In Matto's Realm: A Sergeant Studer Mystery (25 page)

When he reached the inn, Studer ordered a portion
of ham and a carafe of blanc de Vaud. He ate a few
mouthfuls, took a sip of his wine, then got up and
asked where the telephone was.

It was Fran Laduner who answered. Studer made his
excuses and said he wouldn't be coming to dinner,
something important had cropped up.

"Yes," said Fran Laduner in her warm, deep voice
which sounded pleasant even on the telephone, "but
you must be back by half past eight. You must meet the
Board of Governors."

Studer promised he'd be on time.

It was as a doctor that Studer most admired Laduner.
He had the ability to be at the centre of things while at
the same time giving whoever was speaking the feeling
they were the sole focus of attention ... Diplomatic
skills.

He got Reverend Veronal, the priest with the big
mouth, to talk about the attitude of the Swiss church to
the Oxford Movement, listening with an expression
of interest to his long-winded explanations, before
interrupting him with a polite, "You'll excuse me,
Reverend?" and turning to the wife of the member of
parliament with a few words in praise of the Welfare
Board, which responded positively to all suggestions
from the clinic. The wife of the member of parliament
beamed with delight: one of her brothers was an
official at the Welfare Board. Studer happened to
know the man; Laduner wasn't exaggerating, he
thought. The doctor then turned to the deaf probation officer and asked him about a certain Schreier,
who had been in Randlingen for assessment and then
been sent to the labour camp at Witzwil for a year. How
was the man? he asked. Was he behaving himself? He
was sure, he went on, that the probation officer would
find him a good job when he was released. No, no, the
prognosis was very promising. He refused to let the
constant "What was that you said?" disturb his composure, repeating things three times if necessary.
While all this was going on, Fran Laduner chatted with the wife of the member of parliament as she poured
tea. Reverend Veronal took it with plenty of rum.
Studer too.

The sergeant had been introduced to the Board.
Now he was sitting, silent, in a corner by the window,
observing the proceedings.

The Board took their leave at nine. Studer stayed in
his chair as Dr Laduner offered to drive the members
to the station. The offer was accepted with thanks.

Studer waited in his corner for the doctor to return.
Fran Laduner asked him why he was so silent, but the
only answer she received was an ungracious mutter. So
she fell silent too and went across to the window in the
corner opposite Studer, where there was a shiny box
on a little table. She turned a knob ... A band was
playing a march. Studer didn't mind. A march was
better than "Somewhere in the world. . ."

So they both waited in silence for Laduner to return.
When he came in he sent his wife off to bed - in a voice
that was full of warmth and concern - then asked,
"You'll sit up with me for a while, Studer?"

The sergeant muttered something that could, at a
pinch, be taken for assent.

At first Laduner was silent. Then he said, "Pity about
Gilgen . . ." He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but
when none came, he went on. "Has it ever occurred to
you, Studer, that no one can spend a long time dealing
with mad people and not be affected by it? That contact with them is contagious? Actually, I've sometimes
wondered whether it isn't the other way round and
only people who are already a bit round the bend, to
use a popular expression, go to work in psychiatric
clinics, either as nurses or as doctors. The one difference is that people who feel the urge to enter Matto's
realm know there's something wrong with them. Subconsciously, if you like, but they know. It's an
escape. Other people out there are sometimes even
further round the bend, but they're not aware of it,
not even subconsciously. Once, you know, I was going
past the town hall at lunchtime, when the people who
work there came pouring out, and I stopped and
observed them. Gait, posture ... It was instructive.
One had his thumb stuck in his waistcoat and was
strolling along, legs swinging, a fixed expression on his
face, which was red, with a vacuous smile on it. `Look at
that,' I told myself, `incipient catatonia,' and tried to
work out when the next phase might start. Another
had a fixed stare. He kept looking round, then he
looked down at the ground for a while, carefully balancing on the kerb ... Neurotic, perhaps schizoid, I
thought. Another had one of those smiles people usually call sunny. Head in the air, he was swinging his
walking stick, saying hello to everyone. `Aha,' I said to
myself, `manic depression, like my would-be political
assassin, Schmocker. "'

The radio in the corner was still quietly playing its
marches. It made a pleasant accompaniment to Dr
Laduner's thoughts.

