Pilgrim (12 page)
Tatiana pressed her head back far as her neck would let it go and howled.
“Help me! Help me! Help me! Help!”
But no one came to save her. No one. Only those already present and those already present told her:
you have no need of help. All is well. We are with you. There, there, there—be quiet.
It was the same old story. No one could see one’s enemies but oneself, and all one’s enemies could see was you.
The next morning, Pilgrim refused to eat.
He could smell the marmalade in the dish beside his plate of toast—toast which Kessler had buttered carefully, just the way he had seen Mister Pilgrim do it: not too much and not too little, with butter all the way to the edges.
There was a teapot filled with a mixture of Lapsang Souchong and English Breakfast—Pilgrim’s favourite blend, according to Lady Quartermaine’s instruction.
No grapefruit—only tea and marmalade and toast.
Nothing had been touched.
When Doctor Jung arrived a half-hour later, Kessler had carried off the tray and set it on the bed.
“We won’t eat,” he said. “We’ve used the toilet with some success—we’ve bathed and we’ve brushed our teeth. I thought it best not to shave him. I thought it was not a good idea for him to see the implement just yet.”
“Perhaps,” said Jung. “But I shouldn’t worry too much. Tomorrow, I would shave him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he sleep?”
“Not a wink. Nor I.”
“A pity. Will you be all right?”
“I wouldn’t mind a nap when I’ve carted off these dishes. In fact, I may just eat this breakfast myself. Watching him starve, I’m famished.”
“Then take it away and eat. Enjoy yourself. Relax. It’s nine o’clock. Come back at noon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Kessler collected the tray from the bed and left, passing into the sitting-room.
Pilgrim wore the usual pyjamas—the same grey robe—the same white stockings and chamois slippers. Someone had changed his bandages, even though no good medical reason for them persisted. They were there, in fact, only to keep the scars from falling under Pilgrim’s scrutiny.
Jung stood in front of him and smiled.
“You really should sleep, you know,” he said. “We all need sleep, even though, I confess, I sleep very little myself. But I couldn’t possibly do without it altogether.”
Pilgrim shifted his gaze.
There were pigeons on the…
…
battlements.
Pigeons on…
…
the doorstep
…
…
the hearth
…
…
the place beyond the
…
There. Just there. Beyond just there
…
The
…
“Mister Pilgrim?”
Pigeons.
“Can you see me?”
Yes. You are here.
“Speak, if you are able.”
I am not able.
“Are you afraid of me?”
What?
“Are—you—afraid—of—me?”
Of course I am. Aren’t you?
“Look at me, Mister Pilgrim.”
No. Pilgrim turned his attention to the pigeons on the windowsills and balcony, though he could still not identify where they were.
The battlements.
“If you can understand me, nod your head.”
Nothing.
“If you can understand me, make some sign. It does not matter what it is—just make some sign.”
Nothing.
“I know you can move, Mister Pilgrim. I have seen you do so. Your fingers—your feet—your head. Give me some sign. Can you understand me?”
Nothing.
“Can you hear me?”
One hand reached for the other.
“You can hear me?”
There was a toe-tap. One.
Jung searched his pockets.
“Do you smoke, Mister Pilgrim?”
Nothing.
“I hope you will not object if I indulge in a cheroot. It is a weakness, I fear, against which I have no defence. Cheroots and brandy—I think of them as food.”
The box of cheroots was found and one of them extracted.
“My, my, my—oh, my! Delicious!” Jung said this while holding the chosen cheroot beneath his nose. His gaze had not left Pilgrim’s face. “I could give you one, if you so desire.”
Nothing.
“No? Very well…” Jung returned the box to its pocket and found his matches.
“Fire,” he said—and smiled. “Our gift from the gods,” and struck.
Pilgrim moved his eyes. The flame was of interest.
Jung lit up and drew two draughts of smoke before he spoke again.
“You like cigars? Cigarettes? Do you smoke a pipe?”
Still no reply.
