Lying on the Couch

by Irvin D. Yalom

  Carol fell silent for a few moments, then commented: "There's another possibility. A simpler, straightforward interpretation—that, deep inside, you want me physically, that the hug is a sexual equivalent. After all, wasn't it you who initiated the hug in the dream?"

  "And," Ernest asked, "what about the purse as an obstacle?"

  "If, as Freud said, a cigar can sometimes be a cigar, what about the feminine equivalent—that a purse can sometimes just be a purse ... a purse containing money?"

  "Yes, I see what you mean . . . you're saying that I desire you as a man desires a woman, and that money—in other words, our professional contract—gets in the way. And that I feel frustrated with that."

  Carol nodded. "Yes, how about that interpretation?"

  "It's certainly more parsimonious, and I have no doubt there is truth in it—that if we hadn't met as therapist and patient, I would have enjoyed knowing you in a personal, nonprofessional way—we talked about that at our last session. I've made no secret that I think

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  you're a handsome, engaging woman with a wonderfully lively, penetrating mind."

  Carol beamed. "I'm beginning to like this dream more and more."

  "Yet," Ernest continued, "dreams are generally overdeter-mined—there's no reason to think my dream isn't depicting both wishes: my desire to work with you as a therapist without the intrusion and disruption of sexual desire and the desire to know you as a woman without the intrusion of our professional contract. That's the dilemma I have to work with."

  Ernest marveled at how far he had come in his truth telling. Here he was—matter-of-factly, unself-consciously—saying things to a patient that he would, a few weeks ago, never have imagined saying. And, as far as he could tell, he had himself under control. He no longer felt he was being seductive to Carolyn. He was being open, but at the same time responsible and therapeutically helpful.

  "What about the money, Ernest? Sometimes I see you glance at the clock and I think I just represent a paycheck to you, and that each tick of the clock is just another dollar."

  "Money is not an important matter to me, Carolyn. I make more than I can spend, and I rarely ever think about money. But I have to keep track of the time, Carolyn. Just like you do when you see a client and must keep to a schedule. Yet I have never wanted our time to pass quickly. Not once. I look forward to seeing you, I value our time together, and more often than not, I am sorry when our time has run out."

  Carol fell silent again. How annoying it was that she felt flattered by Ernest's words. How annoying that he appeared to be speaking the truth. How annoying that at times he no longer appeared repulsive.

  "Another thought I had, Carolyn, was about the contents of the purse. Of course, as you suggest, money immediately comes to mind. But what else could be stuffed in there that gets in the way of our intimacy?"

  "I'm not sure what you mean, Ernest."

  "I mean that perhaps you may not be seeing me as I really am because of some preconceived ideas or biases getting in the way. Maybe you're toting some old baggage that's blocking our relationship—wounds from your past relationships with other men, your father, your brother, your husband. Or perhaps expectations from

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  another era: think of Ralph Cooke and of how often you've said to me: 'Be Hke Ralph Cooke ... be my lover-therapist.' In a sense, Carolyn, you're saying to me: Don't be you, Ernest, be something else, be someone else."

  Carol couldn't help thinking how on target Ernest was—but not exactly for the reasons he thought. Strange how much more intelligent he had gotten recently.

  "And your dream, Carolyn.^ I don't think I can do more with mine right now."

  "Well, I dreamed that we were in bed together fully dressed and I think that we were ..."

  "Carolyn, would you start again and try to describe your dream in the present tense—just as though it's happening right now? Often that revivifies the emotion of the dream."

  "Okay, here's what I remember. You and I were sitting—"

  "You and I are sitting—stay in present tense," Ernest interjected.

  "Okay, you and I are sitting or lying in bed fully clothed, and we are having a session. I want you to be more loving, but you stay uptight and keep your distance. Then another man comes into the room—a grotesque, ugly, squat, coal-black man—and I immediately decide to try to seduce him. I do that very easily, and we have sex right in front of you in the same bed. All the while I am thinking that if you see how good I am sexually with him, you'll get more interested in me and come around yourself and have sex with me, too."

