The Spaces in Between

by Collin Van Reenan

  I was trying to relieve his embarrassment. He nodded and resumed gazing out across the lake, the water rippling from the warm late afternoon breeze which had suddenly sprung up. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Now, I have always thought that the one thing lacking in our enquiries into the “events” at the House was an explanation of the phenomenon known as Tatiana…’

  ‘I don’t know that “phenomenon” is quite how I would describe her,’ he said, defensively.

  ‘No, well, OK, Nico, I was speaking as a psychologist for a moment. Let us say “person” or “character” if it pleases you better…’

  He nodded for me to continue.

  ‘Now, what I’ve done is to go over your account, concentrating on the appearances of Tatiana, with reference to both your experiences and those of the others in the House who claimed to have seen her. OK?’

  Again, he nodded. I took a deep breath, still uncertain that I was doing the right thing.

  ‘This is what I’ve found. Every time Tatiana appeared to you, you were, by your own account, feeling unwell. We have already established that you were most often “unwell” due to the effects of the hallucinatory drugs that were being introduced into your nervous system in a variety of ways.’

  Nicholas said nothing, but his frown demonstrated that I was not yet getting my argument across.

  ‘Look, Nico, let’s consider each sighting separately. The first was in the rose arbour the morning following your first meeting with Madame Lili. It was the first time Madame Lili had touched you with the famous “damp” gloves, the ones we are convinced were used to put the LSD or other hallucinogens into your system by absorption through the skin. You said you awoke with a headache, as if you had a hangover. You didn’t eat much at breakfast, and you said that your meeting with Madame Lili had left you dizzy and light-headed. As you sat in the garden, you thought you saw some people who corresponded to the black and white photographs you had seen in your first glimpse of books about the Tsar and his family.

  ‘Now, we know that the monochrome images you saw during your stay in the House were almost certainly hallucinations. Only one of the group in the garden was in colour, a young girl who waved at you. At the time, you believed them all to be from a neighbouring property.

  ‘The next occasion was on the day following Natalya’s attack on you as you slept. Dr Voikin gave Anya two small white tablets for you to take. Next day, you felt unwell and very tired. You had three cups of coffee at the table outside the kitchen, went into the garden, and fell asleep in the rose arbour, waking to find a girl there who introduced herself as Tatiana. After a fairly long and rather odd conversation, she seemed to disappear when Anya came looking for you.

  ‘Next, she appeared at the séance. Afterwards, you drank a lot of vodka with Serge and this caused you to go to bed quite early. You soon slipped into what you describe as an uneasy, troubled sleep. You awoke when you thought that someone had slipped into your bed. You didn’t actually see who it was, in the darkness, but afterwards you believed that person to have been Tatiana. You made love, after which she disappeared.

  ‘Next, you saw her again in the garden after you had been threatened by Voikin and Chermakov with going to prison if you didn’t marry Natalie and you had drunk almost a whole bottle of red wine. She appeared beside you, out of nowhere, and called you a “clumsy boy” for spilling wine on your shoes. After talking for some time, you closed your eyes for just a moment and then heard Madame Lili calling. When you looked up, Tatiana had disappeared.

  ‘Then, finally, she came to you when you were drugged and paralysed on the floor of the great hall. It was pitch dark and, again, you did not actually see her.’

  I paused to let all this sink in.

  ‘So where is this heading, Marie-Claire?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m saying, Nicholas, that, though it may pain you greatly to admit it, Tatiana was, I am convinced now, a product of your subconscious, an illusion, just like the White Russian generals in the library, the Red Army soldier who “split” your skull after your horse died, the family in the garden, and the appalling skeleton bride you danced with at your wedding masked ball.’

  Nicholas stared at me, horrified, as if by calling Tatiana an illusion I had committed some awful blasphemy. He needed her to be real, to be his only true friend in the House. It was obvious that he was at least half in love with her. And now I was trying to kill her! His face became stern and his forehead wrinkled in a frown. I could almost imagine his brain churning over this new suggestion from me and frantically seeking grounds to reject it.

