| “Sex?” The pretty receptionist asked. |
| “What now?... Here? .. Publicity?” The visitor blushed at the thought. He fumbled with his hat and look up at the ceiling. |
| “Not with me, silly. Your sex. What sex are you?” |
| “Can’t you see for yourself?” he demanded indignantly, trying hard to cover his inexperience with a display of imitated masculinity. |
| “Well, you could turn out to be a transvestite. We come across all sorts at this clinic. Come on then, let’s not waste any more time arguing. Tell me honestly, are you male, female or inadequate?” |
| “Male. Indubitably male.” His tone was articulated condescension. |
| “Not that it matters, I suppose. You couldn’t be mistaken for the performing types anyway. They come bounding in here and only bother to answer questions on the way out. No, you’re a gentleman, if you know what I mean. More polite … considerate. On the other hand, you may just be inadequate …” |
| “Madam, I am not inadequate …” |
| “Alright. No need to get so worked up. Can’t have a joke in this place anymore. I’m already in trouble for giggling in the laboratory during experiments, and now you’ll go inside and report me and..” |
| “I shan’t report you. Believe me I shan’t, but don’t keep calling me inadequate. I am merely a reporter who has been sent on an assignment to interview your two research consultants. Can you tell them that I am here?” |
| The receptionist blew her nose and straightened her eyelashes. Checking their alignment in her compact mirror, she replaced the mirror and pressed the intercom button. “Dr. Mistress? Is Dr. Boswell there with you? There is a male here.” She looked up at him as she spoke. He bowed courteously. “He says he’s from the Chancet magazine and that he has an appointment with you Shall I send him in? Fine, he’s on his way.” She disconnected the intercom and turned to the visitor. “Go straight down the corridor. Last door on your right. They’ll be waiting in the consulting room for you.” |
| He left his raincoat and hat with her and made his way down the silent corridor, the sound of his footsteps an unwelcome companion. The last door on his right was reached, and it yielded silently to his touch. |
| “Good grief. “He cried, and quickly closed the door. |
| “Come back in. Don’t feel so shy,” a voice beckoned. |
| He re-entered the room cautiously. “Dr. Mistress?” |
| “Yes. That’s me. Do come in and close the door behind you. Let me introduce you to my …..colleague, Dr. Boswell.” |
| ‘How do you do, doctor? “The visitor asked politely.” I’ve been sent as you may know by the editor to have your views on the novel research that you two have been conducting on human sexual response. Could you describe the field of your research?” |
| “I think you ought to know that all our research was conducted indoors, in our own laboratory. Outdoor research can be quite distracting ...” |
| “For the performers, you mean?” |
| “As well. We have found that the most conducive conditions for serious research exist only in a sound-proof laboratory. We have tried to analyze, by studying the sexual behaviour of random subjects, the variety of stimuli to which human beings respond.” |
| “Your research was conducted with the aid of live couples?” The visitor asked. |
| ‘Of course. One cannot possible study this subject in theory only. Wouldn’t you say so, Dr. Boswell. Dr. Boswell, do put down those photographs and attend.” |
| “Quite right,” agreed Dr. Boswell, “Theory can never been an adequate substitute for actual experience.” |
| “We tried for a while with machines, but the response was too mechanical. “Dr. Mistress continued. “No matter what the purists might have to say , we came to the conclusion that live guinea-pigs were the answer.” |
| “But how many subjects did you study?” |
| “’How many couples’ you must mean. We discourage loners. Unhealthy, we feel. Nearly all our study subjects come to us single, and in fact often get married afterwards. Very romantic don’t you think?” |
| “Very. But approximately how many in number?” |
| “Altogether, we have studies about 600 couples – no, 642 to be exact. Am I correct, Dr. Boswell? Doctor, do stop messing about with those slides.” |
| “Undoubtedly. 642 couples, not counting the couple in the waiting room. It was a job, I can tell you, finding the right people to study in the beginning. “Dr. Boswell eased in reminiscence. The reporter took his cue. |
| “It was difficult to find people, was it Doctor?” |
| “You can say that again. Advertisements, film clubs, key clubs .. the lot. They were extremely shy at first. Rather like you were just now. But seeing themselves on the films made themselves inhibited. Some of them were quite surprised to discover how photogenic they turned out on the silver screen. They offered themselves for repeat performances, but we had to refuse. We didn’t want to get mistaken for the Andy Warhol lot, you now.” |
| “You see, our interest was primarily scientific rather than artistic,” Dr. Mistress added, “That should have been quite clear from our books. You have read them, haven’t you?” |
| “Actually, to be quite honest, I …” |
| “Only looked at the pictures, eh?” Dr. Boswell interposed. ‘I thought I recognized the type. “Peeping Tom with literary repressions’. Had one in the other day. He had gone gone though half our library before we realized he couldn’t read a word of English.” |
| “The volume I read had no illustrations, “the reporter explained stiffly. |
| “Soon remedy that, young man. You must have read the paper-back edition. What you should have got was the Danish version. It was titled” I am Curious”. That’s all/ No yellow, blue or green curiosity. Here, let me present you with a copy.” |
| “Do stop fidgeting with those books. What the young man wants to know is the spirit which motivates our research, the nobility of our pursuit into the real truthful relationships of life, the timeless dedication which we two are giving together. Do not you realize what this could mean for us, Bosie darling ….” Dr. Mistress suddenly caught her breath, and then stammered in an effort to continue. A tint of admission coloured her cheeks. |
| The reporter looked up from his notes. ‘Am I wrong in thinking … Can it be possible …” |
| The tint deepened into a spectrum of confessions. “I mean, may I have the privilege to be first with this scoop?” Hippocratic eyes turned towards each other and met tenderly, while healing fingers inter-twined in mutual therapy. Further diagnosis was superfluous. The reporter noiselessly retired from the room and heard through the closing door. |
| “There is a time in the life of every woman …” |
| “Sweetheart, “Dr. Boswell whispered earnestly. “After 642 of them, I knew you were the only one for me.” |
Published in THE SUN newspaper, Karachi, 14.3.1971. |
