by Boris Akunin
It was apparently not the first time that His Reverence had been asked this question, because he had no difficulty in finding an answer: “I know, I know. I have heard that in Moscow and St. Petersburg vegetarianism is fashionable now and many people take a keen interest in the protection of animals. They would do better to protect people. Tell me, my lady, in what way are you and I in any better position? At least cattle are cared for before they are sent to the slaughterhouse. Fattened up and pampered. And do not forget, either, that cows and pigs have no fear of death and do not even realize that they are mortal. Their life is calm and predictable, for no one will send them to be butchered before a certain age. But we humans can meet our end at any moment of our existence. We do not know what tomorrow holds for us and we must constantly prepare ourselves for sudden death. We also have our own Slaughterman, but we know very little about his rules and reasoning. What he requires of us is not fatty meat or abundant milk, but something quite different—we ourselves have no idea what exactly, and this ignorance increases our fear a hundredfold. So save your feelings of pity for people.”
His visitor listened attentively, remembering that Father Mitrofanii was also no great enthusiast of Lenten fare and liked to repeat the words of the anchorite Zosima Verkhovsky: “Do not pursue fasting alone. God has not said anywhere, If you fast, then you are my disciples, and you have love for each other.”
The time had come, however, to direct the conversation into a different channel, since the visit had another purpose in addition to ascertaining the archimandrite's position concerning Basilisk. “Is it true what they say, Father, that nonbelievers are forbidden to come to Canaan, so that they cannot defile the holy ground? Is it true that absolutely all the inhabitants without exception are zealous devotees of the most rigorous Orthodoxy?”
“Who told you a piece of nonsense like that?” Vitalii asked in amazement. “I have many people who are hired to work for me, and I don't go poking my nose into their souls—as long as they do their job, I'm happy. There are foreigners, adherents of different faiths, even complete atheists. You know, I am no supporter of mass proselytization. God grant that I can preserve my own flock—I have no need of someone else's, especially one made up of mangy sheep.” And then, without any further encouragement, the archimandrite himself turned the conversation in precisely the direction required. “I have a millionaire living here on Canaan, a man by the name of Korovin. He runs a clinic for the mentally ill. Let him—I don't get in his way. As long as he doesn't bring in any violent cases and pays promptly. He's a man without any faith in God at all; he doesn't attend church, even for the holy festival of Easter, but his money goes toward work that is pleasing to God.”
His visitor flung her hands up in surprise. “I've read about Dr. Ko-rovin's clinic!” she exclaimed. “They say he is a genuine wizard at curing neuropsychological ailments.”
“Quite possibly.” Vitalii squinted at the clock again.
“And I have also heard that without a special recommendation it is quite impossible to obtain an appointment with him—he simply will not talk to you. Ah, how I wish he would see me! I am suffering such terrible torment! Tell me, Father, could you possibly give me a recommendation for the doctor?”
“No,” said His Reverence with a frown. “It is not our custom. Apply through the usual channels, via his offices in St. Petersburg or Moscow, and they will decide.”
“I have terrible visions,” Polina Andreevna complained. “I can't sleep at night. The psychiatrists in Moscow have washed their hands of me.”
“What sort of visions do you have?” the father superior asked wearily as he saw his visitor settling even more firmly into her chair.
“Tell me, Your Reverence, have you ever happened to see a live crocodile?”
The question was so unexpected that Vitalii blinked. “No, I haven't. Why do you ask?”
“I have. In Moscow, last Christmas. An English menagerie came to town, and like a fool, I went to see it.”
“Why do you say ‘like a fool’?”
“Because it's absolutely horrible! All green and lumpy, with a mouth full of huge teeth, and the heathen beast leers at you with that mouth!
It's absolutely terrifying! And those little eyes, so bloodthirsty, watching you and smiling! I've never seen anything more frightening in my life! And ever since then I dream about it, every night I dream about that nightmarish smile!”
