Pilgrim (10 page)
The
riz de veau
arrived and were served by two young waiters under supervision of the Maître d’.
As the vegetable dishes were uncovered and displayed, Sybil said: “did I order spinach?”
“Yes, my Lady. Expressly. Spinach and parsnips.”
“Good. I’d forgotten the spinach. And the wine? The white was excellent. And the red?”
“It is here, my Lady. The claret, just as you requested.”
“So.” Sybil turned to Jung. “I hope you don’t mind. I always prefer a dry wine with sweetbreads.”
“It sounds just right.”
Sybil nodded at the attendants.
The waiters departed and, having decanted and
poured the red wine, the Maître d’ followed them. When they had gone, Sybil said: “I’m always relieved when a restaurant has no wine steward. It saves having to argue about one’s choices.”
She watched as Jung took the first forkful of
riz de veau.
“They are good?”
“Excellent.”
“I’m so pleased. When one has guests in a foreign restaurant, one is never sure…”
“You need have no fear. Eat and be happy.”
She did—and she was.
“Delicious. Delicious. Utterly superb.”
She has so many childlike qualities, Jung was thinking. Conniving one minute, innocent the next. Charming, manipulative, endearing and dangerous. Just like a clever child who has learned the ways of the adult world and performs them with consummate skill without giving up an iota of its nursery privileges.
“You said, Lady Quartermaine, that it is not a condition, not a disease that has captured him. Mister Pilgrim.”
“Yes. I said that—and I believe it.”
“On what basis?”
“I have known him so well for so long. I am familiar, I believe, as anyone can be with his nature. The nature of his passions—the nature of his fears. His foibles, talents, humours—good and bad—and his dearness…the sadness in him, if you like. His longing to be delivered from the necessity of self. Do you follow me?”
“Possibly.”
Sybil looked away from Jung towards the mountains beyond the window. Her knife and fork were still in hand, though clearly, for the moment, she had forgotten them. “There is no condition that can claim him, Doctor—no mere condition, no mere disease. It’s not permissible. I will not allow it.”
The statement was, of course, preposterous—but Lady Quartermaine had made it with such simplicity that Jung was moved by her belief in it. It had been confided, he imagined, in the same tone and manner as Saints confide their visions to their confessors—when to walk with God is one thing, but to say one does is another.
The spell was broken when Jung gave a cough and was forced to reach for his water glass.
“Is everyone mad, do you think?” Sybil asked, recovering her poise. “One way or another, do you think it could be so?”
Jung gave one of his shrugs and said: “there are degrees of madness, of course. I have found some traces of it in myself, I do confess.” He waved his hand. “But madness is a crafty beast and cannot be caught with theories. Over time, I have learned not only to be distrusting of theories, but to actively oppose them. Facts are what matter. And the facts regarding each individual’s madness are all we have. General theories regarding madness merely get in the way of discovering its true nature in each patient, one by one by one. My own madness is quantified by parentheses—just as all madness is. And because of that, I have learned not
only to deal with it, but to live with it. And most importantly, as any person must, to function in its presence. It is mine—my own and only mine. What has happened, in Mister Pilgrim’s case, is that he can no longer function—and whether this is because he is mad or for some other reason is still to be revealed.”
“I am frightened for him.”
“That is perfectly understandable.”
“I don’t want him harmed.”
“He will not be harmed.” Jung laughed. “How could he be?
“There is harm and there is harm, Doctor Jung. You know that. I will tell you—and I tell you with regret—that I do not like Doctor Furtwängler. I do not trust his judgement, and to be frank, I did not appreciate his manner.”
Jung gave another wave of his hand. There was nothing he could say that would not sound treacherous.
“I did not like the feeling I had from him that he did not believe what I told him.”
“There, I think you are wrong, Lady Quartermaine. Doctor Furtwängler does believe what you have told him.”
“Be that as it may, I do not trust him. I do not trust his judgement. He was given the highest possible recommendation—but still, I do not trust him. He smiles too much. He smiles at the wrong moments. He smiles without pleasure. He smiles without feeling. He smiles without consideration. I hate ingratiation. It unnerves me and I lose all sense of trust. And not to
trust one’s doctor—or the doctor in charge of your dearest friend—is intolerable.”