  The process lasted a long time, with Nicholas staring out into the distance while I waited patiently to field the objections that I knew must come.

  Finally, he slowly turned his head towards me, a vague air of triumph on his face.

  ‘You are forgetting two very important things, Marie-Claire,’ he said at last. ‘The first is that Tatiana was always in colour, real, whereas the illusions were monochrome, based on photographs.

  ‘The second, even more important, is that she was seen by the others and they constantly interrogated me about her, almost obsessively, and searched everywhere for her.’

  He paused, pleased with his rebuttal of my theory, and watched me, awaiting my answer.

  I suppressed the sigh that I felt rising in me. I didn’t like it, but I was about to kill the only person Nicholas could hold on to out of his entire nasty experience at the House.

  ‘All right, Nico, let us deal with your two objections to my theory. If I understood it correctly, your argument is that Tatiana was real because she was different from the other hallucinations – which you are prepared to accept as such – and that she was seen by several people other than yourself. OK?’

  He nodded confidently.

  ‘We can deal with your first objection relatively easily. LSD and similar compounds of hallucinogens are known to intensify colours, or rather our perception of them. The reason the other historical persons you saw were monochrome is simply that they were originally “suggested” to your mind by way of old black and white photographs. We have established this, haven’t we?’

  He nodded again, no doubt wondering where I was going with this.

  ‘Among the few photographs that exist of the adult Tatiana Nicolaevna Romanova is a famous portrait in colour – it was coloured by hand after the original monochrome print was developed. The colours are subdued but produce a subtle, lifelike effect. This is a well-known picture, since it was one of the last to have been taken and shows her as a young adult and looking very beautiful.

  ‘Although all the books had been removed from the library by the time we searched the House, I am convinced that you were shown one containing this very picture. It was put into your subconscious mind in the same way as all the others that we believe were “planted” on you.

  ‘You see, Nicholas, she didn’t just appear and disappear like some magic trick; she was always with you, and was triggered by your subconscious as a defence whenever times of stress and various drugs disabled your conscious perception.

  ‘You asked her once, how she could so suddenly appear, and do you remember her reply, Nico? She said, “You see me only when you want to.”’

  I paused, wondering whether I had perhaps lost him in the jargon of my profession. Nicholas said nothing, and I could almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain as he struggled to take it all in.

  ‘But, Marie-Claire, your argument is still negated by my second point – she was seen at the séance by six other people, so how could she be only a figment of my imagination?’

  I had not forgotten this second argument; indeed, it had initially been very difficult for me to solve.

  ‘But was she, Nicholas? Was she really seen or heard by the others?’

  Before he could reply, I plunged into the nub of my theory.

  ‘Let’s consider this point by point. You say that Anya heard Tatiana’s voice in the garden? Well, let me suggest for a mo
ment that Anya heard your voice behind the rose arbour, as if talking with someone, yet when she found you, you were alone. She asked who you had been talking to and you described Tatiana, at least the little you knew of her – all facts, incidentally, that could be gleaned from history books. Suppose that Anya reported to Madame Lili that you were not only hallucinating about Tatiana Romanova but were talking to her as well and they decided, there and then, to go along with the illusion, pretending to be concerned and searching the grounds. They generally made a fuss, just to see how far they could go with this new theme.

  ‘Don’t forget, Nicholas, you were Dr S.– H.–’s guinea pig. She must have been delighted that one of the hallucinations that she had planted in your mind had seemingly come to life. This was 1968; mind control was in its infancy. Subsequently, every time you encountered Tatiana, and talked to her, they knew – you were certainly under close observation at all times even though it may not have seemed so. My father found wires in your rooms which probably had microphones attached.

  ‘Their deception was brilliantly carried off, with both Anya and Madame Lili appearing very concerned and frantic searches for “Tatiana” taking place.’