From the way that the visitor, hitherto so extremely calm and rational, suddenly became agitated and excited, it was clear that a course of neuropsychological treatment would certainly not do her any harm. After all, it so often happens that an individual who is normal in every respect and perfectly rational manifests a truly maniacal obsession over some quirky little point. Apparently the African reptile had become the subject of precisely such a mania.
After listening to her description of morbid dreams, each more nightmarish than the last (but all involving the smiling reptile), Father Vitalii surrendered: he walked across to his desk and dashed off a few lines rapidly, spattering the paper with ink.
“Very well, my daughter. Here is my recommendation. Go to see Donat Savvich. And now please forgive me—I have urgent business to attend to.”
Mrs. Lisitsyna leapt to her feet, involuntarily clutching at her hindquarters where they had been tormented by the chair, and read the note, but was not satisfied. “No, Father. What kind of recommendation is this: ‘Please listen to what this donor has to say and render her every possible assistance’?” That's the sort of thing they write on petitions in government departments when they want to get rid of someone. Write something sterner, Father, something more insistent.”
“How do you mean, ‘more insistent’?”
“My dear Donat Savvich,” Polina Andreevna dictated. “As you are well aware, I rarely burden you with requests of a personal nature, and I therefore implore you not to refuse this petition of mine. My most cordial friend and intimate spiritual collaborator, Mrs. Lisitsyna, is suffering from a grave mental ailment and is in need of urgent…”
The father superior almost balked at “my most cordial friend and intimate spiritual collaborator,” but Lisitsyna installed herself on the chair again and began narrating yet another dream, in which she had found her deceased husband back in her cold widow's bed, but when she embraced him and kissed him, she had suddenly seen the repulsive toothy mouth grinning below the nightcap and the terrible claws ready to tear at her sides.
The archimandrite was a stalwart man, but he could not stand this, and he capitulated before he had even heard the end of the terrible dream. He wrote the recommendation as requested, word for word.
And so Mrs. Lisitsyna's flesh had not suffered the torment of the chair in vain—now she could get down to some serious investigative work.
Interesting People
HIS REVERENCE VITALII would have been extremely surprised if he had heard how the extravagant lady from Moscow conducted her conversation with Dr. Korovin. Polina Andreevna did not tell the owner of the psychiatric clinic anything about the grinning reptile or her ambivalent dreams. At the beginning she hardly even opened her mouth at all, watching closely as the confident, clean-shaven gentleman read her letter of recommendation.
But she also looked around at the study—it was quite ordinary, with diplomas and photographs on the walls. The only unusual thing was the painting in a magnificent bronze frame hanging behind the desk: a highly convincing and detailed depiction of an octopus, with a naked human figure squirming in the grip of each of its suckered tentacles. The monster's face (if the combined head and trunk of the gigantic mollusk could be called a “face”) was remarkably reminiscent of the imperious, bespectacled features of Donat Savvich himself, although it was quite impossible to determine exactly how such a precise resemblance had been achieved, since there was no trace of caricature or artificiality to be observed in the image of this immense eight-armed denizen of the deep.
Having read the archimandrite s
note, the doctor gave his visitor a curious glance over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“I have never received such an insistent communication from Father Vitalii before. Just what can your relationship to His Reverence be, for him to go to such great pains?” Donat Savvich smiled sardonically. “ ‘Intimate spiritual collaborator’—now there's a fascinating phrase. Could there really be some romantic aspect to this? That would be rather interesting from the psychophysiological point of view—I had always categorized the father superior as the classical type of suppressed homosexual. Tell me, Mrs…. er … Lisitsyna, are you really seriously ill? It says here: ‘Save this woman's soul, which has been tormented beyond all endurance.’ At first glance your soul does not appear so very badly tormented.”
Polina Andreevna, who had already formed a definite opinion about the owner of the study, gestured dismissively at the letter and laughed lightheartedly. “You are quite right. And probably about the archimandrite, too. He cannot stand women—and I shamelessly exploited the fact in order to extort a pass into your citadel from the poor man.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows and extended the corners of his mouth slightly, as if he were also joining in the laughter—but not completely, only to a certain extent. “And what exactly did you think I could do for you?”
