Maxime E-Book

Danie Botha

• Herausgeber: Charbellini Press
• Serie: Maxime mini-series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 361

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Being worried is what Maxime does best…

At sixty-four-and-a-half, Maxime Bastien Baumann wants to retire more than anything else, but he can’t. He’s too worried.

He’s not a hypochondriac; he’s just anally retentive. And obsessive-compulsive. And constantly afraid of being late. His life is structured and lived by a set of rules: two full pages if he writes them down, double-spaced.

For Maxime, being late is never a bloody option.

As his life with his wife of thirty-seven years and their two sons implodes, Maxime realizes his “life rules” desperately need an overhaul. Staggering through setback after setback, Maxime must learn to replace worry with confidence and flexibility, stop seeing others as schmucks, reconcile with his family, and learn that it will all come at a great personal cost.

Leseprobe

Maxime

Danie Botha

Contents

Also By Danie Botha

Half title page

Copyright page

Author’s note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Life Rules

Reviews matter

Also By Danie Botha

Be Silent

BeGood

Maxime

Danie Botha

Maxime

Copyright © 2017 Danie Botha

All rights reserved

This book was published under Charbellini Press.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without the express permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This novel is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations and many of the locations are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

http://www.daniebotha.com

Published in the United States by Charbellini Press

ISBN: 978-0-9951748-4-9 paperback

ISBN: 978-0-9951748-5-6

Author’sNote:

This novel is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations and many of the locations are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

1

Maxime discovers alump

Maxime was worried.

He had a doctor’s appointment. That was not why he was worried: he might be late. Maxime was never late. Anybody who knew anything about punctuality and who knew Maxime knew that being late could never be a bloody option.

Maxime was a private man. His life was structured and lived by a set of rules—two full pages if he wrote it down, double-spaced. He did so once. These were not actual rules, Maxime believed, only life beacons. Since his earliest memories, it had been this way. It started with his father. Not that he resented the man—he was a good person, a devoted father, and Maxime was comfortable with this life guided by rules. He was certain that Donna suspected as much—the rules thing—but was too sensible a woman to make a scene aboutit.

Maxime was a man who doesn’t speak out of turn or put his nose into other people’s business where it didn’t belong. He had learned these rules from a young age, and they served him well, helped keep his nose clean and relatively straight, not crooked like some second-class boxer’s.

He leaned closer to the mirror, taking care not to skip a spot on his cheek. He couldn’t stand electric shavers and preferred the sleek contour type, the manual ones. The only problem with his preference was the exorbitant cost of the disposable blades—why the government didn’t do something about the exploitation of the poor consumer was beyond his comprehension. Bloody capitalists. And then they expected him to vote forthem.

Perhaps it was time to print out the letter he had written years earlier in this regard, and mail it to the Minister of Natural Resources—he would just have to change the date. The thing that held him back was the second rule on page two: Don’t stir thingsup.

He leaned closer and concentrated. The tricky part: the three-quarters of an inch between his almost straight nose and his upper lip—these triple blades were sharp. Maxime couldn’t stand facial hair. Never could. He turned his head. He had missed a spot: a small patch of hair in front of his ear. He jutted his chin sideways, leaning even closer.

“Damn it!” He had drawn blood.

Maxime hunched over the sink and dabbed cold water from the tap onto his cheeks. The cut stung. There was blood on his hand and in the water.

Donna. Where is Donna when I need her? Kleenex. He pressed a wad of tissue paper on his cut and dried the remainder of his face with his black towel. He made certain he didn’t touch Donna’s white one on the rail next to his. One glance at the clock on the bathroom wall made him realize he’d better hurry. His appointment with Dr. Moller was in less than half an hour. It was past nine already. Two weeks earlier he had arranged with his boss to take the day off—medical urgency, he had claimed. His boss hadn’t hesitated. Maxime never took any sick days. He was never late. He never complained. His work was always beyond reproach—in one word: outstanding. However, what Donna and his boss didn’t know was that he wasn’t planning on returning to work later that day, in spite of the guilt that sat as an accuser on his shoulder.

Maxime tore off a small piece of Kleenex, folded it into a tiny square and stuck it on the cut. Bloody spring-mounted blades with their pivoting heads—I could have severed an artery.