  I could see that Nicholas was quite shaken by my explanation. I don’t think he had ever really seriously considered the possibility that Tatiana was a creation of his subconscious. His face was blank, but I knew his brain was computing my words with an intensity that was making it hurt!

  I paused and readied myself for his counter-attack.

  Madame Lili must have been pleased with Nicholas as a subject for her experiments because, for all its sophistication, his was an easy mind to read, his thoughts often showing in his facial expressions. His frown relaxed and he looked up at me with the glimmer of a smile. He opened his mouth to speak and I almost said it with him.

  ‘But we all saw her, at the séance!’

  I allowed him his moment of triumph and then said, quietly, so as not to seem too pleased with myself, ‘You all saw someone, Nicholas, I’ll grant you that.’

  Crestfallen, he asked weakly, ‘What do you mean, “someone”, Marie-Claire?’

  ‘Let’s go over what happened at the séance, step by step, OK?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ve read and re-read your account of that event, Nicholas. The chair beside you was empty when the séance began but someone slipped into it in the dark; someone who wore no gloves when she held your hand; someone who smelled strongly of Jasmin de Corse; and, therefore, someone you eventually identified as Tatiana. You got one quick glimpse of her when the light went on for a second and, though her face was averted, you saw her auburn hair from behind; then, in the darkness that followed, she disappeared, to Serge’s cry of “Your Highness!”

  ‘All those factors combined to suggest to you that your partner in the dark was Tatiana. Correct?’

  He looked at me but did not answer, just nodded again.

  ‘Now, think back, Nico. Who was missing from that séance?’

  He made no answer.

  ‘Natalie, of course!’ I triumphed. ‘Natalie left the room before the séance on the pretext that the Grand Duchess needed her. I believe that she then changed her dress, took off her gloves, put on an auburn wig and the telltale Jasmin de Corse perfume worn by “Tatiana” and with the complicity of Serge crept back into the room under cover of darkness and sat in the seat next to you. When the light flashed on momentarily she, Natalie, was already on her feet and moving away, her back to you; Serge shouts out “Your Highness” just so there would be no mistake and, again under cover of darkness, he lets her out of the door before dazzling everyone with the electric lights, allowing Natalie to make her exit through the rest of the House.’

  Exhausted, I glanced at Nico. He was looking at me, but his eyes were not focused and his face had gone slack as he struggled to take it all in.

  He stood up and walked a few paces towards the lake before turning back to me. He still didn’t speak, and I wondered how long it would take him to get to the final objection. It didn’t take long.

  ‘And later that night, Marie-Claire, who was in my bed?’

  But I had sown the seeds of doubt and it sounded in his voice; this was a question more than an objection.

  ‘That, I cannot say, Nico. Remember, you drank a lot of vodka and you describe your sleep as “troubled”. Maybe you dreamt that you made love to Tatiana, or maybe Natalie continued her deception. I really cannot say. But it does not change my theory. I am certain that you were deceived at the séance and that the subsequent alarm shown by the guests was an example of accomplished acting – with the exception of Serge’s “Your Highness”, which in my opinion was a bit over the top.’

  Nicholas returned to the bench and sat beside me in complete silence, a result I welcomed because it meant that he could find no serious objections to my explanation.

  The silence lasted a long time. A cool breeze sprung up and rippled the darkening water of the lake and still Nicholas did not speak. He was touching the hair at the back of his head – a gesture I knew well; it was his habit when concentrating hard on a problem.

  From time to time, he looked up and out across the park, seeing nothing, sometimes frowning and sometimes showing his confusion by gently shaking his head. The breeze felt stronger and began to rustle the leaves of the plane trees nearby.

  At last Nicholas stood up. ‘Shall we go back? I need a drink.’

