by Evelyn Weiss
you’ll believe the nonsense I come out with, or if you won’t believe it. That’s for you to work out, Prof.”
He half-walks, half-stumbles, across the room and slumps into a chair again. I feel frustrated, almost angry. I can tell that the professor is furious.
There’s a third knock on the door. For some random reason I recall that time back at home, long ago, when I went to the door even though there was no knock. And Mrs Rosenblum was standing there, just about to knock on the door. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a premonition.
Rufus shouts towards the cabin door. “You too, whoever you are, just open the door and come in. I’m holding an open house here, the more the merrier. Leave the door open behind you, and then the whole damned ship’s crew can come in here if they like.”
The door opens and Chisholm comes in. He smiles at me, but his smile fades as the professor raises an eyebrow at him, and says in guarded tones “We can proceed with the hypnosis. Despite the – aha – debris in the room.”
Chisholm looks at the bottles: he understands us perfectly.
Professor Axelson speaks loudly to attract the attention of our host, who is staring blankly out of a porthole.
“Mr du Pavey… when you’re ready?...”
It’s five minutes later. Rufus sits in an easy chair, Chisholm and I sit on either side of him. The professor sits opposite him, looking serious and purposeful.
“Mr du Pavey. Rufus. You feel calm, relaxed. Every care you ever had is fading away, every problem is disappearing.”
“Well my problems bloody well should be disappearing. I’ve just shown that I’m the best pilot in the world. I’m going to be the richest, too.” A childish grin plays across his lips.
“Mr du Pavey, we’re going somewhere different now. I am going to take your mind, your imagination, your memory, somewhere else. Somewhere long ago.”
“Fire away. And by the way, Chis, can you ring the bell for a waiter? He can open another bottle of my 1900 Grand Vintage for us. You and Agnes were my Lake Ontario passengers, after all: we should celebrate together.”
“We’ll begin by imagining your mind is a flower, Rufus. A tightly closed rosebud. You are fragrant, beautiful, but closed up.”
“Yes, I’ve got you. A rosebud. Very nice.”
“Now, you are hiding there, inside the petals. Although you are inside the rose petals, you can sense the sunshine outside. There’s a blue sky above you. You know it’s there, just beyond your petals, but you can’t see it. But then – a petal opens. You see a glimpse of blue.”
“Blue…”
“Another petal opens, and another, and another. And the sunshine is pouring down on you, you’re drinking it in. You’re open to the light, the warmth. Let it pour down on you. The more open you are, the more light, the more warmth. Open every petal, let the sun pour down and immerse you in a golden glow of light.”
Rufus is silent now. His restless limbs have become relaxed, his shoulders still, his head erect. And although his eyes are shut, his face looks forward, listening to the professor’s voice, taking in each word.
“How old are you, Rufus?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“I want you to count. Count backwards, from twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-seven, twenty-six…”
When Rufus reaches thirteen, the professor says, slowly but firmly “Stop.”
Rufus’s face is still intent, but it looks somehow less controlled. He’s listening to the professor’s words, drinking them in. Axelson speaks again. “You’re no longer aged twenty-eight. You’re thirteen years old, Rufus. Today is your thirteenth birthday.”
“Yes. I’m thirteen years old today.”
“Do you like your birthday?”
I look across at the ruddy complexion. I see the faintest tremble, shaking those fleshy lips and nose.
“My birthday’s in September.”
“Yes, September. The start of the fall. Colder weather, chilly mornings, darker nights. Leaves turn yellow, don’t they, Rufus?”
Rufus’s breathing is slowed now, deep and heavy. Again I hear the mastery of Axelson’s voice, speaking to Rufus’s memories.
“Trees, woods, the changing seasons. Do you like this time of year, Rufus? Do you like your birthday?”
Rufus’s breaths themselves are like a woodland in fall, swaying slowly in the breeze. Deep and slow, but somehow uneasy. His voice seems to come from far away.
“No.”
“But – what boy doesn’t like his birthday? Presents, games, celebrations?”
Rufus makes no reply, but the breathing goes on, a little too loud, a little too deep. As if he needs the air.
“School. I’m back at school.”
“Your school was far from home, wasn’t it, Rufus? Far away, and surrounded by trees. English autumn woods and yellowing, falling leaves. When you try to sleep at night, you can hear the trees, can’t you? They move and sigh in the autumn winds.”