  "The feelings in the dream?"

  "Frustration with you. Revulsion at the sight of this man—he was disgusting, he emanated evil. I didn't know who he was—and yet I did know. It was Duvalier."

  "Who?"

  "Duvalier. You know, the Haitian dictator."

  "What's your connection with Duvalier? Mean anything to you?"

  "That's the curious thing. Absolutely nothing. I haven't thought of his name in years. I'm astounded he comes to mind."

  "Free-associate to Duvalier for a while, Carolyn. See what comes up."

  "Nothing. Not sure I ever saw a picture of the man. Tyrant. Brutal. Dark, Bestial. Oh, yes, I think I read an article recently about him living in poverty in France somewhere."

  "But the old man's long dead."

  "No, no, it's not the old man. It's the younger Duvalier. The one

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  they called 'Baby Doc' I'm sure it was Baby Doc. I don't know how I knew it, but I knew it was him. That name came to my mind as soon as he entered. I thought I just told you that."

  "No, you didn't, Carolyn, but I think it's the key to the dream."

  "How?"

  "Well, first, you ruminate about the dream. It's better to get your associations—just as we did in my dream."

  "Let's see. I know I was feeling frustrated. You and I were in bed, but I wasn't getting anywhere with you. Then this base man comes along and I had sex with him—ugh; strange I would do that—and the weird logic in the dream was that you'd see my performance and somehow be won over. That doesn't make sense."

  "Say more, Carolyn."

  "Well, it doesn't. I mean, if I have sex with some grotesque man in front of you—let's face it, I'm not going to win your heart. Far more likely you'd be repelled, not attracted, by that."

  "That's what logic would tell you, if we took the dream at face value. But I know a way the dream would make sense. Let's suppose that Duvalier is not Duvalier but instead represents someone or something else."

  "Like?"

  "Think of his name: 'Baby Doc'! Imagine that this man stands for some part of me: the baby, the more primitive or base part of me. In the dream, then, you hope to consort with this part of me in the hope that the rest of me, the more mature part of me, would be captivated, too.

  "You see, Carolyn, in that way the dream would make sense—if you could seduce some part, some alter ego, of me, then the rest of me might easily follow suit!"

  Silence from Carol.

  "What do you think, Carolyn?"

  "Clever, Ernest, a very clever interpretation." And to herself Carol said: more clever than you know!

  "So, Carolyn, let me summarize: my readings of both dreams— yours and mine—point to a similar conclusion: that, though you come to see me and you profess strong feelings toward me, and want to touch and hug me, still you do not really want to be close to me.

  "And, you know, those dream messages are similar to my overall feelings about our relationship. Several weeks ago I made it clear that I would be entirely open to you and would honestly address all

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  of your questions to me. Yet you have never really pursued this opportunity. You say you want me to be your lover, yet, aside from questions about my life in the singles world, you have made no attempt to know who I am. I'm going to keep nagging you on
this point, Carolyn, because it's so central, so close to the core. I'm going to keep urging you to relate honestly with me—and to do that, you will have to know me and to trust me enough to let yourself unfold fully in my presence. And that experience will be prelude to your becoming yourself, in its deepest meaning, with another man whom you have yet to meet."

  Carol remained silent and looked at her watch.

  "I know our time is up, Carolyn, but take another minute or two. Can you go any further with this?"

  "Not today, Ernest," she said, then rose and quickly left the office.

  TWENTY-TWO

  arshal's midnight call to Peter Macondo provided little comfort—he merely reached a recording, in three languages, stating that The Macondo Financial Group was closed for the weekend and would reopen Monday morning. Nor did the Zurich information operator have a home phone for Peter. That, of course, was no surprise: Peter had often spoken of the Mafia and the necessity for the ultra-wealthy to guard their privacy. It was going to be a long weekend. Marshal would have to wait it out and call again at midnight on Sunday.