He grabbed his ironed white shirt and slipped it on. He already had on his suit pants, and his yellow socks with the gray stripes. Maxime always wore a lambswool suit to work and when he visited his doctor once a year. Today was an exception: it was his second visit to the doctor this year. But he still had to wear a suit—and a tie. Anyone who knew anything about suits knew that a tie was non-negotiable. Maxime had little time for those amateurs who wore bloody T-shirts towork.

He was not a little proud of his knots. He had taught himself. He folded the collar down and tightened the knot. Perfect.

Maxime glanced at the wall. Ten past nine. He leaned closer to the mirror for a final inspection: his hair was gelled and parted on the left, perfectly straight, as if he had used a measuring stick. A red blotch on the collar stared back at him. Thecut.

“Scheisse!”

The tie went flying, then the shirt. What did Donna always say? Use cold water for removing bloodstains, Max. He scrubbed the collar with a nailbrush. There was another ironed shirt in the closet, but that was for work, for tomorrow—it was out of bounds for today.

Donna, where’s your blow dryer? Maxime found the dryer but abandoned it after thirty seconds. The iron will be faster. He pinched his fingers in the process of opening the ironing board. The collar was easy enough to dry, and he slid the iron down to the shoulder, which was still soaking wet. Anyone who knew anything about sheep knew that one didn’t wear wet shirts under one hundred percent wool suits, not if one didn’t want to smell like a sheep shearer from Down Under.

Nine seventeen.

Maxime turned the temperature higher and held the iron steady. That should get the shirt dry in no time. I’d better move my ass. A cloud of dense steam engulfed the iron, and he jerked it away. That’s not steam, Maxime Baumann.

There was no time for a plan C. Maxime put on the now dry shirt with an ebony iron mark on the shoulder, knotted his tie and grabbed his suit jacket. He ran through the house, unhooked the keys in the mudroom and barged into the garage.

He was confident that he would require time for reflection after his visit to his family doctor. He knew himself.

It was serious business: first the lump, and now the bloody shirt. Donna was going to have a fainting spell when she saw the shirt.

He had noticed the soft swelling, the lump, three months earlier. It had slowly, inconspicuously, grown bigger. It was still small, so small that Donna didn’t notice it, not even when they were intimate. He would not be able to hide it from her much longer—that’s why he had phoned the doctor’s office.

When he had informed her, only yesterday, about his doctor’s visit, she had been alarmed. So great was her concern that he had brushed it off with “Oh, it’s nothing, darling. Just a routine examination.”

He had refrained from telling her that he wasn’t going back to work for the remainder of the day. That wasn’t lying—he didn’t want to burden her with the extra knowledge. Maxime loved his wife of thirty-seven years. Still, he knew that she would not back off if she suspected him of withholding crucial information.

He knew of a little coffee shop where she wouldn’t find him. He would read the paper and take a book along too. Maxime was a wise enough man—he’d go home at the usual time, three thirty.

Dr. Moller’s offices were in a big strip mall not far from the highway. It was a six-person group practice—two of them were lady doctors, all lovely and helpful, but he still preferred Dr. Moller. The doctor also knew a few German words, which always helped Maxime relax. When he went for his annual visit, they stuck to English, Maxime’s third language. It wasn’t a problem since it was the language he spoke with Donna and theboys.

It never ceased to amaze him when people declared that he had a distinct accent—as if they did not. Incredible, he thought, the sheer ignorance of some. He made a mental note to work harder on the elocution thing. Perhaps it was time he learned a fourth language, just to trouble those individualsmore.

Maxime had trouble with wasting time—life was too short for that. And with doctors, the accepted norm was to let patients sit and wait for goodness knew how long, wasting their lives away in spite of having been given an exact time to show up. Why did they bother with a time when they could have given only thedate?

Dr. Moller’s first name was Manie, but Maxime would never call him by that, although the young doctor was barely a year older than Maxime’s youngest. Maxime’s father (God rest his soul) had brought him up with the notion that you showed respect for other people’s professions.

It took Maxime a full five minutes to find a satisfactory parking spot: it had to be a double vacant space in the corner of the lot. He could then park at an angle, and prevent an asshole from squeezing his vehicle into these too tight spots, making it impossible for anyone to get in or out without requiring a new paint job on the door. He was sure that those idiots who parked three inches from you slipped out of their cars through their sunroofs, or even crawled out through their trunks. Imbeciles.

Maxime reported to the front desk, mortified: he was two minutes late. He smiled at the young ladies behind the counter, then shook his head in disbelief and looked again. One of them—a brunette—had to be a new addition to the family practiceteam.