“Yes. I can hear them. I hear them every night. I hold the pillow over my ears. I can’t sleep.”
“You’re lying in your bed, in the school dormitory. Summer’s turned to fall: shorter days, cooler days: longer nights, colder nights. It’s your birthday: your first night as a thirteen-year old boy. Are you happy, Rufus?”
Again I glance across Rufus’s face. And I see the glint of a tear in his eye.
“I’m scared.”
“Scared? What are you afraid of, Rufus? You’re at school. You’re with all your friends. All boys together. What do your friends say about you, Rufus?”
Another tear.
“They say unkind things. They say I can’t control my bladder, my water-works. And they say that’s because there’s something wrong with me. Something wrong – down there. In my trousers.”
“Wrong, Rufus?”
“Something wrong with my feelings. They laugh at me. They say, Rufus will never be a man. He doesn’t want to join the Army, or hunt, or shoot, or ride. He’d rather stay at home. And play with dolls, and dress up. Because he’s not really a boy at all. More like a girl.”
The breathing is broken now. A sob catches in his throat, but his voice is hoarse, harsher, louder. A jeering tone runs through it.
“A girl that’s gone wrong – that’s what you are, Rufus. Say it. Say it now ‘Ruthy, Ruthy du Pavey. Ruthy’s a naughty little girl that’s gone wrong, and needs to be taught a lesson. Say it! ‘I’m Ruthy du Pavey, a naughty little girl who needs to be punished.’ Say it!’”
“Relax, Rufus. Don’t listen to those voices. Listen to the breeze in the trees. You’re not panicking, are you?”
“Not tonight. Please, please, don’t do it to me tonight.”
“Relax, Rufus. Breath deep and slow, deep and slow, air flowing through you, calm, quiet, peace. Everything is peaceful, and you’re not thirteen any more. You’re a man now, aren’t you? You’re not bullied any more. You drive fast cars, you fly airplanes. No-one can make you scared now. You’re not scared of anything, are you? Because those nasty boys, they’ve all gone. The boys are all gone, gone far away into the woods to play their silly boyish games. There are girls around you now, and you feel happy. These girls, they all admire you. Pretty dresses and pretty smiles. They look into your eyes, hang on your every word.”
The breathing slows, but the tears keep coming.
“Look into the face of each and every girl. What does she want?”
“I know what she wants. She wants me to kiss her. Every one of them, they all feel the same, look at me the same.”
“Where are you, Rufus?”
“I’m in a dining room. I can see chandeliers, waiters. I hear music: an orchestra is playing for us. And all these girls – they’re at my table. We’re in the first-class dining room of the Titanic.”
“Can you see the girls’ faces? Around your table?”
“I’m looking. I’m looking around the table. I see every girl smile at me. Every day I see those smiles, those eyes, welcoming me, wan
ting to be with me. The waiter is pouring champagne for us, it’s fizzing in every glass, there’s a toast, a chink of glasses. Hands raised, holding the glasses, smiles all round. ‘To Aviation!’ I hear the laughter. Too shrill.”
“Why do you keep looking, Rufus? Looking from face to face? As if you are searching for something you can’t see?”
“I’m looking for someone I can’t see. I’m looking… for him.”
“For whom, Rufus?”
“Percy. Why has he gone?”
“How do you feel, Rufus? What are you going to do?”
“I feel – like I did, years ago, at school. Too many faces, too many voices, laughing. Laughing at me. Percy doesn’t laugh at me. I need to find Percy.”
“Percy’s on the Titanic too, isn’t he?”
“Yes. I need to go to him. I need him to talk to me, to tell me what to do. I must find him, right now. I’m getting up from this table, I’m going away from all the pretty girls.”
The strangest thing happens. Rufus’s large, unconscious frame moves, rises, stands. The cabin is large, but he seems to fill it. But unlike Calvin Gilmour when he rose from the chair under hypnosis, there is a strange powerlessness in Rufus’s limbs. He’s like a puppet, pulled up by strings.
“You’re going to find Percy, aren’t you, Rufus?”
“I’m going to his cabin. I knock on the door. And I see him standing there. I see his face, his eyes, his lips. I see red wine, too. A carafe of wine, on the table. I need a drink for my nerves. I want him to welcome me, to give me wine.”
“What is he saying to you, Rufus?”
“He’s saying ‘Rufus, you can’t have the wine, you’ve had too much to drink tonight.
