The blinds in the overheated office are drawn; the walls are hidden by shelves crammed with files. Each one contains a record of the worries, pathologies, and sufferings of a human being. Some are slim, others far thicker, a collection of ills arranged in alphabetical order. The doctor has sat down behind her desk. She is suntanned; her black eyes express nothing in particular beyond a certain weariness. She takes a new file from a drawer and asks her to spell out her first and last name, to give her date of birth and to describe the reason for her visit. She is not unhappy to be asked questions in this way; she experiences a sense of relief, as though she were submitting to a procedure that would allow her to square herself with the authorities. So she gives precise answers to the person in front of her, whom she imagines as a fantastical being, a kind of magician immunized against pain. Undress, I’m going to examine you. The doctor points at the examining table, which she covers with a sheet of white paper. She takes off her clothes and drapes them carefully over the back of a chair. Once naked, she tries hard to act as if she were still dressed. The doctor asks her to step onto the scales, then to sit on the table so she can listen to her heartbeat. She takes deeper breaths. The cool pressure of the stethoscope against her back makes her feel as if she is being rocked by something invisible and soothing. The doctor wraps a black band around her upper arm, which she inflates with a small pump. Next, she makes her open her mouth, shines a light on the back of her throat, has a good look inside, feels her neck, asks her to lie down, then slowly palpates her joints, armpits, breasts and belly. The pressure of these hands is so calming that she already feels half-cured. She appreciates that the doctor intently going about her job does not look her in the eyes and behaves as if she were dealing with an organism just like any other, merely checking to see if it’s in good working order. Finally the verdict is pronounced, you have the flu, I’m going to prescribe a light course of treatment. The doctor returns to her desk and starts writing something that she isn’t entitled to see. Have you already thought about having children? For several seconds, she isn’t sure if the doctor was talking to her. No one has ever asked her that question and, just then, she doesn’t have the slightest idea how to respond. It feels as if the other woman has turned into a judge, and she is standing naked before her. Even worse, she will be given the maximum sentence if her answer is no. I don’t know. Perhaps the doctor is full of good intentions: in the next room, she might be keeping a fine male specimen whom she orders to inseminate, free of charge, any female patient who so desires it. The doctor is still writing, as though she were now taking notes on her reactions. Time passes quickly, you know. The sentence rings out like a warning. She thinks back to the little girl in the waiting room and how clumsy she had felt while talking to her. To imagine the physical sensation of a body inside her own, the plump bulge on which she would proudly lay her hands. . yes, she remembers having already tried to, at the market, because of Marion’s child. But even with him, the thought of a child leaves her cold. Still, they say that once you find the man, having children comes naturally. She’s the exception that proves the rule. It all seems unnatural to her. Intrusion rather than fusion. She isn’t cut out for giving life, it’s as simple as that. Too noble and too abnormal for her. I know about the time factor, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it. The doctor has finally stopped writing and gives her an indulgent smile. I can assure you that you have everything you need. The situation is starting to get on her nerves. She came because of the flu, and now they want to sell her a baby. She might have everything that’s needed, like other women, but she knows that she doesn’t have the strength, the inner strength. She’d like to explain to her that it’s not her fault but she feels too shaky to talk. She realizes that she is still naked. To regain her composure, she decides to get dressed. Give it some careful thought. She has had enough. Still clutching her panties, she looks the doctor straight in the eye. And what about you, do you have children? Once again, she gives her that small, indulgent smile. No, and that’s precisely why I’m mentioning it to you. And she hands over the prescription.
In the taxi that takes her home, she replays the scene in her mind. What this woman doctor tried to get across to her was the fear of regret. Yes, time passes quickly, she knows that; she isn’t arrogant enough to think that she’s immortal. Though she may have felt anxious as she left the office, telling herself that a day would come when she would no longer be able to have children, she now knows that it makes no difference. She doesn’t want children, doesn’t want to replicate herself, but she doesn’t know why. Any more than she knows why she is sitting in this particular taxi, watching, through this particular window, these particular buildings go by. At the first pharmacy they come to, she asks the driver to pull over. Minutes later, she is back with a small green-and-white bag containing a box of medicine. The doctor probably asks the same question of all her patients of child-bearing age, women who pounce on their partners that very night, demanding to be impregnated immediately before it’s too late, or else get depressed for lack of a proper sire on hand. In the long run, what intrigues her most is how the doctor had managed to figure out that she has never given birth.