  At two A.M., unable to sleep. Marshal began rummaging through some pharmaceutical samples in his medicine cabinet looking for a sedative. This was highly uncharacteristic—he often inveighed against pill popping and insisted that the properly analyzed individual should deal with psychological discomfort only through introspection and self-analysis. But, on this night, no self-analysis was possible: his tension was sky-high and he needed something to calm

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  himself. Finally, he found some Chlor-Trimeton, a sedating antihistamine, gulped two tablets, and slept for a few uneasy hours.

  As the weekend wore on, Marshal's restlessness grew. Where was Adriana? Where was Peter? Concentration was impossible. He flung the latest issue of The American Journal of Psychoanalysis across the room, couldn't generate interest in his bonsai trimming, even failed to compute his weekly stock profits. He put in a strenuous hour at the gym with free weights, played in a pickup basketball game at the Y, jogged over the Golden Gate. But nothing loosened the grip of the apprehension enveloping him.

  He pretended he was his own patient. Calm down! Why such uproar? Let's sit down and appraise what has really happened. Only one thing: Adriana failed to keep her appointments. Sof The investment is safe. In a couple of days . . . let's see . . . in thirty-three hours . . . you will be talking to Peter on the phone. You have a note from the Credit Suisse guaranteeing the loan. Wells Fargo stock has dropped almost two percent since you sold it: the worst that could happen is you call in the bank's note and repurchase your stock at a lower price. Yes, there may have been something going on with Adriana that you didn't pick up. But you're not a seer; you can miss something, sometimes.

  Solid therapeutic interventions, Marshal thought. But ineffective coming from himself to himself. There are limits to self-analysis; how did Freud do it all those years? Marshal knew he needed to share his concerns with someone. But who? Not Shirley: they spoke little enough these days about anything, and the topic of his investment with Peter was incendiary. She had opposed it from the beginning. When Marshal had mused aloud on how they would spend seven hundred thousand dollars' profit, she would respond with an impatient, "We live in two separate worlds." The word greed fell from Shirley's lips more and more now. Two weeks ago she had even suggested that Marshal seek guidance from her Buddhist adviser to address the greed that was inundating him.

  Besides, Shirley had plans to hike up Mount Tamalpais on Saturday to search for ikebana material. That afternoon, as she was leaving, she said she might spend the night away: she needed some personal time, a mini ikebana/meditation retreat. Alarmed at the idea of spending the rest of the weekend alone. Marshal considered telling Shirley he needed her and asking her not to go. But Marshal Streider didn't beg; that was not his style. Besides, his tension was so

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  palpable and contagious that, undoubtedly, Shirley needed to escape.

  Marshal glanced impatiently at an arrangement Shirley had left behind: a forked lichen-covered apricot branch, one arm stretching far out parallel to the table, the other arm reaching up vertically. At the end of the horizontal branch rested a single white apricot blossom. The upward stretching arm was collared by swirls of lavender and sweet pea, which tenderly embraced two calla lilies, one white and the other saffron. Dammit, thought Marshal, for this she has time! Why does she do this? Three flowers , . . a saffron and white calla lily again ... he studied the arrangement for a full minute, shook his head, and then shoved it under the table out of sight.

  Who else can I speak tof My cousin Melvinf No way! Melvin can offer good advice sometimes, but would be useless now. I couldn't bear the sneer in his voice. A colleague f Impossible! I have violated no professional boundaries, but I'm not certain I can trust others — especially others who envy me — to reach the same conclusion. One word of this leaking out and I can kiss the presidency of the institute good-bye forever.

  I need someone — a confidant. If only Seth Pande were still available! But I've kissed off that relationship. Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on Seth. . . . no, no, no, Seth deserved it; it was the right thing to do. He got exactly what was coming to him.