She did it, just being her gorgeous self, on purpose, as a punishment of men in general. It was impossible to look and not be enraptured—compelled to look again, drawn to follow the sleek contours of her facial features, down, down into cleavage that beckoned with glorious abandon. He sucked his breath and commandeered every morsel of testosterone to ignore the phenomenon, the vision. His Donna was attractive, even at fifty-eight—she took great care of herself—but this was tough.

Maxime swallowed and forced a smile.

“Yes, sir?” the Vision purred.

“I’m here for Dr. Moller,” he spluttered.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Why else would I be standing here? “Yes … Ido.”

“Your name, sir?” She was purring again. Maxime relaxed.

“Maxime. Maxime Baumann.”

“MacSeem?” He was certain she was unaware of how her breasts jutted forward. He averted hiseyes.

“Nein. It’s Maxime. M-A-X-I-M-E. Maxime, with an m. Baumann—twon’s.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bowman. I have it. Date of birth?”

“1951.”

“There we are. I have your file.” She clicked the mouse several times and smiled up at him. The cleavage beckoned again. Oh, Lord. “Please have aseat.”

He sat down—just in time, as his knees gave way. In his haste, he discovered now; he had forgotten to bring his book. He always carried a book. At least these younger doctors had the common sense and decency to stock fresh-off-the-press magazines, not only ancient issues of Chatelaine and Reader’s Digest. Not that there was anything the matter with those, it was just that he preferred to stimulate his mind, such as by reading The Economist. He leaned back and prepared for the long haul of the wait. He turned to the first page: The gutsy Greek government and their lack of respect for theeuro.

Dear Lord, he prayed, perhaps Mr. Papadopoulos can help me apply the same brazenness to my dealings with this unwelcome fiend in my bosom, or rather, in my nether regions.

2

The doctor makes a diagnosis

The Vision reappeared.

“Mr. Bowman?”

Maxime rose as if hypnotized and followed the young lady down the endless hallway toward a small room at the back. Shafts of morning light burst in through a side window, enveloping them in gold and accentuating the female form that floated ahead of him—the black leggings hugged her perfect bottom, firm thighs, and toned legs. Dear Lord, this hallway had better come to anend.

He immediately recited the fifth rule on the first page: Don’t take what does not belong toyou.

Maxime, don’t be an asshole.

Dr. Moller was going to be so upset with him, thinking he had been neglecting his blood pressure, while it was all due to this enchantress, this Siren. He should tell Dr. Moller to make his staff wear shapeless scrubs, with long lab coats buttoned closed at the neck, that covered everything. Anybody who knew anything about white lab coats and body contours and testosterone would bloody well know this was the smart thing todo.

“The doctor will be with you shortly, Mr. Bowman,” the Vision murmured.

“Danke,” Maxime whispered as he dropped into the chair in the small examination room, grateful for time to compose himself. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

He could feel his heart rate settledown.

Maxime loosened his tie. He felt warm and slipped out of his jacket. The room was too small. Dr. Moller wouldn’t mind—he had the impression that the doctor was always overheating, hence his customary wearing of short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts. Maxime remembered the burn on his shirt, sighed and slipped his jacket backon.

Maxime owned five suits and ten collared shirts. There was one suit for each workday in a week. Today he had on his newest suit, the gray one with the thin stripes, the one he had bought in January. Maxime always wore white shirts to work or when he went to see his doctor. It was the right thing to do. Maxime believed he knew a thing or two about fashion; scheduled today: tan shoes and a tan belt. Shoes had to match the belt, and ties always matched socks. Anybody who knew anything about fashion and dressing smart, even if they were sixty-four-and-a-half, bloody well knewthat.

Maxime Baumann was a modest man, insofar as he could speak for himself. Didn’t he painstakingly follow rule eleven on page two, which stated: Don’t ever think of yourself as a smart aleck?He could never understand the gentle smirks he received from Donna and the boys when he claimed just that, especially when they noticed his socks. For the past ten years, but more so the past five, the one thing Maxime had spoiled himself with was colorful socks.

Today was his yellow-socks-with-gray-stripesday.

