And yet there was no reason Lyra should work out the part to do with the tumor suppressants. She knew nothing about Flemming or the circumstances under which he’d died. She’d have more than enough to go on with if I told her about telomerase. And I knew that, on its own, that part of the theory was not the answer. The second stage of my plan was ready, but as of now I’d be investigating against the clock. So I took my phone out of the pocket of my old, crumpled vest.
“What the devil are you doing?” Lyra asked, squirming nervously.
“Calling the only person who’s missing from here,” I replied with a tight smile. “I think Father deserves to know at last why he’s twenty-eight thousand years old.”
64
ADRIANA
Friday, July 20, 2012
After lunch I went up alone to my office. Once there I opened the desk drawer where I had been keeping my mother’s notebook for the past few weeks. It was true I was spending whatever spare moment I had to progress with my reading.
I glanced over the last few pages I’d read, which focused on the patient’s feelings of grief as well as his refusal to show them, and my mother’s unsuccessful attempts to force some sort of catharsis. But several consultations later the tone of the therapy took an unexpected turn. I could also detect it in the fact that my mother’s uniform handwriting was becoming somewhat untidy in its form, especially toward the end of her sentences, where the tails of her letters seemed to have escaped from her iron control and were overly extended, suggesting a certain haste to capture as much information as possible, as if she didn’t want to forget anything that she’d been told.
September 2, 1997
I’ve managed to gain his confidence to the point where he’s honest with me and has finally told me that the “unfortunate family tragedy” was the premature death of his little daughter from leukemia, but after this revelation his attitude has changed. The patient comes across as more open, more relaxed, and less hermetic.
September 5, 1997
New twist in the case: the patient presents with persistent delirious ideas that do not reflect the individual’s cultural background. Historical fantasies, clearly implausible. Very structured hallucinations. Neologisms. I haven’t observed any catatonic behavior or excitation when he talks about them. He doesn’t present the apathy typical of the depressive phase of grief, or an impoverishment in his verbal expression, or incongruities. Obsessive ruminations difficult to resist, with aggressive content toward part of his family, linked to a plan that strikes me as surrealistic and very unhealthy.
Therapy proposed: in the case of persistent delirious disorders, spectacular or stable remissions are rarely achieved, so we’ll work on the depressive symptoms.
Possible new diagnosis: serious depressive episode with psychotic symptoms. Generates a risk to the patient’s family environment. I’m looking for cases of other atypical depressions, but clinical casuistry is rare.
I was so caught up in my reading that I gave a small start in my chair when Iago’s hand touched me gently.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he apologized.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s hard to tear you away from that notebook,” he commented, taking over my desktop with his customary hands-in-pockets pose.
“You’re right. I should be focused on finalizing the details for the Prehistory Hall now that there are only a few days to go to before the summer vacation.”
“I wasn’t talking to you as your boss, and you know it.”
“Do you think I’m becoming obsessed?”
“No more than me with my investigations,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “No, I’m not worried, because sooner or later you’ll finish the notebook and reach your own conclusions. After that I think you’ve nowhere else to go. So bring me up-to-date. How’s our depressive patient going?”
“Our depressive patient has changed into a depressive patient with delusions.”
“Meaning?”
“She doesn’t clarify what sorts of delusions in the notebook,” I lied, “but the poor man must have been crazy, because my mother had no idea what strategy to pursue with him.” I inserted a MAC bookmark and closed the notebook before continuing. “What’s clear is that it seems to be a case like any other, maybe a bit more complicated than usual, but little more than that. Although I still don’t understand why it was the only case my mother kept in the safe. And as you so rightly say, I’ve got barely half the notebook left, so I hope to find the answer soon.” I took hold of his hands and brought them to my face. “And I promise that after that I’ll dedicate myself entirely to you.”
“I haven’t held it against you,” he said, slowly caressing my cheeks.
“You haven’t, but if you think about it, since we’ve been together we’ve been restricting ourselves to being like a team of firefighters putting out the fires that we come across, never mind the hours each one of us is spending on our own investigations.” I snaked my way around the back of his neck as I added, “We’re always postponing the time we spend together enjoying what we have.”
“I thought you’d never say that to me.” He purred like the cat he occasionally became.
“Did you lock the door?” I asked, one eye on it.
“When don’t I?”
“Coming back to what we were talking about, why haven’t you raised the issue before?”
“Because you’re not going to give me or anyone else a hundred percent until you resolve these issues about your mother, so the sooner you finish the notebook, the sooner you’ll allow yourself to live, and the same thing is true of me. Until I resolve my family’s problems—”
“That may never happen,” I cut in, “or it might happen five hundred years from now when I’m not around.”