“I have noted that your friend Lady Quartermaine is given to cigarettes. I took my luncheon with her yesterday. She extends her regards.”
The pigeons squatted in the morning light. The sun itself was still not visible.
No Sun. No God.
The sun rose every morning behind the Clinic and every day, as now, it lingered there as if to tantalize the waiting world. Its slanted rays were fingering the long
wooded valley in which the Zürichsee lay out of sight, and farther off than one could calculate, the ghost of
the fungfrau
was shrouded in sunless clouds where the valley dwindled to oblivion.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
Jung brought a chair and placed it on Pilgrim’s right-hand side.
“I should like to hear your opinion of the view. So often, a person’s idea of mountains depends on where he grew up. Were there mountains in your boyhood? In mine, there were—but not like these. These mountains here are wider, taller, braver than the mountains of my youth. I trust you follow me.”
Pilgrim blinked.
His hands moved—each hand laid palm upward on his knees.
“I have wanted all my life to live beside the sea,” Jung went on, “though the sea has never been within my range of choices. I am able, of course, to visit the sea—the ocean. Anyone can do that. But I cannot live in its proximity. The sea is a privilege I must leave to others whose work allows them daily access…”
Jung slid a glance at Pilgrim’s profile.
Pilgrim sat stolid. Still. But listening.
“My work is here. But there is water here, thank heaven—the Zürichsee—the River Limmat—the lakes and rivers all about us. Yes? Still, it is not the sea. It is not the ocean. I must be content.”
Pigeons.
“Have you ever considered death by water, Mister Pilgrim? Death by drowning?”
Yes.
“In dreams, I have drowned. But on the other hand, I have died many ways in dreams. As I am sure we all have. Many ways.”
Do you ever kill yourself in your dreams, Doctor?
“You have written somewhat of death—of dying. I have read your book on the life and death of Leonardo. Very well done. So full of insights. So enlightening. So full of anger. I was fascinated. Why would one be so angry at Leonardo da Vinci?”
Why not?
“And yet, there is such conviction in what you wrote, that one was almost persuaded.”
Almost?
“Where, one wonders, does such conviction come from?”
I knew him.
“Easy enough to be critical—and yes, to have good cause—but the genius of your book—and I speak of its
genius
advisedly—the genius of your book lies in the clarity with which you separate your condemnation of the man from your admiration for his art.”
Which is only just.
“I am fascinated. Fascinated.”
Pilgrim turned his hands palm down—a gesture duly noted by Jung.
“We shall have an interesting conversation about your book, perhaps—once you decide it is time to speak. Unless, of course, by then you will think the subject of Leonardo has been exhausted—which I doubt
somehow. The passion with which you attack him is so vehement, I suspect there is still much to say.”
Pilgrim counted the pigeons.
Six.
The sun rose higher, off to the left of the building—and though an April sun, it had no real promise yet of spring.
Jung had followed Pilgrim’s gaze and he remarked: “here in Switzerland you might think that winter will never end. And yet, the snow is already melting. I heard it this morning, making its rivers—running off beneath its surface. And in three weeks’ time, I promise you, there will be daffodils and crocuses showing themselves by the lake. It takes no time at all, once it starts, and before you know it, you turn around and it’s gone.”
Five, now. One’s flown away.
Jung stood up.
“What, I wonder, did Leonardo think of snow—down there in Florence, where the mountains are little more than hills? The most he would know of snow, I should think, would be the dreadful floods it causes along the Arno during spring run-off. Mud and sludge and waste—not snow like that out there. He never painted snow, so far as I recall, though of course I am not as familiar with his work as you are, Mister Pilgrim. Nothing in him was drawn to it. It was not there, in his inner eye. His inner eye was filled with other vistas—other imagery. Yes? Not snow—but wind and rain—those stormy clouds of his—all those dramas played out in his landscapes…And yet, no
snow. Perhaps you would agree with me, Mister Pilgrim. We are not free to choose what attracts our attention. It chooses us. This way, I have been chosen by you, Mister Pilgrim. You are my snow.”