“They say so many intriguing things about you in Moscow. My decision to come on pilgrimage to New Ararat was a sudden impulse—even I was taken by surprise. You know how these things happen with us women. And now that I'm here, I haven't the slightest idea what to do with myself. Well, I tried praying, but I'm afraid the devotional impulse has passed. I went to take a look at the archimandrite. And I'll take a ride around the archipelago on a launch …” Polina Andreevna shrugged. “But there are four days left before I take the ship back.”
The beautiful lady's frankness did not anger Korovin; in fact it seemed to amuse him. “So I'm some kind of fairground attraction for you, am I?” he asked, smiling broadly now, not with just the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, no, don't say that!” said his frivolous visitor, alarmed, and then she laughed. “Well, if you are, only in the most respectful sense. No, really, I have been told absolutely miraculous things about you. I simply couldn't miss the opportunity!”
And then, having won over the doctor with her frankness, Polina continued the conversation in accordance with the standard rules for dealing with men. Law number one said: If you want a man to like you, flatter him. The more intelligent and subtle the man was, the more intelligent and subtle the flattery had to be. The cruder he was, the cruder the praise should be. Since Dr. Korovin was quite clearly not a stupid man, Polina Andreevna set about weaving her lacy web in a roundabout manner.
Suddenly assuming a serious air, she said, “I find you most intriguing. I would like to understand what kind of man you are. Why does the heir to the Korovin millions spend the best years of his life and huge sums of money on trying to cure madmen? Tell me, why did you decide to take up psychiatry? Because you were surfeited with life? Was it idle curiosity and disdain for other people? Or was it the desire to rummage in people's souls with your cold hands? If that's it, then it is certainly interesting. But I suspect that the reason might be more dramatic. I can see from your face that you are not world-weary. You have lively, passionate eyes. Or am I mistaken, and is that gleam nothing but curiosity?”
Let a man know that you find him infinitely interesting, that you alone can see how unique and unlike anyone else he is—in either a good or bad sense, it doesn't really matter which—that is the point of the first law. We must admit that Polina Andreevna did not really have to pretend very hard, for she believed quite sincerely that everyone was unique in his or her own way, and therefore interesting, if you looked closely enough. Especially such an unusual man as Donat Savvich Korovin.
The doctor looked at his visitor quizzically, as if he were trying to absorb the change that had taken place in her. He began speaking in a low, confidential tone: “No, I did not take up psychiatry out of curiosity. It was more out of despair. Are you genuinely interested?”
“Very!”
“I joined the medical faculty out of youthful narcissism. Initially the department of physiology, not psychiatry. At the age of nineteen I imagined I was Fortune's favorite, a happy prince who had everything that any mortal could possibly possess, and there was only one more thing I wanted: to discover the secret of eternal or, if not eternal, then at least very long life. This is a rather common form of mania among the rich— at this very moment I have one patient of this kind, whose narcissism has developed to a pathological extent. And as for myself, twenty years ago, I dreamed of understanding the workings of my body so well that I could prolong its functioning for as long as possible.”
“But what diverted you from that path?” Lisitsyna exclaimed when the doctor paused briefly in his narrative.
“The same thing that usually diverts excessively rational young men from their intended trajectory in life.”
“Love?” Polina Andreevna guessed.
“Yes. Passionate, irrational, all-consuming—in short, just as love ought to be.”
“Was your love not requited?”
“Oh, yes, I myself was loved no less ardently than I loved.”
“But why do you speak of it so sadly?”
