I fight to rise, I struggle as if I were a mile under heavy sour black earth and above the earth slabs of stone, I fight so hard and I shout, No, no, no, no, don’t, I won’t, I don’t want, let me wake, I must wake up, but
Shhhhhh, hush, SLEEP and in slides the needle deep and down I go into the cold black dark depth where the sea floor is an earth of minute skeletons, detritus from eroding continents, fishes’ scales and dead plants, new earth for growing. But not me, I don’t grow, I don’t sprout, I loll like a corpse or a drowned kitten, my head rolling as I float and black washes over me, dark and heavy.
He is sleeping well, doctor, yes, he is resting well, yes,
he is very quiet, yes, he is no trouble at all.
But I must wake up.
But I am tied hands and feet, I am wrapped about and around with strands of seaweed from the Sargasso Sea, and I roll helpless on the ocean floor, down among the dead men, and my eyes are blacked out, sleep is heavier in me than the need is to wake and fight.
I must wake up.
Doctor he is very weak now. Yes he is restless between shots. Yes, he seems confused, bewildered, unable to feed himself, seems to want to go back to sleep, does not want to wake up, was angry when I said to him, We think you should wake up now.
Nurse how can I wake when you hush me, hush me, hush me, Hushhhhhh, shhhhh, I’m down among the dead men, and sweet sleep has dreams that daylight never knew, better to sleep where the dreams may come and visit, sweet promising dreams, marvelling visitors from there who know and tell that behind (or before) and down (or up) is the door up and out into the sweet light of day.
Well now, and how are you feeling?
Feeling?
We’d like to know how you are? Are?
You’ve had a good sleep and we think that now you are rested you ought to be able to remember who you are.
Who are you?
I’m Doctor Y.
I’ve never known anyone of that name.
Don’t you remember me?
That’s not what I have to remember.
No. Not if you don’t want. But who are you?
Why, can’t you see me?
I can see you very well indeed.
Then there you are.
Can you remember your name now perhaps?
My name! But I’ve had so many names.
You see, we have found out a little about you, but it would be better if you remembered it for yourself. Can you try?
I can.
Well then?
There’s something I ought to be doing, I know that. Yes, I know that.
What?
Not this, not here. There.
There? Where? Can you remember at all?
Yes, remembering.
What?
No, who.
Yes, that’s what I mean.
It was there, I know it was. We have to. We have to remember.
We?
It’s the law of God.
Ah. I see. Well, well. Well, rest a bit now. You’ve not done badly for your first time really awake.
Oh but I’ve been much more awake than this. This isn’t awake at all.
Oh good, good.
It’s knowing, Harmony. God’s law. That’s what it is. Let me … let me … I must … let me get up.
Now now shhhhhh, don’t get so excited, there’s a good chap. Nurse, will you come here a minute? Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Professor.
Tomorrow? No, that’s too late. I must get up.
Sleep dear. That’s it, sleep. There’s a good boy.
He is Professor Charles Watkins, Classics, Cambridge. Married, two sons. Aged 50. A wallet found in the street in Parliament Square with family photograph, the rest of contents missing. Police matched photograph with the photograph taken by them at station the night he was picked up. Wife has been told her husband is here. Spoke to her on telephone. Suggested she should wait until he remembers who he is. Took this sensibly. But, find out why wife did not report him missing? I probed, but I caught something evasive here. Saw patient this morning. He is obviously rested, no longer talking to himself; in short, better. He did not respond to his name. Suggest trial of half a dozen E.C.T.
DOCTOR X.
In view of strong doubt whether treatment has in fact benefitted patient, suggest advisable postpone electric shocks for some days. Have written to Mrs. Watkins. Surely she ought to be told more than can have been possible in a telephone call.
DOCTOR Y.
Well, how are you today?
Is it today?
It is Monday the 15th September.
I should be doing something. I should be.
A lecture? A class? An address?
Yes yes yes. That’s it. They told me. They said it would be. But I ought—I must get up.
You aren’t very strong yet.
Am I ill then?
Not physically.
Then why am I not strong? Am I weak?
Professor Watkins, you lost your memory.
Who is Professor Watkins. Is that the name of the other one?
No, it’s your name.
Mine? Oh no!
Yes it is.
What do I profess?
Greek. Latin. That field.
I profess not. Field? That’s no word for it! I should be … I ought to be … tell me, were you there too?
Where, Professor?
At the lecture? At the briefing?
Ah, you were briefed then?
Yes, yes. I do remember.
Who was there?
I. And He, of course and … and—who? A lot of us, yes …
Go on.
The Emanence. Yes. The light. That’s it, yes, of course. God the Father, Amen, Amen, Amen. And we were, yes, that’s who we were and that’s why I am here, but I lost my way in those fields.
You lost your memory, Professor, and you were found wandering on the edge of the river.
Oh my God, I hope it has cleansed itself by now, I do hope it is running clean again.
Wasn’t it clean?
Full of corpses, you know.
Oh I’m sure it was not. The Thames may not be the cleanest of streams, but it doesn’t collect many corpses.