“I’m aware of that, so don’t worry. For my part, I’m confident that the extra hours I’m putting in will be over soon.”
“And what you told me—”
“Shhh,” he interrupted me, putting his lips close to my ears and whispering, “Don’t talk about any of that in the museum. Only outdoors, okay?”
I nodded briefly. It was obvious that Iago suspected that there were microphones or cameras in every room in the MAC. Ever since Kyra had caught him red-handed with the telomeres, he had become even more paranoid than usual. “Discreet,” “prudent,” or “sensible” was how he put it.
A short time later we were walking down the slope of the cliff in search of a quiet place where we could continue our conversation.
“So, do you already have enough material to go on with your research?” I asked, inhaling the smell of the sea.
“It’s been easy since I removed samples of all the family from Kyra’s lab and transferred them to mine.”
“So that’s why you wanted to drive the refrigerated truck yourself.”
“Do you think Kyra suspected anything?” he asked by way of reply.
“I was with her throughout the entire move, and she was in a good mood,” I said with a shrug, “but it’s hard to know. Moreover, given all the precautions you’ve been taking recently whenever you go up to the lab, she would have had to put in place a real spying campaign in order to uncover you again. Anyway, are you sure that’s what she’s after?”
He invited me to sit down next to him on a rock.
“I need to be certain that my double theory is correct. I’ve already come so far that I can’t be left wondering, Dana. I’m not the sort of man to leave things half-done. But you’ll have realized that by now.” He lost himself in my hair and became feline. “And now, can we get on with our own business?”
“I’m not going to be the one to stop you,” I said, closing my eyes. On any other occasion I would have welcomed Iago’s purring. But an alarm had been flashing inside my brain ever since I’d read the bit about “historical fanta
sies” in my mother’s notebook. “You know, recently I’ve become addicted to a mental game. I haven’t stopped asking myself what you were doing the day I was born, or the day I graduated, or when I was away on digs.”
“An interesting pastime,” he commented, distracted.
“Or what if we’d met each other when we were going through difficult times? Isn’t that a lovely thought?”
“Without a doubt,” he murmured, not abandoning the attention he was paying to my neck.
“Tell me, where were you fifteen years ago when my mother died? Can you remember your identity?”
How unsubtle, for heaven’s sake, I thought, closing my eyes.
Iago assumed that this moment of tenderness was over and sighed. “Let’s see. I suppose I was traveling throughout northern Spain, or maybe I was sorting out my business affairs in the US.”
“You suppose? You, the encyclopedic mind, suppose?”
“There are identities in which I’m on the move a fair bit. I don’t spend ten years in a fixed domicile or make use of only one passport.”
“And what do you do?”
“Take care of paperwork, investments, make sure my real estate properties are up-to-date so I don’t have to worry about money for the next few decades. No government is going to assume responsibility for paying me a retirement pension, Dana, never mind that I’ve spent my whole life working. I take care of that myself.”
Then he took his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said suddenly, the tone of his voice changing. “Javier Sanz is expecting me, and you know what a stickler for punctuality he is. We’re going to finalize the design of the hunting panel. Any last-minute instructions?”
“No,” I murmured. “It’s turned out really well, honestly.”
“Then we’ll see each other later.”
And he disappeared after giving me a kiss that clearly took advantage of all his experience. But neither Iago’s display of affection nor his vague responses had shaken off my unpleasant feeling of unease. A warning light had switched on in my head when I’d read about the most recent twist in the case history of my mother’s patient. In fact, all my alarms had gone off, just like when a young girl is crossing a deserted lot and various boys approach her with strange smiles on their faces.
Something disturbing was buzzing around inside my head.
Could my mother have gone through the same situation fifteen years ago that I was going through now? No, that wasn’t possible. Iago would have told me, wouldn’t he? “No more lies,” he’d told me our first night together. “I don’t want to hide anything more from you.” Although . . . what if he himself wasn’t capable of remembering what he was doing with his life back them? Would he hide it from me? Would Iago hide it from me?
I snorted at the wind as if we were competing with each other. How absurd, right? Why be so paranoid? Why ruin the best days of my life with impossible doubts? I confronted my suspicions and locked them deep inside me. I felt less and less like reading the notebook. It was getting me nowhere. I was taking a dislike to it. It was only my determination to finish things that was making me continue. And as far as Iago was concerned . . . no, I wasn’t going to distrust him again. I recalled the night, not so long ago, when I’d decided to trust him. No ands or buts about it. Iago couldn’t be my mother’s anonymous patient; it couldn’t be him.
Period.
65
IAGO
Month of Coll
August, 2012
One summer’s night, Dana finished her mother’s notebook. She read the final pages to me in bed, trying to draw some sort of a conclusion from it while I listened attentively.