  One of Marshal's patients, a chnical psychologist, often spoke about his support group of ten male therapists, who met for two hours every other week. Not only were the meetings always useful, his patient claimed, but the other members often called one another in times of need. Of course. Marshal disapproved of his patient attending a group. In more conservative times he would have forbidden it. Support, affirmation, consolation—all these pathetic crutches merely reinforce pathology and slow down the work of real analysis. Nonetheless, now, at this moment. Marshal hungered for such a network. He thought of Seth Pande's words at the institute meeting about the lack of male friendships in contemporary society. Yes, that was what he needed—a friend.

  At Sunday midnight—nine A.M. Monday, Zurich time—he phoned Peter only to hear a disturbing taped message: "You have reached the Macondo Financial Group. Mr. Macondo is on a cruise for nine days. The office will be closed during that time, but, if the

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  matter is urgent, please leave a message. Messages will be checked and every effort will be made to reach Mr. Macondo."

  A cruise f An office of that magnitude closing for nine daysf Marshal left a message asking Mr. Macondo to call him on a truly urgent matter. Later, as he lay awake, the idea of a cruise made more sense. Obviously some falling out has occurred, he thought, either between Peter and Adriana or between Adriana and her father and, in a reparative effort, Peter made an impetuous decision to get away — to take off with or without Adriana on a Mediterranean cruise. It's nothing more than that.

  But, as the days went by with no word from Peter, Marshal grew more apprehensive about his investment. There was always the option of redeeming the bank note, but that meant the end of any possibility of profiting from Peter's largess: it would be foolish to panic and to sacrifice this unique opportunity. And for what? Because Adriana fails to show for an appointment? Stupid!

  On Wednesday at eleven. Marshal had a free hour. Ernest's supervisory hour had still not been filled. He took a walk on California Street, passed the Pacific Union Club where he had lunched with Peter and then, a block later, suddenly turned back and climbed the stairs, passed through the marble doorway, past the rows of burnished brass mailboxes, into the diaphanous light of the soaring, glass-domed rotunda. There, surrounded on three sides by mahogany leather sofas, stood Emil, the gleaming, tuxedoed, majordomo.

  Thoughts of Avocado Joe's drifted into Marshal's mind: the Forty-niner jackets, the dense cigarette smoke, the black, bejeweled dude with the gray Borsalino, and Dusty, the pit boss, admonishing him about watching because "we worry about feelings here." And the sounds: the hum of action at Avocado Joe's, the chips clicking, pool balls clacking, the joshing,
the gambling talk. The Pacific Union Club sounds were more subdued. The silverware and crystal lightly tinkled as waiters set the luncheon tables; the members genteelly whispered about stock market purchases, Italian leather shoes tapped smartly on polished oak floors.

  Which of these was home? Or did he have a home. Marshal wondered, as he had so many times before. Where did he belong—Avocado Joe's or the Pacific Union Club? Would he drift forever, unan-chored, in between, spending his life trying to leave the one, trying to reach the other? And if some imp or genie commanded him. It's your time now to decide; choose one or the other — your home for

  all eternity, what would he do? Thoughts of his analysis with Seth Pande came to mind. We never worked on this, Marshal thought. Not on "home," nor on friendship, and, according to Shirley, not on money or greed, either. What the hell did we work on for nine hundred hours?

  For now Marshal feigned being at home in the Club and walked smartly up to the majordomo.

  "Emil, how are you? Dr. Streider. My lunch companion, Mr. Macondo, a few weeks ago told me of your prodigious memory, but even you may not remember a guest after only a single meeting."

  "Oh, yes, Doctor, I remember you very well. And Mr. Maconta ..."

  "Macondo."

  "Yes, sorry, Macondo. There, so much for my prodigious memory. But, actually, I do remember your friend very well. Though we met only once, he left an indelible impression. A fine and very generous gentleman!"

  "You mean, you met only once in San Francisco. He told me about meeting you when you were the majordomo at his club in Paris."

  "No, sir, you must be mistaken. It is true I worked at the Cercle Union Interallie in Paris, but I never met Mr. Macondo there."

  "Then, Zurich?"

  "No, nowhere. I am quite certain I have never met the gentleman before. The day the two of you lunched here was the first time I ever saw him."