Human Traces

by Sebastian Faulks

  Kitty was sitting alone, reading, in the drawing room of her house in Bayswater. It was a short walk from Hyde Park, conveniently placed for access to Wimpole Street, where Thomas had a room, and to the more fashionable areas south of the park where he occasionally went on house visits. It was situated in a cobbled back street that was reassuringly quiet at night; it was small, but with both girls living away from home they needed only one spare bedroom. Kitty herself was out at work most of the day, teaching German and French in a school near Primrose Hill, so while the house lacked the drama of the Wilhelmskogel or the atmosphere of the old schloss it served them well enough; and she liked to fall asleep to the sound of traffic from the rainy streets of Gloucester Terrace and Craven Hill.

  Without telling Thomas, she had been to see a heart specialist, who had told her that he believed the valves of her heart were damaged by rheumatic fever and that she should not expect to live a full life. As to the extent by which her days might be abbreviated, he would not be drawn; nor could he say for sure whether the fevers to which she was more than normally prone in the winter were connected with the original condition or were merely the results of a weakened immune system’s inability to fight off seasonal colds and infections.

  At times, sitting in her London drawing room, Kitty felt frustrated by her poor health. It was not, after all, as though one had several chances at living and might reasonably expect to shoulder a fair proportion of the world’s sickness in one of them; she had one life only and it had been blighted. Yet her disposition usually saved her from despair. She had only to think of Charlotte and Martha, grown tall and elegant yet still essentially the little girls, the inexplicably doubled blessing that had dropped on her when she had reason to think she might not have children at all. In the year after she had sat at her dying father’s bedside, watching this lovely man dragged out slowly through the gate of death, she had once or twice thought of killing herself because she could no longer bear to have the random pointlessness of existence held quite so close to her face. Yet her subsequent cure and release from illness had filled her with a kind of levity she felt would last for ever, or at least for the rest of her somewhat shortened life. She knew that there was something frivolous in her refusal to engage with the subjects that her husband had worn himself away in contemplating, but she felt that her illness had bought her the right to live as she pleased. The chance of making a living for the family was one she seized with pleasure; she planned the lessons she would teach her pupils in advance and enjoyed the release of a profession beyond medicine, of having colleagues who never thought of death, and charges who were not ill, but filled with childish optimism.

  The telephone rang on the table in the hall and Kitty, unused to the noisy irruption of the instrument into her private thoughts, went to answer it with thudding heart.

  ‘Is that Mrs Midwinter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Sergeant Moore, Paddington Green. We have a gentleman here, madam, who I think may be your husband.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Is your husband missing, madam?’

  ‘He is a little late coming home, but I would not say he was “missing”, no.’

  ‘Well, he has been found.’

  ‘What do you mean, “found”? He is not a stray cat.’

  ‘A gentleman was found in the Sussex Gardens area. He was in a confused state. Constable Delaney at first believed him to have been drinking but I believe this was not the case. A doctor was called but he advised the gentleman was fit to be taken home. I would be obliged if you would come to the station, madam.’

  ‘How do you know it is my husband?’

  ‘We took the liberty of examining the contents of his pockets, where we found a letter addressed to him at number 29—’

  ‘Very well. I am coming.’

  Three days after the operation in Zürich, back in their rented rooms overlooking the Thames in Pimlico, Jacques told Sonia about the procedure.

  ‘What was so striking’, he said, ‘was that it seemed to suggest that past experience has a continuing physical existence in the brain.’

  ‘Not just a memory?’ said Sonia.

  ‘Yes, it is a memory, but if a memory is stored in cells and can be reactivated so that the experience is relived, then memory is very much less abstract than we had supposed. It is more like a cardboard box in a brick warehouse.’

  ‘And was the patient all right?’

  ‘Yes, I believe she did well. Fischer was able to find a small amount of dead tissue. He removed it and she is making a good recovery. But that is not really the point. The point is that our past experience is stored and can be relived.’