The Thames? The Thames?
Yes, you were on the Embankment. The police found you.
I don’t remember anything of that.
Well, I’ll help you. You seemed as if you hadn’t been in bed for a while—
Well, naturally not!
You had eaten, they thought, but you were very tired …
Eaten, oh my God yes, oh, oh, no—
And the moon was new.…
On the contrary, it was full.
Well, well.
The Thames you say. That’s a tidal river. Not like that other. The river comes in and out, in and out, a tide, one and two and me makes three. Three. A tidal river is like a breath, breathing, feeding the land with fish and … Who? Who?
Professor, please. Do think about it. Don’t start rambling again. Please try and remember.
God I think. I gotta use words when I talk to you, Eliot. I gotta use words. But if not God, what?
So you are God, too, are you?
You as well.
I don’t aim so high, I assure you.
Stupid. You don’t have a choice.
Well, well. Have a nice rest. I’ll tell Doctor X that I think you are getting on nicely. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be in charge of you for a few days. Doctor X is going away for a holiday.
Doctor X?
He saw you yesterday. You said you saw him.
You can’t see him. I told you. He’s not there.
You can see me, can you?
Oh yes, very clear indeed.
But not Doctor X?
No, he’s solid all through. He’s all animal without light. No light. No God. No sun.
I wouldn’t say that, you know.
Do you know? Can you see? From there, where light is? From there Doctor X would not be
at all. Only those with light can be seen from the country of light. You would be seen there, yes. Your light burns, it is a small steady light.
What light?
Star light.
Well, thanks. But I do think you are being hard on poor Doctor X. He tries to help you. According to his lights.
There you are, that’s what I said. It doesn’t matter what he says or does. He’s not in existence. I can’t see him if I don’t try to very hard.
Ah well, see you tomorrow then.
Patient has religious delusions. Paranoic. Disassociated. I think he is more coherent however. Have not yet heard from Mrs. Watkins.
DOCTOR Y.
DEAR DOCTOR Y.,
Thank you for so very kindly writing and explaining to me about my husband. I was rather upset after Doctor X’s telephone call because I am rather ignorant about mental health and he didn’t tell me very much. But I do understand that if my husband lost his memory there isn’t much to tell. I don’t know any particular reason why my husband should be “under stress” as you put it. Not any more than usual. But I wouldn’t necessarily be the one to know. I don’t pry into my husband’s affairs. So I wouldn’t know if something has upset him very much or anything like that. The reason why I didn’t tell the police when I didn’t hear from him is that he sometimes does things on his own and he would resent it if I interfered. I think it would be better if you asked Jeremy Thorne of 122 Rose Road, Little Minchener, nr. Cambridge, as he knows much more about my husband’s plans than I do. I don’t think Mr. Thorne will be back yet, as he has been in Italy for a summer holiday. But they will be back soon.
Yours sincerely,
FELICITY WATKINS
P.S. You asked about my husband and the children. When he is here it is a very happy family. You asked about letters that might have upset my husband. There are letters that came just before he went off to London but unless it is necessary I would rather not read them. I will send them to you if you think they would help.
Well Professor, you are looking very much better. How do you feel?
Why don’t you let me go back to sleep. You keep waking me up.
Yesterday you were angry with us for making you sleep.
Was I?
Yes, you called us every kind of name and said we were trying to keep you fuddled.
Fuddled. Fuddddlled. Fudddled. Fudd … that word sounds like what it says. That’s strange. Words … sounds. A dull heavy word. Fudd. Thud. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud. Fudd, fudd, fudd, fudd. Its colour is. What? I knew. But not now. Sound—that’s important … yes …
I think you are much better. Your colour is clear, you are obviously much stronger and your eyes are clear.
The azure-eyed. The flashing-eyed. Oh no, I must sleep again, where They are. Awake is asleep.
No, Professor. Sit up. I’m afraid we can’t have you going back to sleep again. You’ve slept enough.
Why do you keep calling me Professor?
Professor Charles Watkins. 15 Acacia Road, Brink. Near Cambridge.
But I don’t want that. I won’t accept that.
I’m afraid you have no choice Professor. We know that’s who you are.
But I know I am not.
Or is it that you are beginning to remember though you don’t want to admit it?
Why do you say Or? And is more like it. It’s funny, I’ve just noticed. People say, Either, Or, this or that, because of the thud thud, fudd fudd, in or out, black and white, yes and no, one and two, the either-or comes from that, the beat, the fudd fudd in the blood, but it isn’t either or at all, it’s and, and, and, and, and, and.
However that may be Professor, you must accept who you are. I am telling you the truth. Accept that—and try to go on from there.
But if I went on, that would mean I had begun. All that means nothing to me. It isn’t mine at all. It is a dream.
My dear Professor, it is your life.
A dream life. A life that is a dream. A dream …
No, I am afraid I am not letting you go back to sleep yet.
Oh I must sleep. I do want to. Not here. There. What I said before isn’t what I would have said if I knew what I know now, I can sleep my life away. Yes. We sleep our lives away. Yes. And you.
