Strangers on a Bridge. Louise Mangos

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       Chapter Thirteen

      ‘I’m sorry, Fraulein, I am not normally allowed to give information about the patients, but I can really say we have no record of Herr Guggenbuhl. I cannot tell you if he was referred to a specialist because his name is not in the system.’

      The medical receptionist’s hands lay unmoving on the keyboard of her computer, my eyes willing information out of her. The Post-it notes and papers had been removed from the area around the counter affording a clear view of the office. Manfred Guggenbuhl had become a ghost patient. There was no record of my bringing him in. I was sure I had signed a document relating to his admission. Maybe my German was just too atrocious. Maybe they thought I was a tourist, and hadn’t kept my details, even though I had given my address and telephone number. Surely it wasn’t so unusual to hear English spoken in this canton with so many international corporations taking advantage of its tax-haven status.

      ‘How about in the hospital patient records? Is there anything?’ I asked, knowing I was repeating a question that had already been answered.

      The nurse’s hands remained immobile.

      ‘The hospital’s computer system is linked everywhere. When I type his name, any patient records from all departments will show. This name did not show anywhere. I’m sorry. I am also a little embarrassed to say that we had a few computer problems when the hospital opened,’ admitted the woman.

      That explained the Post-it notes, now absent from the glass between us.

      ‘This man attempted suicide that day. He could still be a danger to himself. In any case, he would still need medical and psychological help. You do understand this, don’t you? I can’t believe his case would be treated so lightly, or ignored altogether.’

      The nurse looked at me with sympathy, as though I was the one who’d required help. I sighed.

      ‘I gave my contact details that day. Is it possible someone would have given them out? Mr Guggenbuhl has been calling me, and I’m not sure where he got my number.’

      The receptionist looked taken aback.

      ‘That would not have been allowed. Unless you gave it to him yourself? Perhaps you don’t remember.’

      ‘No, I didn’t give him my number,’ I said pointedly.

      ‘I’m sorry, madam…’

      I figured Manfred must have persuaded one of the other nurses to give him my number that day or maybe a few days later. They all seemed like a bunch of incompetents at the moment.

      Outside the hospital entrance, I kicked a rubbish bin with frustration. A medic walking towards the door spontaneously sidestepped me with a shocked glance, but didn’t say anything.

      We lived in a country where everything worked, trains always ran on time, letters inevitably arrived in the mailbox the day after they had been posted, insurance payouts were implemented without question. And the average Joe who worked as a civil servant or council clerk knew exactly what everyone was doing at any given time in the hierarchical human ladder that made up Switzerland’s complex functioning administration.

      But it seemed they had all conspired to defeat me today. Most of all I felt sorry for Manfred, who had somehow slipped through the net to wander, lost in his misery, latching on to me of all people, a confused foreigner who had slipped through the other end of the system.

      Two flukes in an otherwise perfect utopia.

      I sat in the car and put my hand to my temple. My skin felt hot and my head had begun to pound. The frustration was beginning to build to an indefinable irritation, and I was losing faith in my ability to help Manfred resolve his issues.