"Sean McMullen - Pacing the Nightmare" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

such people. They were alarmed, frightened: something was still wrong with their daughter, and was
getting worse. She was thinner, and she had broken up with her boyfriend, who was the son of the Duke
of somewhere and about 200th in line for the throne. She had also broken his jaw in two places during an
argument.
I remembered her boyfriend, who had often picked her up after training. When we had been
introduced he had given me the usual face-saving line about having done akido for a couple of years (why
is it always akido?).
Melissa's parents took us to dinner at a club with private dining rooms. She had shed several
kilograms since getting her yellow belt, and the muscles, bones and ligaments showed beneath her skin.
"She's our best student," I told them.
"She's good?" exclaimed her father. "Have you seen her without her clothes lately?"
"I've never seen her without her clothes," I replied, vaguely annoyed at the implication. The poverty
induced by postgraduate studies had broken up my previous two relationships, and I had sworn myself to
celibacy until I could call myself Dr. Carter.
By the end of the dinner I had conceded that Melissa should see a specialist if she continued to lose
weight. In the weeks that followed I watched with interest as Melissa's fists thudded into the felt and
canvas make-wa punching mats. Was she hitting more forcefully just to harden her knuckles, or did her
mind project somebody's face onto the canvas? When she was finally forced to see the specialist, she
recruited me as a sympathetic authority.
I took a 3/4 inch board along to his rooms, and she began the examination by breaking it with one
punch. She then lay on the floor and counted to fifty while I stood on her stomach-- I weigh ninety
kilograms. The doctor was impressed.
"Superficially, Melissa, it's a case of anorexia nervosa, but that's as far as it goes," he concluded. "You
are obviously fit, strong and confident, and you eat well. What is really strange is that your weight is
normal for your height, yet you look so wasted. Mr Carter, what do you think? Does this happen often in
karate?"
"No, but Melissa trains exceptionally hard."
"That may explain it... I mean, as far as I am concerned, Melissa, you're not sick, in fact you're the
fittest patient that I have ever examined."
"Then why not tell my parents that?"
"Why not indeed?" he breathed, shaking his head. "What effect is all this training having on the rest of
your life: your friends, your studies?"
"My studies are going well. The discipline that I have learned in karate has helped a lot. My assignment
results are up from an average of B+ to a A-. My boyfriend and I have broken off, but I have new
friends, like Greg."
I felt myself blush, but they were not looking in my direction.
"So what drives you to train so hard?" he asked.
She did not reply at once, and when she did she chose her words carefully. "I have read up on
anorexia nervosa, doctor. I know how those with the syndrome starve themselves because it gives them
the feeling of control over their bodies. Karate does give me that control, I admit it and I like it. At school
I was forced to develop the body beautiful, not too lean, not too flabby, but through karate I discovered
that I really enjoy pushing myself to the limit."
"Anorexia karateka," I joked. Nobody smiled.
"This just might be the first recorded case of a new syndrome," he said, with the slightly vacant stare of
someone already planning a paper for Nature. "Would you consent to regular examinations? I'm willing to
certify you fit for now, but I would not be acting ethically if I did not monitor your condition."
He was offering a deal. Melissa accepted.
***