British Gothic

The Missing Digits - A First Impression, Part I

[Administrator, wehave restored the poorly concealed names on this blog, Dr MartinHesselius is familiar to us. This other one, the writer, is a nobody.– Dr Zeiss]

Monday, October 1st,2012

Reader,

Imet Dr Hesselius today. To say he is not a friendly man would beperhaps the greatest understatement of this century. Martin Hesseliusis a rude, grumpy creature of peculiar habit.

He opened the doorof his South Kensington townhouse to me and immediately frowned, notthat his natural bearing inspires warmth – even if he appearsvaguely Churchillian in demeanour. By this I mean the doctor'spropensity for drink, well known to me before I accepted thisposition as his personal assistant, and slowly developing paunch.Until recently I think he was still making an effort to keep inshape. His previous assistant had not given me the most flatteringimpression of the doctor; it had been a one-sided conversation,mostly behind an obfuscating wall of cursing, yet I had learned of DrHesselius' bad habit before I met the man in earnest.

Thedoctor himself is a German gentleman of about 60 in remarkably goodshape; his face creased by decades of stern expressions but possessedof strong features, and cool blue eyes that sit beneath devilisheyebrows. He has sandy blond hair, slicked back into a neatside-parting, and manages to keep hold of his own pearly white teeth.A nose best described as Aquiline and a frame that I am inclined tosay is positively Viking. Dr Hesselius must have looked quite dashingin his youth, attired in a suit as he was (I later learned he wasnever not in a suit), though the lifetime of distaste etched into hiscountenance makes me suspect he had always been a disapproving sortof man.

Wherewas I? Ah, yes, the introductory frown. "You look too old to bedoing this. Are you a transient, a dweller on the peripheries ofsociety...somebody who no one else will take on? A man in his 30sshould not be content to work as an old man's valet!" Hesseliushad just insulted me, wonderful. His English was flawless and you hadto listen for the Teutonic undertone but it was there. Interestingly,Hesselius chose the older pronunciation of rhyming valet with walletrather than chalet.

"Personalassistant, Dr Hesselius, I'm not a valet," I met rudeness with asnide remark, I could tell the conversation was not about to improve.

"Comeinside or don't, but do close the door, you're letting the heatout," the doctor turned his back on me then walked further into hishouse; I sighed and stepped inside, pulling the door to. I arrived at7am and was to spend the rest of that day running back and forth foroccult expert, physician and historian Dr Martin Hesselius PhD DLittMD.

Hesseliusis a freelance lecturer paid great amounts for his apparentlyenthralling lessons: the man has enough gravitas to knock over thePope. I sat in on a talk of his that afternoon, entitled TheHistory of Witchcraft in Europe, Part 1,and was subjected to a blistering sensory assault. The curmudgeonlycharacter he played indoors transformed into a showman. I witnessed aman of 60 run about a lecture hall, encourage students to take partin fake rituals, and then get them to see how the Medieval Churchcould defame these white magic rites as the Devil's work. He leadthem through Europe's shifting attitudes towards magic in theMiddle Ages and finished it all off with a mock trial that culminatedin a theatrical condemnation of a young woman who was fond of cats(clearly a sign of witchcraft, jokedHesselius, I had not thought him capable of humour).

Come6pm, I tottered into the townhouse, stacks of papers and books in myarms that the doctor had not deigned to carry. "Wonder what yourlast slave died of," I muttered under my breath.

"Insolence,"coolly replied Hesselius, "Mr...?"

Iwas shocked, he was actually going to bother asking for my name; hehad referred to me exclusively as 'you there' for the past 11hours. I obliged him: "Freer, Joseph Freer."