Maxime thought about Mr. J. Johnson, his boss. He had his reservations about whether one should call him his “boss,” since he was only the senior partner, in charge of Johnson, Johnson & McBride, attorneys at law. Maxime snorted. They were nothing more than glorified underwriters of properties (business and residential), mere pencil-pushers. They were real estate lawyers. Maxime stuck to what he loved: residential property. He always prayed that his clients would be honest and not succumb to fraud, and it served him well. He couldn’t remember when he had last seen the inside of a courtroom. He was okay with that. He was a senior partner now. Haha, he snorted again. Senior partner—the only other partner.

He, Maxime Baumann, had been hoping he could retire in six months’ time, at sixty-five. But no. Mr. C. Johnson, the brother of Mr. J. Johnson, had to go and have a massive heart attack. Died on the spot. Just like that, without even consulting Maxime. Inconsiderate man. That had been over a monthago.

Mr. J. Johnson had called Maxime into his office soon after the funeral and made it clear that since the whole team now consisted of Mr. J. Johnson, Maxime, and two junior colleagues, early retirement would be discouraged, if not entirely impossible, if Maxime understood what he meant. Understood? Impossible? Mr. McBride had passed on more than ten years ago, but Mr. J. Johnson had never felt the need to change the firm’s name. Too much paperwork, he had said backthen.

But the idea that Maxime should wait until the two junior lawyers could manage without training wheels was preposterous. They would need to be babysat for at least another five years. That would make him sixty-nine-and-a-half, and chances were high that, given Maxime’s boss’s family history, Mr. J. Johnson might by then have followed in his brother’s footsteps, adding at least another five years before retirement for Maxime. Then he, Maxime Bastien Baumann, would be seventy-four-and-a-half. Outrageous.

The door swung open, and Dr. Manie Moller rolled in. “Guten Tag, Guten Tag,Herr Baumann!” he roared as he shook Maxime’s hand, clasping it with both of his, each the size of a bunch of bananas. He was a burly man, strong as a bear, and sported a free-hanging short-sleeved shirt printed with palm trees.

“Guten Tag, Herr Doktor,” Maxime said, immediately relaxing. It is what he loved about the man: genuine, going out of his way to being helpful—there was no bullshit.

Dr. Moller plopped down with the folder. His ample girth strained against the desk. He activated his computer screen and looked up at his patient, the warm smile never leaving his face. “What brought you to us today, Mr. Baumann? Your annual was five months ago, and everything seemed finethen.”

Maxime cleared his throat twice—his protocol when he had something important or embarrassing to discuss.

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Was istloss?”

Maxime found his voice. “I have a swelling … in my groin, doctor.” He gestured down toward his rightside.

Dr. Moller asked many more questions and listened with intent, then asked Maxime to take his shirt and shoes off and sit on the examination table. They would start with his blood pressure. Maxime undid his yellow tie and slipped with a convoluted maneuver out of the white shirt and jacket at the same time. What would Dr. Moller think of him if he saw the burn on the shirt? Certainly, that he, Maxime Bastien Baumann, was an everyday cheapskate. He would then die of shame.

Dr. Moller didn’t favor those new automatic machines that some of his colleagues loved, the ones that squeezed your arm until the blood supply was cut off and your hand turned blue, deflating only moments before gangrene started.

One thing to be gratefulfor.

“Pressure is good, Maxime.”

Maxime laughed, relieved and relaxed, as his doctor’s expert hands traveled over his body, probing, palpating and checking. Dr. Moller had him pull his pants down, and then, after covering him with a thin sheet, his underpants.

Next, he made Maxime stand, told him to cough and compared the two sides of his inguinal canals and both scrotums. Then it was on his side; a rectal examination followed, and then onto his back again.

“Open those legs wider, please, Mr. Baumann. That’s it. Thankyou.”

Dr. Moller palpated Maxime’s abdomen a second time and finally zoomed in on the swelling in his right scrotum, squeezing it ever so gently.

“Does thathurt?”

Maxime shook his head, but the heat rose to hisface.

The doctor stepped back, washed his hands, instructed Maxime to get dressed and tapped away at his keyboard.

Maxime barely waited until he had tucked in his shirt and fastened his belt before he blurted, “It’s not something serious, is it?” He slipped his shoes on and sat down, on the edge of the chair. “It’s not cancer, Herr Doktor?”

Dr. Moller paused his mouse-clicking and made eye contact. He smiled, then put a hand on Maxime’s arm. “No, Maxime. The chance of that is almost zero. You have a hydrocele. It’s benign.”

Maxime coughed. “Hidro-seal?”

“Hydrocele, Mr. Baumann. It’s a fluid collection around the testis, inside the scrotal sac. A simple operation will solve the problem.”

