have to take notes in silence as he had never been involved in maritime work, much less the particular client company.
I pleaded a personal emergency.
"You haven't got cancer, Ned?" my partner asked with his usual directness. He and I had both lost a partner two years earlier who had several "personal" appointments that eventually led him to Columbia Presbyterian and death.
"No," I said, wishing a witticism had come to mind.
"I did something very indiscreet, Ned. I leaned over your lovely secretary's shoulder and saw your calendar has a Dr. K. on it. Is that a cover for a new mistress, Ned?"
"Why of course," I said. He looked at my calendar.
"About time," said Whitney. "Keeping the pecker busy is a good way of pretending to stay alive."
Whitney was related to the Cabots by marriage, which in our circle at least gave him license.
"Don't worry, Ned," he said, "I'll go to your meeting. I can imitate anyone's style, including yours."
"Thanks, Whitney."
"Just keep a chit. One favor owed. I might want you to visit my mistress when my pecker's down."
It wouldn't be his nonexistent mistress. It was Alexandra, his queen of a wife, that I'd lusted after in the safety of my mind.
In some ways I wish Whitney were keeping the appointment with Koch for me, though I find it hard to imagine him entering the building on West Ninety-sixth Street that Dr. Koch apparently both lived and worked in. It had a doorman whose eyes were glazed in front of a closed-circuit security monitor. He responded to my tap on the glass of the locked front door as if I had interrupted him.
"Dr. Koch," I said.
"Got an appointment?"
Why that look? I nodded.
"Elevator on the right."
The elevator had initials scratched in the walls. Its operator, a dark young man with hair that hung over his uniform collar, nodded when I gave Dr. Koch's name and said something that sounded more Spanish than English. At the sixth floor, he let me out and pointed to a door down the hall.
The nameplate read "Gunther Koch." No mention of doctor. I rang the bell before I saw the small sign that said, "Walk in. Do not ring." I flushed with embarrassment.
Inside there was a waiting room with seven or eight identical plastic-covered chairs. I don't see why doctors can't have decent furnishings in their waiting rooms. Depends on their clientele, I suppose. If we had anything but leather in the firm's waiting room, some of our clients would be certain the firm had undergone reverses.
I had dreaded the prospect of finding several people waiting. Fortunately, the room was empty. Some doctors — not the kind I normally see — derive their self-image in part from the number of people they keep waiting at any one time. Dr. Koch was, in this respect, civilized.
Despite my having rung the bell, I sat ungreeted. No receptionist. Someone had to make out his bills, type his reports to other doctors. Did she occupy a back room somewhere? Discretion?
From the recesses of the apartment I heard the movement of furniture, voices, then the door opened and a man came out, forty or more, had a perfectly good suit on, vest as well, a watch chain with a key. I thought they let patients out a second door?
Then I saw a man I correctly assumed to be Koch, heavyset, a bit rumpled, a full head of disorganized grey hair. As the patient closed the outside door, Koch glanced at his wristwatch, then extended his hand to me. "Mr. Widmer," was all he said. His voice sounded much richer than it had on the telephone, or was this the mystique working? I followed him into a room where the drapes were drawn. The room was dark except for the light shed on his huge desk by a large lamp. There were four or five manila folders on the desk. Behind it was a high-backed leather chair of the kind that judges used in the days before our courtrooms were modernized. While I am not expert in such matters, I would suppose that the Persian carpet on the floor had once had great value. My eyes naturally wandered to the leather couch along the wall, the foot covered with a piece of transparent plastic to protect it from the shoes of patients. Somehow I had imagined that patients in analysis took their shoes off! The head of the couch was covered with the kind of paper headrest one sees in the economy sections of aircraft. I suppose he changed it from patient to patient?
For one awful moment I thought he was going to ask me to lie down on the couch my eyes had been taking in! Dr. Koch beckoned me to a chair across the room and sat down opposite me.
"I was flattered that you liked my paper, Mr. Widmer. I thought only other psychoanalysts read it."
"Mr. Thomassy's clients — he practices criminal law — are nearly all your category two and three people. The twos are small-timers who work for other criminals and get caught. The threes are the tough cases."
"Your clients are not like that."
"No."
"Not thieves?"
"No. Businessmen."
Dr. Koch laughed. "Tell me about your work, the essentials."
I gave him a three-minute summary. Why was he concerned about what I did?
"That will do," he said, I thought a bit brusquely. "As we have only fifty minutes before my next regular patient, perhaps you will tell me about your daughter."
I felt he was being unnecessarily quick with me, the way my father used to in my youth. Or was I imagining something that is part of this unnatural relationship?
I gave Dr. Koch a brief synopsis of Francine's life up until the point where her insomnia started.
"Very good," said Koch. "I mean you summarize well. Now tell me about yourself."
"As you know, it's my daughter I've come about."
"Yes, yes. However, she is the daughter of a particular set of parents. I don't often get an opportunity to consult with parents until much later and usually they are dead and I can't talk to them at all. Just a word or two about yourself and your wife."
I told him about Priscilla. When I finished, he said, "You left yourself for last. Very courteous."
I wondered if he was being sarcastic. I was not ducking. I tried to summarize myself.
"I could have read that in Who's Who in America," Koch said. "You have told me objectively verifiable facts. Now tell me the truth. How did you feel when…"
He probed deeper than any employment interviewer would dare, then said, "Mr. Widmer, have you ever considered analysis? For yourself."