Sybil set down her knife and fork and sat back in her chair.
“I am tired,” she said. “Tired and not a little lost in most of this. Psychiatry, Doctor Jung, is a complete mystery to me. But if it holds the answer to Mister Pilgrim’s survival, then I must abide with it until he is safely delivered.”
A silence fell between them which Jung dared not break.
Then Sybil spoke again.
“I realize it would not be proper to have Doctor Furtwängler removed from this case. Perhaps I have overreacted to his manner. Too much smiling—if you get my drift—becomes almost villainous.”
Jung was forced to repress his own smile. He knew Josef Furtwängler’s curried charms only too well.
“But I must ask—I am determined to ask—would you agree to take Mister Pilgrim on as your patient, Doctor Jung? I like what you have said, though some of it does not beguile me. Nonetheless, I sense a creative attitude in your response to Mister Pilgrim, and in my opinion, that is what he requires above all else. Someone who will take him as he is without assigning a label and pushing him into a corner.”
Jung looked down at his plate. He had not finished its contents, but wanted no more. He laid his utensils aside and pressed his napkin to his lips, spreading it afterwards in his lap. Then he said: “I would like to
accept your offer, Lady Quartermaine, but I fear I must decline.”
“Decline? But you can’t decline. I forbid it.”
“Nonetheless, Lady Quartermaine, against my own wishes, I must say no.”
He then explained—without too much emphasis on Josef Furtwängler’s often misguided judgement—that it was Furtwängler’s choice to work alone on
the Pilgrim case
and that
he has a particular quarrel with my methods…
He said more. He talked, without using names, about the Countess Blavinskeya—about the Dog-man, about the others—but he stressed the fact that
one can always be wrong
—that
one can misread a case
—that
one is fallible.
He told of the profound interest he had in
Mister Pilgrim’s dilemma
—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera, until Sybil was utterly charmed and convinced that only Doctor Jung could help her friend and that, if he would not speak to Doctor Bleuler in his own behalf, she would. And she would speak severely to Doctor Furtwängler.
“In that case,” said Jung, “I thank you—and I will do—in every way—the very best I can.”
“We are well met,” said Sybil. She raised her glass. “And on the strength of our meeting, let us drink to our absent friend.”
“Our absent friend.”
As if on cue, the orchestra broke into
Tales From the Vienna Woods.
“Oh, perfect, perfect day!” Sybil cried. “Your
acceptance! This wine! A waltz! And next, profiteroles!”
Watching her wave a hand in the direction of the Maître d’, Jung thought:
and so—the child returns triumphant from her mission amongst the Doctors, and will now be offered the crowning glory of her victory feast. A chocolate sweet.
As for himself, he drank a private toast to the concierge of the Hôtel Baur au Lac, who yesterday morning had received from Jung’s own hands a slim volume in a plain brown envelope for delivery to the Marchioness of Quartermaine, “with the compliments of a stranger.” His anonymity had cost him three francs.
Dora Henkel was leading the Countess Tatiana Blavinskeya along the corridor towards the elevator. She did this every other day. They were on their way to the lower reaches of the building where the Countess would be treated to a course of hydrotherapeutic treatments which were intended to soothe her nerves and relieve her tension.
Dora Henkel enjoyed Tatiana Blavinskeya’s company. She had been in love with her from the moment of her arrival and wanted never to leave her, always to be by her side.
The Countess had said: “if you want to come to the Moon, you must have a visa. A diplomatic passport.”
Dora was forced to admit she had neither.
“Well, then,” the Countess informed her, “that’s the end of it. No one is allowed to visit the Moon who has not a diplomatic passport or at least one parent who was born there.”
Dora’s parents had both been born—as she had been, herself—in the village of Kirschenblumen, on the shores of the Zürichsee. Any clear night, Kirschenblumen was visible—just as the Moon was visible—its lights like frozen crystals in the distance.