Maxime wanted to break out in a dance. It wasn’t cancer. But he immediately stopped dancing in his head. He was in need of an operation, would have to be cutopen.

Maxime had never had surgery in his life—no tonsillectomy, no appendectomy. Not even a mole excision or circumcision, thank you very much. And he would have liked to keep it that way. Simple operation. Anybody who knew anything about operations and surgeons knew that there was no such thing as a simple operation—small, perhaps, but never unimportant. That much was bloody obvious.

Maxime’s blood pressure shot sky high. He stiffened up like a broom in Donna’s kitchen closet. “Operation?” he said. “Do you perform the operation, Doctor?”

Manie Moller laughed. “No, no, Maxime. I’ll refer you to one of our urologists. He’ll see you and then discuss the options.”

So there was hope—a wayout.

“Options, Doctor?”

“Well, Maxime, he has to examine you, confirm my diagnosis and then discuss all the pros and cons—the options.”

“So there areoptions?”

Halleluja.

“Not really. The hydrocele will only become bigger and cause more discomfort.” Dr. Moller paused. “Do you have any preferences for a particular urologist, Mr. Baumann?”

The doctor’s question embarrassed Maxime. It was a miracle that he had made it through law school, with him not being exceptionally gifted with technical terminology. But then again, perhaps it was only the English-language thing. Urologist? He’d made peace with that long ago, the not-so-gifted thing. He had to work twice as hard as the other students. He could take nothing for granted.

He wasn’t stupid, far from it—only different. He always thought he had a flair for languages. Perhaps not. Mother had called him “quintessential.” Gunther had called him “my special brother” but always made him feel strange about it. He used to know what a urologist was. Damn. A faint light went on: something to do with water. Ah, a human plumber.

He recovered with lightning speed. “But there’s nothing the matter with my waterworks, Herr Doktor.”

Manie Moller chuckled, louder this time. “You’re right, and they’re fine for the most part. I’m referring you to Dr. John Williams.”

“Dr. Williams?”

“Yes. A good chap. Studied in Britain, came to Saskatchewan years ago and did the Canadian exams—nice guy. Jolly good fellow. You’ll likehim.”

Maxime jumped to his feet. It was all nice and dandy if this Brit was a pleasant person, but was he anygood?

Dr. Moller raised his hand. “Sorry, Maxime—one more thing. Your medications: you still take only the daily multivitamins and the little blue pill when needed?”

Maxime sat back down. He nodded.

“Have you noticed any difference in your ability to maintain an erection during intercourse since the swelling started?” On Dr. Moller’s face was only an expression of genuine interest and vast intellect. He meant no malice, Maxime decided.

Maxime Baumann was a private man. He could feel the crimson creep up his face. “Nein, Herr Doktor,” he whispered.

This time Dr. Moller got to his feet and took hold of Maxime’s hand, again shaking it with both hands. He even patted him on the back as they turned to the door. “Please don’t worry, Mr. Baumann. I’ll set up an appointment with the urologist—he’ll see you and set up a date for the operation. Don’t lose sleep overthis.”

Might I lose sleep too? The color drained from Maxime’sface.

Dr. Moller quickly added, “Remember: it’s not cancer. You’ll do just fine. My receptionist will get in touch with you and give you the particulars of when and where.”

They were soon in the long hallway, bathed in light.

“Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Baumann.”

“Wiedersehen, Herr Doktor.”

As Maxime passed the front desk, the Vision looked up and beamed at him in all her innocent sincerity, still all cleavage and straining bosom. “Goodbye, Mr. Bowman. Nice tie.” Both the Vision and her colleague grinned and waved goodbye.

Maxime smiled as he dashed for the exit, his face flush with heat. Anybody who knew anything about cleavage and spiking blood pressure knew that seemly attire covered all exposed skin. Buttoned-up white lab coats with modest scrubs.

3

Maxime considers sharing thenews

The last rule on the first page stated: Listen to your heart.

Over the years Maxime had learned to do that. It had saved him from certain annihilation on several occasions. Now would be one such occasion. He would not go back to the office, or even home, for that matter. He had to regroup. Rethink his life—his options—his future.