  ‘What was the name of that man in Paris, at the Salpêtrière, who—’

  ‘Pierre Janet! Yes. Exactly. “In the human brain nothing ever gets lost.” It seems as though he was right.’

  ‘But how does this change anything?’

  ‘In two ways. We had thought that the hippocampus, another part of the brain, stored memories, but it now seems they may be spread about the brain. But more importantly, my darling, don’t you see?’

  ‘See what?’ said Sonia, looking up, baffled, at Jacques’s flushed, imploring face. With his unkempt white hair and his beard he looked like an illustration she remembered from her Bible of the prophet Elisha.

  ‘Don’t you see that if nothing gets lost, all is remembered and all is physically accessible, then it is really only a question of how we get access to it. The past does not die or vanish. It can be relived.’

  ‘Oh, my love, that is a forlorn hope.’

  ‘We had believed that access to memory came from a conscious effort of recollection – or an unconscious effort in a dream. Now it seems it could be quite mechanical.’

  ‘That does not sound right.’

  ‘No, no. It is quite rational. On the train back from Zürich I had a brilliant idea. In the name of science, I am going to offer myself as a guinea pig. I am going to see if someone will do the procedure on me. I doubt whether Fischer will. He is too . . . Cautious. Too involved with his clinic and the university. But I shall find someone. And it’s not a particularly complicated procedure.’

  ‘But no one will operate on a man who is not sick. It is far too dangerous – opening up your skull, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘But they must. Don’t you see? I want to remember. I want to relive. And when he puts the electrodes on I shall tell him to leave them there until I have finished.’

  ‘You do not know what memory you might release.’

  ‘No. But I would like to try. In case . . . In case . . .’

  Sonia stood up and crossed the room. She laid her hand on Jacques’s sleeve. ‘This is quite mad, Jacques. You are meant to be a scientist. You must accept what has happened. Daniel is dead.’

  ‘It is not mad. It is neurological fact, proved in one of the best clinics in Europe and I intend to profit from it. And it is not just Daniel. I want to go back. Back to . . .’ He tailed off.

  ‘To what? To the day of your birth?’ Sonia held Jacques by the wrists. ‘You are tormenting yourself and you are tormenting me, Jacques. Please, please stop it. Daniel is dead. Your mother is dead. Olivier too. Your father. They have all gone. Let them rest in peace.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Jacques. ‘Not while there is hope.’

  The next day Sonia sat at the desk in the window overlooking the river and wrote:

  Dear Thomas,

  May I come to tea tomorrow? I am worried about Jacques and wd like to discuss it with you. Shall you be in at 4?

  Your loving sister, Sonia

  Meanwhile, in the course of a conversation with the landlady of his lodgings, Jacques was given the name of someone who might help him. It was a Mrs Hockley in Camden Town. It was not really what he had had in mind; she was no neurosurgeon; but he was inspired and desperate enough to try anything.

  The motor omnibus from Victoria stopped at Euston Station, where he too
k a cab onwards. He had never heard of Camden Town and did not like the look of what he saw: vast railway cuttings had been driven through the narrow streets, and the sooty terraces that clung onto the edge were like rescue huts at the site of an earthquake. There were one or two villainous-looking taverns with improbable names, the Swan of Avon or the Horse and Hounds, through whose steamed windows he could see capped labourers with outsize beer mugs. The cab continued north, past a large roundhouse for turning locomotives, then swung into a small and comparatively respectable street, with curtains and potted plants at the windows.

  Jacques rapped the knocker at number 35 and heard a dog yap briefly before it was silenced. He watched the cab depart and felt glad he had engaged it to return.

  A maid in a uniform answered; she looked him up and down nervously.

  ‘I have come to see Mrs Hockley.’

  ‘You’re to wait in the parlour then. In here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jacques found himself in a cold front room overlooking the street. There was a gas fire, but it was not lit; on a gate-leg table were some old copies of Strand magazine and John o’ London’s Weekly. There were half a dozen hard chairs ranged round the walls, on one of which was sitting a man in a bowler hat who nodded but said nothing. Jacques kept his coat on and rubbed his bare hands together. In the course of the next ten minutes they were joined by a couple of about sixty years old, and a young woman on her own. None of them introduced themselves or shook hands, so Jacques, assuming this was the English way, merely nodded to each newcomer.