You've talked to Schul, or so I heard. Did he present
you with his poem? You must admit it's not stupid; it's
full of symbolic meaning. Sometimes I envy him his
Matto. Matto, who rules the world. Matto, who plays
with red balls, flings them in the air and Revolution
flares up. The coloured streamers flutter and War
blazes ... There's a lot to be said for it. We'll never be
able to draw a line between mental illness and normality. All we can say is whether a person can adapt to
society, and the better he can adapt to society, the
more he tries to understand his fellow human beings,
the more normal he is. That's why I always tell our nurses to get organized in a union, to stick together
and try to get on with each other. Being organized is
the first step towards fruitful communal life. First of all
a community of interest, then comradeship. The one
comes from the other - or at least it ought to ...
Responsibility assumed voluntarily. . . `All for one and
one for all' - wouldn't that be marvellous?"

Another quiet march. It was a military band that was
playing.

"If only we didn't hear it so often prostituted by certain folksy public speakers ... What do we actually do,
we much-maligned psychiatrists? We try to create a
degree of order, we try to convince people it makes
sense to behave more or less rationally, not to give way
to every impulse that comes from the darkness of the
subconscious, which can only lead to disorder. There's
one thing people haven't yet cottoned on to, namely
that suffering can be enjoyable. Do you see what I'm
getting at? If a nation has it too good, then they get
cocky and long for suffering. Being satisfied with what
you have is probably the most difficult thing to
achieve."

Laduner fell silent. He seemed to have been talking
more for himself. Studer suddenly had the feeling
he'd misjudged everything the doctor had said the
previous evening about Pieterlen.

What was it that was at the bottom of every human
being? Loneliness.

Perhaps Dr Laduner was lonely too? He had his wife,
true, but there are certain things you can't discuss with
your wife. He had colleagues, but what can you
talk about with your colleagues? Shop! And with the
doctors here? They regarded him as their teacher.
Then one day a simple detective sergeant turns up
in Dr Laduner's apartment. Dr Laduner seizes the opportunity and talks on and on at the said detective
sergeant. And why not?

"He flings his paper streamers and War flares up. . . "
Laduner repeated, then fell silent. The military march
faded out and a foreign voice filled the room. It was an
urgent voice, but its urgency was unpleasant.

It said:

"Two hundred thousand men and women are gathered here to cheer me. Two hundred thousand men
and women have come as representatives of the whole
nation, which is behind me. Foreign states dare to
accuse me of breaking a treaty. When I seized power
this land lay desolate, ravaged, sick ... I have made it
great, I have made others respect it ... Two hundred
thousand men and women are listening to my words,
and with them the whole nation is listening. . ."

Laduner slowly got up and went over to the shiny
box from which the words were coming. A click, the
voice fell silent.

"Where does Matto's realm end, Studer?" the doctor
asked quietly. "At the fence round Randlingen Clinic?
You once talked about a spider sitting in the middle of
its web. The threads reach out, they spread over the
whole world. Matto flings his balls and his paper
streamers ... You'll be thinking I'm a poetic psychiatrist. That wouldn't be a bad thing. It's not much we
want, just to bring a little reason to the world. Not the
reason of the French Enlightenment, a different kind
of reason, the reason of our times. Reason that can
light up the darkness inside us, like a lantern, and
bring us some clarity ... Get rid of some of the lies,
clear away the grand words: Duty, Truth, Honesty ...
make people more modest. We're all of us murderers,
thieves and adulterers ... Matto is lurking in the darkness. The devil's been dead for ages, but Matto's still alive, Schiil's quite right about that, and if he wouldn't
keep bothering the police with his murder in Dove's
Gorge I'd let him go. It's a pity Schiil's never written a
history of Matto, as I asked him to. I can't get any
newspaper to publish a short poem in prose."