October 5, 1997
As has been the case with his most recent consultations, the patient has restricted himself to elaborating fanciful plans out loud, completely ignoring my attempts to refocus the therapy. A few days ago I asked him why he continued to come for consultations, despite the fact that it’s obvious we’re not making any headway with his recovery—quite the opposite; he’s more and more wrapped up in the role he’s assigned himself in his delirious ideas. But he’s a perfectionist and describes his murderous plans in chilling detail. I’m convinced it’s not mere fantasy; he’s going to try to carry it out. As a therapist, I feel obliged to find out if the in-laws he plans to kill really exist, or if they are just one more fantasy.
I ask him why he shares his plans with me and he answers that he knows I don’t believe him, and it’s precisely this fact which he finds liberating. We discuss the therapy again, and he argues that he’s not ill, but he’s discovered the relief that comes with being able to talk out loud about what he refers to as “his secret.” He declares he’s never shared it with anyone. He rejects me as a therapist, but he finds me useful as an emotional release.
I have to say I’ve never felt so humiliated professionally. I can’t stop asking myself: Is this just a joke? Is he so intelligent that he’s laughing at me? Have I fallen into his spider’s web? So far I’ve practiced in the firm belief that I’m useful to my patients, but never to amuse them or fan their fantasies. I’m considering sending him to some other colleague who might be more suitable.
In any case, of growing concern is the fact he has constructed his own particular world to suit his invented stories and acts accordingly, as if they were real. Unfortunately, the result is that I have to listen to him plotting out a murder and what he plans to do afterward. Last Tuesday I contacted a police inspector with whom I’d collaborated over an expert handwriting report in the Vargas family inheritance case. I talked over my case, but he showed little interest. In the first place, because it didn’t concern his unit, but he also refused to put me in touch with anyone else, on the grounds that they weren’t going to start an investigation of an intent to commit homicide based on the ramblings of a patient during a consultation with a psychologist.
November 27, 1997
I’ve decided to change tactics. Today my questions were aimed at extracting information about the patient’s real environment: first names and last names of family members, their professions, where they live. He, skillful and astute as always, has given me a lesson in how to provide vague answers while continuing to be gracious. But he made one tiny mistake and so I’ve obtained one piece of information from which I might be able to extract something more.
December 5, 1997
I have a phone number. During these past few weeks I’ve toyed with the possibility of intervening, as there’s something about my patient’s resolve that alarms me. I really believe he is going to commit those murders. I’ve made an appointment to see him in three days’ time, but I must make that phone call before then.
That was the last thing Dana’s mother had written, but it continued to be murky and unclear to Dana. I watched her without a word as she went over the pages again and again, as if she couldn’t accept that was where it ended and hoped there might be further notes that would provide new clues.
“That’s it; there’s nothing else,” she said, trying not to sound disappointed. “I’m going to sleep, okay?”
“Of course. Sleep well,” I replied. Then I lay down beside her and hugged her from behind.
I knew that a phase was ending for her. If her mother had been around to explain it to her, she would have talked about mummification. The whole apartment had in fact stayed in a state of mummification since her mother’s departure. I had seen it in the chair she always left in exactly the same position next to the kitchen table, and in the door to her bedroom she always closed when we were making love, as if we weren’t the only people in the apartment.
The next morning she got up in a pensive mood, and that was the pattern over the next few days. She would wander around Santander before I was even out of bed. I took advantage of the moments alone she afforded me to go to my place and spend a few hours concentrating on m
y own business in the lab. Now, more than ever, I had to move quickly.
The day she abandoned her search finally arrived.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so far away,” she said.
I sat down next to her on the sofa and let her talk.
“I’m going to stop investigating the business of my mother. I’m not getting anywhere. I have to assume I’ll never know what went through her head as she was dying, but I can’t go on making that day the focus of my life. I don’t know how, but being with you has made me realize how short my life will be, and I’ve already spent half a lifetime mulling over her death. In fact, I don’t want to go on living in my parents’ apartment. I’d like to have an apartment in which nothing reminds me of them or my previous life in Santander. I’m tired of poking around in the past.”
“You’ve picked the wrong career, then.”
“You know I’m not talking about that. I just want to live in the present with you, without the burden of my family.”
“If you only knew how deeply I agree with what you’ve just said . . .”
“I need to move on, Iago.”
“And you will,” I told her. “You have the willpower to do it, and then some.”
“Of course,” she replied, gazing past me.
When people are left without any goals, they need time to reorder their priorities and fill the void their obsession has left in their thoughts and routine. But Dana had self-discipline, maybe more than I had when I was first the same age as she was now. It was clear that I needn’t be fearful for her. With or without me, with or without her obsessions, Dana would keep moving forward.
The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 1) Page 45