  ‘Mrs Hockley is ready for you now,’ said the maid. ‘I just need to collect your money first. Ten shillings each, please. You can leave it in the plate on the side there. Thank you. Now follow me.’ She led them down a narrow passage, past the foot of the stairs; Jacques could see what looked like a scullery ahead of them, but before they reached it, the maid opened the door into a large dark room to one side.

  ‘Thank you, Sarah. Now I want you all to come in and make yourselves feel at home. I am Mrs Hockley. You may call me Venetia.’

  A large woman was seated at a circular table. It was so dark in the room that at first Jacques found it hard to locate a seat. As they all settled themselves, he was able to see that Mrs Hockley wore some sort of turban or headdress, perhaps of the kind worn by a concierge or cleaner but perhaps something more exotic – it was too dark to say. Behind her, thick velvet curtains obscured the window which would have given on to the back yard or garden. A few coals were glowing in a tiny fire in the grate, but the only other source of light was a candle on the mantelpiece. There was a faint smell of soap or perfumed oil. He could hear the dog yapping upstairs, then footsteps, presumably the maid’s, on their way to silence it.

  ‘Now then,’ said Mrs Hockley. ‘If you are all nice and settled we are going to see what we can do. Is everyone comfy? I haven’t asked for your names and I’d rather not know. It makes it simpler. Shall we begin with you, dear?’ She looked towards the young woman.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Is there someone you want to be in touch with? Is it a loved one? Do you want to tell me his name?’

  ‘Timothy. He was my fiancé.’

  ‘Do you have something of his with you?’

  ‘I have his signet ring.’

  ‘That’s lovely, dear. Would you like to pass it over? There we are. Now I want you all to join hands with the person sitting next to you.’

  Jacques extended one hand to the young woman on his left and the other to the older woman on his right.

  ‘Now we are all going to close our eyes and concentrate.’

  With his eyes shut, Jacques thought of Mesmer and his animal magnetism; he thought of Bernheim, Charcot and the Nancy School of hypnotism, of doctors at the Salpêtrière moving symptoms from one side of the body to the other with magnets; he thought of the whole fraught, rococo edifice of psychosomatic medicine at which so many brilliant men had laboured for so long, and he had a strong desire to laugh at this plump lady in her back sitting room.

  Then he felt the grip of the young woman on his left, the desperation with which she squeezed his hand. He tried to picture her Timothy, probably some hapless subaltern on the Western Front who had walked out one morning with a pistol and coloured officer flashes on his uniform to make himself unmistakable to the German machine gunners in their first lazy sweep along the line . . . And he saw Daniel’s face instead, only Daniel’s face, and found his hand had returned the desperate squeeze of his neighbour.

  ‘I am hearing someone,’ said Mrs Hockley. ‘Someone ever so nice. A young man, I think. He has lovely manners.’

  The table, which was covered by a tasselled cloth, began to shake. Jacques lifted his hand a little in case the ferocity of his grip was somehow responsible, but it made no difference.

  ‘Jennifer,’ she said. ‘He wants to speak to Jennifer.’

  Jacques felt his left hand being crushed.

  ‘That’s my name!’

  Mrs Hockley’s head was thrown back and a row of beads wobbled beneath her jowls.

  ‘He says . . . He says . . . He misses you. And he remembers Margaret. Is it Margaret, Marget—’

  ‘Margate! That’s where we got engaged.’

  ‘The voice is getting fainter again. What do you want me to ask him?’

  ‘Ask him . . . Does he love me still?’

  ‘Timothy? Timothy? Can you hear me? Jennifer wants to know, Do you love her still?’

  The table shook thunderously and there was the sudden sound of glass breaking, somewhere unseen in a corner of the room. Mrs Hockley screamed, and the noise made both other women scream in reaction. A powerful smell of old rose leaves and lavender came into the air. Mrs Hockley lowered her head on to the table, panting.