He stopped. Studer gave a quiet yawn, but Laduner
didn't notice. "Two hundred thousand men and
women ... the whole nation," he went on. "And Bonhoffer, the psychiatrist, our teacher, with all his knowledge he collapsed like a house of cards. You remember the trial about the fire, Studer? The man who was
talking just now was lucky. Had he had a psychiatric
examination at the beginning of his career, perhaps
the world might look a little different today. As I said
before, contact with the mentally ill is contagious. And
there are people who are particularly susceptible -
whole nations can be susceptible. I once said something in a lecture to which people objected. Certain socalled revolutions, I said, are basically nothing more
than the vengeance of psychopaths - at which a few
colleagues left the room demonstratively. But it's true."

Laduner looked tired. He put his hand over his eyes.
"We're fighting a losing battle, but we must keep
going. No one's going to help us, but perhaps it's not
entirely pointless. Perhaps others will come after us -
in a hundred, two hundred years? - and take over
where we left off."

A sigh. All was quiet in the apartment.

"You'll have a glass of Benedictine?" Laduner asked.
He went out and took a surprisingly long time to
return with two glasses on a tray.

"Prost," he said, clinking his glass with Studer's.
"Down in one." Studer emptied his glass. The liqueur
had a strangely bitter aftertaste. The sergeant looked
at Laduner, but he turned away.

"Good night, Studer. And have a good sleep," he
said, He was wearing his smiling mask.

You're lying in bed and you've no idea whether you're
asleep or awake. Sleep's like a black blanket; you're
lying underneath it and you can't get out of the folds.
You're dreaming you're awake ... perhaps you really
are awake?

And the room's brightly lit. The only thing you can't
understand is why the light is green, when the bedside
lamp has a yellow shade. And in the green light you
can see someone sitting at the table. He's leaning back
in his chair with an accordion on his knees, and he's
playing ... playing: "Somewhere in the world, the road
to heaven starts ..."

The only odd thing is that the man - is it a man? -
the man sitting at the table keeps changing his shape.
One moment he's tiny, only the nails on his fingers are
long and the colour of green glass ... then he's bigger
and fat, very fat. He looks like Schmocker, the wouldbe assassin, and he's making a speech while he's playing the accordion: "Two hundred thousand men and
women . . ." He's singing it to the tune of "The Roses
Are Blooming in Sans Souci". Then the little fat man
suddenly has a second pair of arms growing out of his
shoulders, they're long and thin and the hands are
playing with balls and paper streamers. The balls fly
out of the window and the streamers decorate the walls
... Of course, you're in the casino, sitting at the table
with the VIPs, glasses of white wine in front of
everyone. But sitting on a corner of the stage, his legs
dangling, is the four-armed man. He's playing the
accordion and juggling with rubber balls. There are
couples dancing in the open space below the stage and
the four-armed man jumps down. He mingles with the dancers, he walks among them like the leader of a
gypsy band, bowing to every couple, his music
ingratiating.

"Reason!" Dr Laduner says it out loud and the casino
disappears. There are tenements in a dreary landscape. A star appears in the sky, falls down and
becomes a glowing factory with innumerable buildings. There's a stench of gas; it makes your eyes water.
The four-armed man is playing "Fridericus Rex, Our
King and Lord".

There they are, like a mute regiment standing to
attention: bomb after bomb, tall, slim, elegant. "My
invention," says the man with four arms. A bomb
explodes, yellow gas pours out, everything goes dark,
the music stops and Dr Laduner's voice can be heard,
loud and clear, "In two hundred years we'll carry
on..."

Then the yellow curtain of gas disperses and there
are corpses scattered over a wide plain. They look
strangely distorted, like the Director or little Gilgen.
Yes, that's right, one of them is Gilgen. He's standing
up and saying, "Somewhere in the world the road to
heaven starts . . ." And he starts laughing, and the
laughing wakes you up ... With a muzzy head ... The
room is dark and out of the window you can see that
the courtyard is dark as well ...

Christ Almighty! Why had Dr Laduner put a sedative
in your Benedictine?

A noise in the corridor. Studer sat up. A click as the
corridor door closed. With one leap Studer was out of
bed. Where was Dr Laduner creeping off to?