Who: Phaedra Paderborn [Morphine] & Hazel Brownstone [Heroin], NPC receptionist Martin. Where: Doctor Paderborn's private practice, in Brooklyn. When/What: Backdated to Thursday afternoon [August 27], lunch! Warnings: ... Drug references? TBD. Long & descriptive set-up post.
It was turning into a somewhat decent day. Phaedra felt content knowing her package had been delivered to her engaged brothers the day before, and that the ambiguity of the package's contents would likely be embraced well. She was odd and vague, and would never apologize for it.
Martin was busying himself at his desk, taking phone calls, making appointments, a thin layer of sweat dotting his brow. Air conditioning was expensive, and his boss didn't seem to sweat. The foyer of his employer's office was spartan, with white walls and only several paintings decorating them. One was a possibly original poster by Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, and it hung above a pristine ivory couch.
Directly across the room from this poster and above Martin's desk, hung two confusing yet painfully beautiful paintings, part of a series called The Creation of the World, by an obscure Symbolist painter, M. K. Čiurlionis. Pasaulio sutverimas XI and Pasaulio sutverimas XII, respectively. Each painting was spaced several inches apart, the same size, and of completely different palettes, although the brushstroke and the feeling within each made it evident they were by the same artist.
If Martin had any clue in his foggy mind about who Phaedra truly was, he would realize that the paintings, more than anything ever could, spoke the secrets that Phaedra never could about herself, her dreams, her world. Thankfully, Martin was as dense as a stale baguette and just as easy to break. He never asked, and she never told.
Martin believed that the waiting area was somewhat chilling, somewhat eerie, and a little bit uncomfortable, but the years working for Phaedra Paderborn had taught him not to voice his concerns. None of her patients had ever seemed to notice the stark, sterile environment, as most of them were so immersed in Phaedra's soothing voice and kind face not to care.
One could learn a lot about the good doctor by the art on the walls, by the decorations. The examination room was down a small hall way, decorated by one or two more images, and beyond that door, at the end of the hallway, was a storage room that was perpetually locked. Even Martin did not have access to this room. He doubted he ever would. Down another smaller hallway, turning right from the first, was the door to Phaedra's office.
Her office could officially be declared a miniature museum to M. K. Čiurlionis, and a solace. She had a private library here, full of texts both medical and literary, and many were gifts from various friends over the decades, many of whom she now considered family. The light was dim, warm, and welcoming. Lamps with muted and lovely earth palettes accented the top of antique shelves, and the only window there was looked out onto a slightly depressing industrial landscape. But, as said, the most prized possessions within her office were not the books, were not the antique medicinal bottles of various outdated treatments and concoctions that lined a locked medicine cabinet, but the paintings. Poignantly flanking either side of the door were Andante and Finale, of the artist's Juros sonata series.
Holding the phone between his ear and scrunching up his shoulder, Martin's fingers frantically moved across the keyboard as one of Phaedra's patients rattled off her availability. She was eighty years old, could barely move, and, after a decade and a half of seeing Doctor Paderborn, was incapable of visiting the office anymore. But Jesus, could the woman talk. And talk. The old lady had pain so deep it was in her bones, she'd say, and she'd creepily tell Martin that if only she had a young man like him to rub her down at night, make the pain go away.
As if the pain killers and various other medications the good doctor prescribed were not enough.
Multi-tasking worked well for Martin, because even though there was frantic and doe-in-headlights look about him when he looked up from his desk as the door opened, he flawlessly and smoothly completed both phone calls, hung up the phone, placed his hands on the desk politely, and put on the most glorious faux-caring customer service smile on his lips that he could muster. Who was this person? It was Hazel. That's an interesting name. Do you have an appointment? No.
He dialed Phaedra's office. He could hear her cold smile on the other end, and her cool voice through that smile. She told him to take his lunch.
"Right, right, of course." Martin said, quickly, nervousness falling out of his lips in every word, only after speaking with her briefly. He looked up from his desk, smiled at the tall, thin man. "She'll see you now. Right down the hall, then right again..."