“Because it was the saddest and most unusual of all the love stories I know. We were drawn irresistibly to each other, but we could not spend even a minute in each other's embrace. The moment I came within arm's length of the object of my adoration, she became seriously ill: tears poured from her eyes and her nose began streaming; she broke out in a bright red rash and her temples started to throb with the unbearable agony of migraine. I only had to move away, and the morbid symptoms vanished almost immediately. If I had not been studying medicine, I should probably have suspected witchcraft, but in my second year as a student, I already knew about the mysterious, implacable ailment known as idiosyncratic allergy. In very many cases it is impossible to guess what causes it and even more impossible to treat it.” Donat Savvich closed his eyes, laughed, and shook his head, as if he were astonished that such a thing could actually have happened to him. “The way we suffered was indescribable. The mighty power of love drew us to each other, but my touch was fatal to the one I adored. I read everything known to medicine about idiosyncratic allergy and realized that the chemical and biological sciences were still too imperfect and in the course of my lifetime they would not develop far enough to defeat this mechanism of the physical rejection of one body by another. That was when I decided to switch to psychiatry and devote myself to studying the structure of the human soul—and my own soul, which had played such an appalling trick on me by making me love the only woman out of all the women on earth whom I could not possibly possess.”
“And so you parted?” Polina Andreevna exclaimed, moved almost to tears by the story itself and the restrained tone in which it had been told.
“Yes. That was my decision. Eventually she married. I hope she is happy. But I, as you can see, am still single. I live for my work.”
Quick-witted as she was, Mrs. Lisitsyna had not immediately realized that the cunning doctor was also playing a game with her—not a woman's game, but a man's, no less ancient and immutable in its rules. The sure means to gain access to a woman's heart is to arouse the spirit of competition in it. The best thing of all is to tell some romantic story, which must have a sad ending, about yourself, as if you are saying, See what depths of feeling I was once capable of, and possibly would be again, if only I had a worthy object of affection.
When Polina Andreevna realized what was happening, she smiled to herself in appreciation of this maneuver. Regardless of whether it was true or not, the story she had been told was certainly original. And in addition, the entire monologue indicated that the doctor liked his visitor, and that, say what you will, was flattering, and also useful.
“So you value your work?” Lisitsyna asked sym
pathetically.
“Very much. My patients are unusual people, each of them a unique individual in his own way. And uniqueness is a kind of talent.”
“In what way are they so talented? Please, do tell me!”
The redheaded visitor's round eyes opened even wider in joyful anticipation. At this point law number two came into its own: Lead the man onto the subject that interests him more than any other, and then listen properly. That is all there is to it, but how many men's hearts are won by means of this simple method! How many plain Janes and dowryless brides find themselves such fine bridegrooms that everybody is amazed at how they could possibly have come by such undeserved happiness— but the way they came by it was simply by listening.
Polina Andreevna certainly did know how to listen, raising her eyebrows when it was required, gasping occasionally and even pressing her hands to her breast, but all without the slightest exaggeration and, most important, without pretending, with entirely unfeigned interest.
Donat Savvich seemed to speak reluctantly at first, but such exemplary listening gradually roused his enthusiasm.
“My patients, of course, are abnormal, but that only means that they deviate from a certain average norm that is accepted by society—in other words, they are more unusual, exotic, and whimsical than ‘normal’ people. I am opposed in principle to the very concept of the ‘norm’ as used in any comparisons in the sphere of the human psyche. Each one of us has his or her own norm. And the individual has a duty to himself to rise above this norm.”
Here Mrs. Lisitsyna began nodding her head, as if the doctor had propounded a thesis that had occurred to her earlier and with which she was entirely in agreement.
“What makes human beings valuable and interesting,” Korovin continued, “what makes them great, if you like, is that they can change for the better. Always. At any age, after any mistake, any moral lapse. The mechanism of self-improvement is embedded in our very psyche. If this mechanism it not used, it grows rusty, and then a person declines and sinks below the level of his own norm. The second cornerstone of my theory is this: every blemish, every failing in the personality is simultaneously an advantage, a high point in the landscape—all that is required is to rotate that point of the psychological relief by a hundred and eighty degrees. And here is my third fundamental principle: anyone who is suffering can be helped, and anyone who is beyond understanding can be understood. And when you have understood them, then you can start working with them: transforming a weak person into a strong one, a defective person into a complete one, an unhappy person into a happy one. My dear Polina Andreevna, I am not superior to my patients, I am not cleverer or better—the only difference is that I am richer, although there are some extremely wealthy people among them too.”