  The others sat in uneasy silence. Jacques tactfully withdrew his hand from Jennifer, who took a handkerchief from her bag and sobbed into it.

  Eventually Mrs Hockley stood up, said, ‘Pardon me for a minute,’ and went over to a small side table where she poured herself a glass of water from a carafe. She lit a second candle on the mantelpiece and sat down again.

  ‘The spirit world has its own laws,’ she said. ‘The people who live there, they are not the same as us. You don’t know what they are going to do next. They are unpredictable. We must be understanding of them. We must be careful in the way we talk to them. Is there anyone here who doubts that they live on after death?’

  Gloomy looks were exchanged. If they doubted it, they kept quiet; this was the last moment they would choose to voice their scepticism, thought Jacques, with their money in Mrs Hockley’s collecting plate.

  ‘Very well. We are going to try again. This time I am not going to ask for a name, I am just going to see if there is someone there. Please all join hands again.’

  Jacques replaced his hands in those of his neighbours. He noticed that Jennifer’s was moist and trembling.

  He closed his eyes. He saw Daniel’s face again, though it was only a memory of the face; he could not quite bring its distinctive human wholeness, the character, into focus. Then he saw him as a child, walking past the fountains at the schloss in his corduroy hose, stopping to speak with one of the patients; he saw the rash of eczema at the back of his knees, the curl of hair on the nape of his neck. He pictured him in uniform, the man’s features so recently acquired, provisional – the strong jaw and nose, the cleanly shaved skin, through which Jacques could see all the stages of his childhood, like half-effaced stories in a palimpsest.

  ‘I am starting to see a strange light or aura,’ said Mrs Hockley. ‘The colour of sapphire. It is floating in the room. Keep your eyes closed, all of you. It is trying to settle, to pick someone out.’

  The table suddenly heaved off the floor and thumped down again. Jennifer gave out a little scream.

  ‘Yes, I believe there is someone who is trying to make contact with one of us here. I am going to speak to the spirit. Who are you? What is your name? Who are you tryin
g to reach. Oh de-e-a-r. Oh de-e-a-r.’

  Mrs Hockley threw her head back as far as her stout neck would permit. A tremor seemed to run through her upper body.

  ‘Can you hear me? Make yourself known! I see your aura very bright. You are a lost soul. Please speak to me. Yes . . . Yes, I am hearing something now. What? Yes, yes . . . Continue.’

  An aroma of burnt pudding wafted into the room, quite distinct and different from the previous perfumed smells.

  Mrs Hockley spoke in a tremulous voice. ‘It is a man . . . His name begins with the letter . . . D . . . He speaks of mountains . . . He is going to speak through me . . .’

  Her voice adopted a lower timbre and a vibrato effect. ‘“I am in the mountains . . . It is cold and snowing . . . A man has fallen from the mountain . . . Guns firing . . . Forgive me . . . Forgive me, forgive me.”’

  Then in her normal voice, Mrs Hockley said, ‘He said something to me about twins. I did not catch it. No! he is here again. Speak, spirit, speak to me.’

  From the corner of the room came a crash as of a tin tray with glasses being overturned; Mrs Hockley let out a cry and held her hands to her throat.

  ‘Let me be! Let me be!’

  Jacques stood up, wrenching his hands away. ‘You stupid bitch,’ he shouted.

  There was a gasp from the older woman.

  ‘How can you play with people like this?’ he said.

  ‘Please, please—’

  Jacques began to curse her in French, using the foulest words of the Breton ports, then turned and left the room. As he went out into the passage, he saw a male figure hurriedly going into the scullery and heard another crash of glass.

  He marched to the front door and wrenched it open, then ran down the steps into the dark street. He threw back his head and lifted up his eyes to the black sky over London, hoping for relief; but all he could see was the face of his son, lit by the white moon, pressing its outline through the dark clouds and bearing down on him.

  ‘And that is why I came to see you,’ said Sonia, putting down her teacup.