The Professional Patient

The Professional Patient

Ernst Maier entered Dr. Hruby’s waiting room every Tuesday at 10:15 sharp, carrying his Gesundheitsakte like a man presenting evidence at the Last Judgment. The folder was thick enough to stop a bullet and had not contained a single interesting finding since 1994.

Today his left ear was humming in B-flat. He was certain his gall bladder had developed a personal vendetta against Austrian mineral water.

Dr. Hruby, whose face had achieved the exact color and texture of an old medical certificate, did not look up from his crossword. He merely pointed at the worn velvet chair with the resignation of a man who had accepted his fate decades ago.

“The humming, Herr Doktor,” Ernst announced, lowering himself with theatrical care. “It’s rhythmic. Almost melodic. I suspect vascular encroachment on the auditory nerve. Or perhaps a lingering effect from those radon baths in Gastein.”

Hruby tapped his pen against his chin, eyes never leaving 14-across.

“It’s the humidity, Ernst,” he said flatly. “Drink less coffee. Buy a humidifier. And for God’s sake stop wearing that woolen scarf indoors. It’s twenty degrees in here.”

“But the tests,” Ernst persisted, already sliding the folder across the desk like a man offering a bribe. “Look at the sedimentation rates from 2003. The trajectory is alarming.”

Hruby sighed — the sound of a radiator that had given up on life. He tore a prescription slip from the pad with the violence of a man cutting his own throat and wrote a referral without reading a single page.

“University Clinic. Tell them it’s idiopathic. Sounds expensive. Means nothing.”

Ernst examined the signature with the solemnity of a notary public, folded the paper with reverence, and stood up. His ailments, having received official recognition, immediately felt better.

“Thank you, Herr Doktor. Same time next week?”

“Unless you die,” Hruby muttered, already turning back to his crossword.

Ernst walked out into the gray light of the Ringstraße, scarf dramatically wrapped around his neck, already rehearsing his symptoms for the neurologist. His step was light. His purpose was clear.

Behind him, in the empty waiting room, Dr. Hruby stared at the chair Ernst had just vacated. He wrote “MAIER” in the margin of the puzzle and drew a small, neat box around it.

Then he sighed once more, the sound of a man who had long ago stopped hoping for a different Tuesday.