That is why, thirty minutes after leaving Dr. Moller’s office, Maxime sat down in a semi-dark coffee shop. He had ordered his first tall skinny vanilla latte for the day. He had ordered only coffee. He wasn’t hungry. He had made certain the barista got the recipe one hundred percent correct—the way he liked it—and extra hot. He had put the plastic lid on as well, keeping the drink scathingly hot. He was confident that the environment would survive his humble contribution of the waxed paper cup and lid. He needed this. It was a matter of life and death as far as he was concerned, this caffeine-laden therapy session.

Maxime draped his gray jacket with the thin stripes over the chair back—nothing should touch the floor—then loosened his yellow tie. He pushed the cup to the very edge of the little table to make more room for the newspaper. He always started with the business news. When would they ever stop yapping about the oil sands? It was just oil sands, oil sands, oil sands. He was sick of it. Imagine: fracking. What were they thinking, luring every second person in the country to load their U-haul trailers and pitch their tents in Alberta? And then, kaboom! The oil price plummets through the blooming basement and every second person in the oil business is unemployed.

He was so glad that he had refrained from investing in oil stocks—the few thousand dollars he had set aside over the years. They were fracking, fracking wrecking the environment. The oil people were—not him, with his plastic coffee cup ending up in the landfill. Anybody who knew anything about oil and pipelines and fracking knew it was impossible not to screw up the lakes and groundwater, that all the PR was only talking and making a good impression. The goal of the oil business was simple—make a vault full of dollars.

Settle down, Maxime. Settle down. Your blood pressure, remember? He felt a jab in his groin where the swelling was. Mein Gott.I’m dying. Never mind my blood pressure—it’s this swelling, this thing that’s growing in my body. That young Dr. Moller must have been wrong. This hydrocele was more serious than he wanted to let on. Maxime wiggled on the chair to find a comfortable position. As soon as I get home, I’ll Google it—do my research.

He resumed reading but turned to the sports pages. He sighed. Football and hockey. Bloody football and hockey—on every single page. Oh, and then right on the last page, page eight, just before they ran out of space, the smart aleck editor had printed the results of the soccer and tennis and baseball and judo, taekwondo and darts and bingo and what not. Squeezed it all in, as if offered in apology.

Soccer. Now that’s a game for men. That’s what Maxime had grown up with—and speed skating in the winter on the frozen lake and river. Gunther had beaten his ass in the speed events, but only while they were teens. Once Maxime turned eighteen, he frequently made his older brother watch his backside down the ski trails.

These football hooligans with their padded clothing, weird helmets like they were Hell’s Angels, and spandex pants like male ballet dancers, showing off their jewels to the whole wide world, constantly hugging their crotches. No, thank you. Oh, they were fit and powerful, but still. And the hockey players—who were they fooling with their skimpy plastic helmets? Useless rubbish. It was like in Roman times: the crowds demanding blood—all the fighting that was allowed, even encouraged, on the ice. A bunch of ruffians, assaulting one another, concussion after blooming concussion. The only punishment for breaking someone’s skull was five minutes in the box. Imagine.

No, give him soccer. It was fast. Those men and women were fit; there was no intermittent resting, no fighting, no bullshit. If you played foul, you got a yellow card. If you did it again, you got a second yellow, or a straight red—and you were gone. Not for five minutes, either—suspension was automatic for the next game. Or, if you messed up badly, you were banned for longer. Pure, clean and swift.

One, two, three, pass—andgoal!

Maxime sipped a mouthful and put the paperdown.

You’ll have to tell her, Maxime—Donna. And Sandro and Simon. And Mr. J. Johnson. Perhaps even Gunther.

Donna—his Donatella—wouldn’t be a problem. The boys were responsible adults. They would have little issue with their father’s altered health.

But Maxime cringed at the thought of Mr. J. Johnson’s response.

Do you want another doctor’s appointment, Maxie?You just had one. You want a second opinion, is that it, Maxie?

He hated it, called Maxie, but the older Mr. J. Johnson had refused to call him anything else from the day Maxime had started working there more than thirty years ago. Mr. J. Johnson was probably close to eighty now and had even said in so many words that he wasn’t planning on retiring. Ever.

An operation too, Maxie? How long will you be off, then? Is this serious? Should I be worried about you? You’re falling apart, Maxie. Do you think we should interview for a third position to help us? Perhaps acquire the services of a paralegal?

Over the course of the next four hours, Maxime had two more lattes and a toasted multigrain bagel with plain cream cheese. He finished the paper and five chapters of his book. He didn’t read fast—he always read with a pen and made notes, even with fiction. Rule number four on page two: Remember the worthwhile things. Write them down. When he finished a book, he would transfer his brief notes in the back to a bigger notebook he kept in his home office.