Professor Watkins, do you realise you have been here a month now? In this hospital? It is the Central Intake Hospital. You were in a state of shock when you came in. You had been wandering about, and the police found you on the Embankment. You were rambling and confused and talking to yourself. We sedated you. Then when you seemed not much better, we tried out a drug to help you remember who you are—it often makes people drowsy, but in your case it made you very sleepy indeed. Whether or not that is a good thing, is a matter of opinion. But the fact is, and I am telling you again so that you don’t forget it, is that you have been in the hospital for a month. We have just found out your name, your profession, your address and your circumstances. We know a little more, if you want to hear it.… Well? Come on, do try.
What you say is only what you know. You tell me it is so. But if I tell you what I know, you disagree.
Then tell me what you know. Now then, why are you laughing? Do you realise you haven’t laughed before? This is the first time I have seen you laugh.
Doctor, I can’t talk to you. Do you understand that? All these words you say, they fall into a gulf, they’re not me or you. Not you at all. I can see you. You are a small light. But a good one. God is in you doctor. You aren’t these words.
Well, well. Rest then. Lie down and rest. But before you go off to sleep try and remember: You are Charles Watkins. You have been living and working in Cambridge for years now. You teach the Classics. You give lectures. And you don’t live alone—not by any means. I’ll see you tomorrow.
And how are you today? Oh—steady now, you’ve been dreaming, have you?
I am dreaming now.
No, you are awake now. You are talking to me, Doctor Y.
This is no different. A dream, like that.
Oh yes it is different. This is reality. The other is a dream.
How do you know?
You’ll have to take my word for it, I’m afraid.
If I did have to, I’d be afraid. I can’t take words for anything. Words come out of your mouth and fall on the floor. Words in exchange for? Is that it? Your dreams or your life. But it is not or, that is the point. It is an and. Everything is. Your dreams and your life. You can talk there, talk. I dream whatever I do, lying or waking.
Well, well, Professor. I’ll see you tomorrow. Perhaps we may have to try a new treatment.
This patient is no better than when I left last week. I do not see what alternate we have to E.C.T.
DOCTOR X.
I suggest confronting him with his wife, or if we can locate some, friends.
DOCTOR Y.
If no change in the next two or three days, we must transfer him to Higgin-hill. Would remind you this is for Intake.
DOCTOR X.
It is not unusual to extend the routine six weeks, for another three weeks. I suggest we do so.
DOCTOR Y.
Only if we can agree on E.C.T. Which would be a reason for extension.
DOCTOR X.
I am not against E.C.T. But as an interim proposal: withdraw all drugs, including sleepers, and see what happens.
DOCTOR Y.
Very well.
DOCTOR X.
How are you today Professor?
As you see.
You are looking very much brighter.
I haven’t been given any drugs for twenty-four hours.
We thought it might help you to remember.
Nurse told me I have been drugged ever since I came in.
I told you, we sedated you in various ways. Then we tried a treatment which you reacted to in a very personal way—you slept almost continually, so we stopped the treatment before we normally would have done with that particular drug.
I am thinking more clearly. Doc
tor Y?
Professor!
I have to ask you a serious question.
Please do.
Your attitude to me is this. I’ve got to make him remember what I know to be true about him.
Yes it is. Of course.
But that means that you don’t take me seriously. You haven’t once taken me seriously.
In reply to that I can only say that you have had more of my personal time and care than any patient I’ve had in months.
No, I don’t mean that. I say to you, I’m not what you say I am. I know that. I’m not Professor Charles What’s-his-name. Or if I am nominally that, it isn’t the point. But you just go on and on and on, sticking to that one point.
Go on, explain. I am listening.
I might be anything else. I could be.…
What? God perhaps?
Who said that?
You did.
I might have died in the war.
Oh, you were in the war then.
So was everyone.
Some more than others.
We were all there.
What were you doing in the war?
If you know what it is I profess, don’t you know who it was I fought?
No, your wife didn’t mention it. I must ask her.
I have a wife?
Yes. Her name is Felicity … is that funny?
Ha, ha, ha, I have absented myself from Felicity. Ha, ha, ha.
I’m a married man, myself.
Felicity.
And you have two boys.
If I am a professor I can have a wife, but my knowledge is, I am just as well a sailor with a wife in the West Indies. Her name is Nancy.
Ah, so you are a sailor again, are you? Were you a sailor in the war?
No, I was an onlooker and then the Crystal came. They fought. They ate each other.
Ah. Now I want you to help me with this. If you aren’t Charles Watkins, who are you?
I think I am my friends. And they are—in the name of the Crystal. Yes. A unit. Unity.
Your name is Crystal?
That’s crystal clear. Ha, ha, ha, ha.
You’re very jolly this morning.
Words are so funny. Felicitously funny.
I see. Well, I’ll drop in for a chat tomorrow. We aren’t going to give you any more sedatives or drugs. Not for a time anyway. You’ll probably find it harder to sleep. But try and stick it out. And perhaps you could try and see if you remember anything about your family. Two sons. Two boys.
Briefing for a Descent Into Hell Page 14