Jung went away behind Pilgrim’s rigid back and moved towards the door.
“I will leave you, now,” he said. “I will return when you request my presence. Not before. Good day to you, Mister Pilgrim.”
The door opened.
The door closed.
Pilgrim’s hands reached up from his lap and gripped the arms of the Bath chair.
He shook.
His lips parted.
He spoke.
“The sky,” he said.
And then again: “the sky.”
He shaded his eyes and gazed at the sun.
The sun would cure him.
If he was truly snow—he would melt.
“Carl Gustav?”
It was Furtwängler.
“Yes, Josef.”
Furtwängler had seen Jung’s back as he closed the door to Pilgrim’s rooms and started away down the corridor.
“Wait for me one moment.” Furtwängler hurried forward.
Jung prepared himself for the worst—another of Josef’s icy tirades, another of his paranoid accusations.
“So,” Furtwängler said, “you have again managed to steal one of my patients.”
Here we go,
Jung thought. “Yes,” he said. “But I wouldn’t call it theft.”
“What would you call it, then?”
“Acceptance of a professional assignment. As usual, I was asked to say
yes
or
no.
I said
yes
.”
“Not the usual. This time you pulled strings. Bleuler had me in his office this morning at 8:30. He said that you were to take over Pilgrim’s case—not because he thought it best, but because Lady Quarter-maine insisted. But at least he had the decency to apologize.”
“Do you want an apology from me, Josef? It’s yours and I give it freely.”
They came to the stairs and started down.
“I do not accept it,” said Furtwängler. “If I thought for one second it was sincere, I would. But I know you too well, Carl Gustav. You have connived in this. You have connived and inveigled and undermined my position. And you did this by going directly to Lady Quartermaine in order to have me removed.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You were seen taking lunch with her yesterday. And last evening, so I am told, she paid a personal call on the Director and apparently convinced him in a single sitting that my diagnosis and treatment of
Mister Pilgrim were inappropriate and unacceptable.
Inappropriate and unacceptable!
What can I possibly have done to deserve this sort of criticism?”
“You misread your patient.”
“
I did not misread him!
How can you say that?”
They had reached the landing and had to fall silent and step aside in order to let two ascending nurses pass. Smiles and nods of pleasure all round. It must not be apparent to staff that an argument was taking place. Not, at least, until it had been settled.
After a moment of silence, Jung spoke without stepping down from the landing. “Yes,” he said. “I had lunch with Lady Quartermaine yesterday. At her instigation, not mine. I did nothing to facilitate this transfer,” he lied. “Nothing.” Then he moved on down the stairs.
Furtwängler, who at all costs could not bear to lose face or to appear at a disadvantage, resisted the temptation to hurry down after him. Instead, he came down as if he expected a welcoming party to greet him at the bottom.
“I must say, Carl Gustav, you do this sort of thing very well,” he said icily.
“What sort of thing?”
“Placing knives in people’s backs and then behaving as though they had somehow managed to reach round and stab themselves.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Josef. I was hoping—and I should tell you, Lady Quartermaine herself was rather hoping—that you would continue on with this case as primary consultant.”
They were now in the foyer, which was streaming with sunlight. A number of patients, their relatives, orderlies and nurses were going in to an early lunch. It was the first of May and someone had placed several pots of forced bulbs on the reception desk—hyacinths, paperwhites and jonquils—whose colours and whose scent were a welcome foretaste of the season waiting to burgeon beyond the doors.
Furtwängler momentarily was at a loss for words. Then he said: “was that a sincere offer of reconciliation?”
“Of course it was,” said Jung—smiling.
“It’s only been a week, now, since he was admitted—but I’ve become quite attached to him. Pilgrim. So much has happened in that time—I’m intrigued by his case and I really would hate to lose contact with it altogether.”
“And you needn’t. No need at all.”
Furtwängler gave a hesitant smile. “Well, then,” he said. “In that case, I wish you the best of luck with him.”
Jung gave a mock bow. “Thank you,” he said.