He had to go to the washroom twice—those waxed cups were tall and wide. The caffeine must have squeezed his kidneys.

At exactly three forty-five, Maxime Baumann turned into his driveway. He would not be going to the gym today as he did every weekday, Monday through Friday. His gym bag was in the trunk—packed and ready—but he had decided against it as soon as he had left Dr. Moller’s office. The gravity of the whole situation pressed too heavily onhim.

There was a movement in the living-room window, next to the front door. It was Columbus, Donna’s Devon Rex cat. That the cat always, without fail, managed to appear in the window at the exact instant Maxime turned up the driveway was unsettling. The cat just seemed to know. When Donna was at home, he treated Maxime with guarded contempt, but his innate curiosity made it impossible not to be the one to inform his mistress that the old guy with the suit and the funny tie and matching socks washome.

The automatic garage door stuttered open like something that had suffered a stroke. Maxime fumed as he pulled into the attached garage. He had to remember to give the overhead door guy a call—tell him to fix his screw-up.

People don’t take pride in their craft these days. Shameful.

Fortunately, the motor was still under warranty. He had told the man to install the three-quarter-horsepower model. But no, the man was too smart, insisting, the half-horsepower will suffice, Mr. Bowman. It’s the norm for residential use. For crying out loud. “The norm. Residential use,” my ass. The poor idiot. How could half a horse do anything? Anybody who knew anything about overhead garage doors and horses could tell you that half a horse would only be good for a half-assed job. Bloody amateurs.

Donna and Columbus were waiting in the kitchen. There was no escape. Donna worked five half-days, mornings only, in a chiropractor’s office, or “chiropractic,” as they called themselves. This arrangement—her working at the tug-and-pull doctor’s—was much against Maxime’s wishes. She was squandering her talents. Donna, working as a receptionist when she had a master’s degree in English and used to teach grades ten through twelve. One day, three years ago, she had simply had enough of the students and told him she resigned—or, rather, took early retirement, with a pension, at fifty-five. She had immediately accepted a job at the “Realignment Center,” as Maxime preferred to call her present place of employment.

He had problems with the philosophy that some part of the human body could be skewed, out of alignment, and therefore responsible for all its ailments and misery—and could be fixed by simple manipulation. The only thing that was misaligned was people’s heads—their brains.

He was not a little proud of his darling, though, having had the guts to make the switch back then. She loved her present job. She missed the students, but not all their emotional baggage, which she would come home with, burdened like John Bunyan’s Pilgrim. And then, somewhere over the course of the weekend, would unload it on him, seeking his advice, making him the second pilgrim, the one carrying thepack.

Donna smiled up at him now and hugged him tightly. She showed no cleavage but had beautiful full breasts, which he adored, and he hugged her extra long. Donna melted into his embrace. She was much shorter than Maxime, which made it easy for him to kiss the top of her head. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He inhaled her warm body and apple blossom aroma.

Columbus, however, was of the opinion that the smooching had lasted beyond what was appropriate for people the age of his owners, and he gave a protesting meow, pressing his arched back against Maxime’s legs. Maxime shooed him away and kissed Donna on the lips before slipping into a seat across from her at the little kitchen table. She had two coffees ready—she must have waited for him and poured it as he turned into the driveway.

Donna was silent, only smiled at him as she sipped her coffee. She waited. He would tell her when he was ready. Columbus dropped down at their feet, contented: the guy with the yellow tie who still made his mistress’s heart race was home. He purred like a miniature tree-shredder.

That’s why Maxime loved his Donna so much. She was the smart one—much smarter than him. She knew him so much better than he could ever dream to comprehend her. He sighed. Rule one on page two stated: Accept what you cannot change. Him not fully understanding her was one such thing—unfathomable and unchangeable in his universe. Not that he wanted to changeher.

He was almost ready to tell. He sighed again. Lieber Gott, ich liebe dieseFrau.

Maxime looked Donatella in the eyes and began. “Sweetheart … I have a swelling in my right scrotum—Dr. Moller calls it a hydrocele—not something deadly, he says, and he’s referring me to a specialist, a urologist, for an operation.”

He managed it all without taking a single breath.

She grabbed his hands. “How long has it been there, Max? And is itbig?”

Maxime shrugged his broad shoulders. “A month. Maybe two.” He remembered rule three on page one: Don’t ever tell a lie. “Perhaps three. No, it’s relatively small.”