  I went with him, back to the church square, but gently declined the offer of an apéritif, sensing that he really wanted to be alone but was too polite to say so. I had just killed Tatiana and he needed time to get used to that. He kissed me on both cheeks and, as we parted, managed a wan smile, trying to disguise the hurt he must be feeling.

  The few minutes it took me to walk home were racked with self-doubt. Had I done the right thing? I really believed that solving this last piece of the puzzle would bring some sort of peace to Nicholas’s troubled soul. But it still felt as though I had kicked the crutch out from under a sick and vulnerable man! I had condemned my patient (and my friend) to nights of struggle with his already fragile and perturbed mind, trying to come to terms with the fact that his only friend and saviour at the House was really just another deception, practised on him not by those people who had nothing but contempt for his feelings, but by himself.

  Sometimes, the cure can be worse than the disease.

  I wrote, in retirement, the epilogue for this English edition of the book, hoping that I had helped Nicholas to live to the full again and to get on with his life without looking back over his shoulder.

  But I was wrong.

  The week before I submitted this revised edition of our story, Nicholas called me and asked to meet for lunch. Agreeing, I asked him what he was so excited about.

  ‘I’ve seen her, Marie-Claire!’

  I hesitated, not knowing what I should say.

  ‘Who?’ I managed, lamely.

  ‘Tatiana, of course!’

  We met, and immediately I knew that something was seriously wrong. In spite of Nicholas’s odd summons, I still thought it might be some sort of a joke on his part, but in the few weeks since I had last seen him Nicholas had lost weight; his suit hung on him loosely and his shirt had not been pressed. His cheeks were drawn, and his eyes were ringed with black and shone with a light only seen in the seriously demented. Even before I could sit down, he was talking rapidly.

  ‘I’ve seen her, Marie-Claire, I’ve seen Tatiana!’ he kept repeating.

  ‘Nico, tell me, slowly, all about it.’

  ‘She came to me a few nights ago. At first, I thought it was a dream but it really was Tatiana. She was just as I remembered her. She stayed with me all night. We talked and talked. Now she comes to me often and shares my bed. It’s so wonderful. I’m not lonely any more. She said she’d always be with me if I want her and she’s promised she’ll never leave me again.’

  I looked at my friend, not knowing what to say to him. My worst
fears were realised and it was as if we were back to square one. At last I found my voice.

  ‘Nicholas, calm yourself. You know that can’t be true.’

  I spoke as softly as I could but the other diners were staring at us, alarmed by Nicholas’s outburst.

  ‘Look, Nico, you remember that I told you that LSD can stay in your system for years, maybe forever, and then suddenly start up again? That’s what’s happening to you now. You’ve had a bad trip caused by residual hallucinogens…’

  But he was already shaking his head. ‘No. No, it’s not that; drugs had nothing to do with it. It’s the SPACES; the spaces where people get caught up and can never leave. Tatiana explained it all to me but I missed it the first time – didn’t grasp it, with all that other stuff going on at the House. That’s what frightened Madame Lili, you see; it was something she couldn’t control…didn’t understand.’

  ‘Spaces?’ I repeated mechanically.

  ‘Exactly. Look, Marie-Claire, I’ll explain. You see, it’s all to do with conceptuality. There is truth and there are lies. There is fact and there is fiction. There is life and there is death. And then there are the spaces in between!’

  He looked at me, smiling, pleased with himself that he had resolved all his problems, and eagerly awaiting my reassurance that he was right.

  My heart sank. I looked past him out of the window where Parisians were walking by, blissfully unaware of the fear that gripped my heart.

  My blood ran cold but he needed an answer. I heard myself saying, ‘Of course, Nico. You must introduce her to me.’

  ‘Naturally,’ he replied, with a weird sort of smile, reaching out and taking my hand. ‘Come home with me; she’s waiting there.’

  ‘The boundaries that divide Life from Death are, at best, shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends and other begins?’

  EDGAR ALLEN POE

  Dedication

  ‘For the most wild yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not – and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die, and today I would unburden my soul.’