The Moon had always fascinated Dora. Even as a child she had worshipped it, sensing in its feminine glow the portents of a possible love affair. That her passion for the Moon was destined to be thwarted did not occur to her at the age of six. She had grown up trusting that anything was possible so long as you believed. Time, of course, was to prove that most beliefs are thwarted by reality. A forced diet of it, in Dora’s case.
Her mother, for instance, had informed her at the age of eight that
a person cannot expect to have a successful love affair with a cat.
Nor, at fourteen, with a horse—nor, at eighteen, with Queen Alexandra. These imagined affairs were like a plague and a constant torment—cats, horses, Queens, Greek goddesses, the Lorelei, the Moon…
And now, there was the Countess Tatiana Blavinskeya, a genuine expatriate from the Moon. Dora knew it was not the truth, but it gave her pleasure even to pretend that she believed.
This morning, the Countess was wearing a flowing,
moon-blue robe and moon-blue slippers. In her hair, there was a moon-blue ribbon…Beneath the robe, her body was clothed in creamy lingerie, made especially for her in Paris. Every piece of it bore her monogram:
T.S.B.
As the elevator descended, Tatiana Sergeyevna Blavinskeya drew her robe about her, preparing to make her exit. It was as though the little cage of the elevator was a miniature stage—and its operator a stage manager. She had still not spoken. Perhaps the hydrotherapy would help. At least it could help her unclench her toes and fingers, and perhaps she would even at last be able to close her eyes.
There were crystal chandeliers in the hallway to which she had descended with Dora Henkel, and stepping out onto the carpeted marble floor, the Countess raised her arm as if to protect herself from attack. The chandeliers might be stars—and the stars were her enemies.
Knowing this, Dora hurried her forward towards the glass doors whose glistening surfaces were hatched with wrought-iron arabesques. “Come,” she said. “We must hurry.”
Beyond the doors, the sound and smell of water was universal. Cubicles lined a dimly lit corridor, each of the cubicles a dressing-room with mirrors and hooks, hairbrushes and combs and ribbons for repairing any damage done to one’s coiffure in the baths. Also, in each cubicle, a chaise longue for the patient and a straight-backed chair for the attendant orderly or nurse.
Number ten was free and Dora stood back to let Blavinskeya enter. Once inside, with the door closed, Dora proceeded to remove the lingerie, item by item. Each was neatly folded or suspended from a hook and the Countess was then returned to her robe.
In other psychiatric establishments and spas, a bathing costume was normally provided for those who entered the waters. But here, the patients took their treatments naked. Large white winding sheets and an abundance of bath towels were provided for modesty’s sake as well as to keep the bathers from catching a chill.
Not that a chill was likely.
The world which Dora and Blavinskeya were about to enter at the far end of the corridor was a misted world of humid tubs and pools, of steam rooms, sauna baths and fountains of warm water.
Dora loved it here and wished on every occasion when she brought her patients for their treatments that she too could enter the waters wearing only her skin. She had never understood how, in other hydrotherapy centres, the use of bathing costumes was tolerated. They were so confining—so brutally binding and so itchy that they added to, rather than subtracted from the patients’ nervous disorders.
They might as well force them to bathe in straitjackets,
was Dora’s opinion.
Beyond the next set of doors, they entered a vast and almost cavernous area, populated by ghostly sheeted figures moving through misted cones of light with nothing heard but the gentle whispers of slippered feet
and the plash of falling water. Nothing, that is, except the sound of one ghost singing.
The singer sang at some distance, though the song was carried crystal clear by the moistened air and its lack of echoes. There were no words—simply a lilting, liquid line of melody.
Countess Blavinskeya held out her hand to Dora Henkel as though she were accepting an offer to dance, but otherwise, she remained stock still.
I am lost,
she seemed to say.
Is this a ballroom? Am I being courted? I don’t know who you are.
It was a woman singing.
Mezzo—mezzo—mezzo-soprano!
Did you know the Moon is a mezzo-soprano?
As the silver stream of sound poured through the cellars, others in the steam paused to listen.
Dora turned to look at Blavinskeya.
How beautiful she is,
she thought,
with her pale pink hair and her childlike eyes. If only—oh, if only…