“And you need an operation?” She knew what Maxime thought about surgery. She could recall as if it was this morning when she needed the Caesarean sections for the boys—how he had almost passed out. Her big strong man, this sturdy Swiss fellow from the Davos Valley. He was all right with blood, but the mere thought of being cut open was problematic.

Maxime nodded. “Although Dr. Moller said the urologist, Dr. Williams, will discuss the options withme.”

“So he won’t necessarily operate, mein Schatz? There are options?”

Maxime was exhausted. “He used the word ‘options,’ but I think they will have to operate. The thing will only get bigger.”

“When?”

“That depends on Dr. Williams.”

Donna and Maxime finished their coffee in comfortable silence. She put one load of laundry in the washer and then it was cool enough for them to go for a walk. They loved walking—when it was cool—down to the river. Columbus stayed behind: he was a housecat.

Donna was contented. They would talk more during the walk, much more. Tonight he would make love to her—passionately, as he usually did. It would be lovely with or without the help of the little blue pill. He was a determined man, and she was a patient woman.

4

The services of a specialist are required

Two days later, Maxime sat at his tidy office desk watching the second hand complete its circular journey. It was only minutes after eight when Mrs. Long, the receptionist of Johnson, Johnson & McBride, put the call through.

He might have forgotten the other day what the English word for a bladder specialist was, but he never failed to remember a voice. It was that foxy lady from his family doctor’s office.

“Mr. Bowman?”

“Speaking.”

“Samantha here, from Dr. Moller’s office.”

So the Vision had a name. Maxime sighed. “Yes … Samantha?”

“Your appointment with Dr. J. Williams is at exactly 1:45 p.m. on Tuesday, September fifteenth, three weeks from today.”

“Danke. Thank you, Samantha, from Dr. Moller’s office.”

Her laughter bubbled over the line—uninhibited, like champagne fizzing over. Then she gave him the address and phone number.

Maxime wrote it down. “You say it’s at exactly 1:45p.m.?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Bowman. Goodbye then, sir.” Again the bubbling champagne chuckle.

Maxime sat in a semi-stupor for a full five minutes. He barely breathed. Then he jumped to his feet, took his ironed white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his glistening forehead. He questioned the wisdom of picking the black suit. The day had barely started, and already he was perspiring like ahog.

Lieber Gott, das Mädchen.

Maxime Baumann, you’re an absolute idiot—an asshole of the first degree. Donna does not deserve this. He felt ashamed as he wiped his forehead a secondtime.

Maxime did not think of himself as being anally retentive. The fact that he possessed only white handkerchiefs had nothing to do with anything. And they had to be ironed—which he did himself. Anybody who knew anything about men’s pure cotton handkerchiefs could tell you that this was a sure sign of sophistication. Bloody uncivilized brutes who wandered around the globe, without an ironed handkerchief, or worse—no handkerchief at all. What was becoming of the world? What if your forehead broke out in a sweat, or a woman standing next to you started weeping?

His first client was not due until nine. Thank God. He was in no state to face anybody. Not yet. He chastised himself for another five minutes before making a decision.

He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out the new paper folder labeled MY SURGERY. Inside were the printouts from his online search for “HIDRO-SEALS,” which had turned up nothing. He had typed the word over and over before accepting the only option given him: Did you mean: hydro-seal or hydrocele?

He had picked hydrocele.

He reread the Wikipedia article: “It is often caused by fluid secreted from a remnant piece of peritoneum wrapped around the testicle, called the tunica vaginalis.”

Why didn’t he notice this last night when he printed it? “Tunica vaginalis.” Mein Gott. So I have some part of a female inside me?No wonder Gunther insisted I was special. Maxime scribbled down several notes, which he would request Dr. Williams answer to his satisfaction.

His eyes caught a phrase further down the page: “develops in the elderly.” He bolted upright, ripped his reading glasses off and mumbled, “Elderly, my ass. I’ll tell them who’s elderly: centenarians. The blooming word for me is senior or mature.”

Maxime continued reading until his phone buzzed. It was the inside line—Mrs. Long. His first client would be fifteen minutes late. Just as well, he had more to read. He had even printed out two articles he had found on PubMed but hadn’t read. He made additional notes. Signs. Symptoms. Diagnosis. Treatment Options.

Maxime snapped upright. See. Treatment options. PLURAL.