My Name Is Nathan Lucius

by Mark Winkler

  There’s another man in Doctor Petrakis’s office the next time I’m there. “This is Doctor Humboldt,” she says. “He’ll be sitting in with us from now on.”

  Humboldt wears a checked shirt and khaki trousers. The checks are made of brown and orange and cream. His gut hangs onto his lap. The cuffs of his trousers have pulled up over his ankles. The socks are grey. The shoes are brown. Soft-soled, slip-on. There’s a shadow across his top lip. It looks like a moustache. It’s just a shadow. He looks like a farmer. He nods at me. He readies a notepad and pen. The pen is a cheap office Bic. It makes me think of Sonia. It almost disappears in his hand.

  “So, Nathan,” Doctor Petrakis says. “Have we come along since you and I sat down together a week ago?”

  A week. It could have been yesterday. Last month. Last year. I long for the jungle. I see dangerous little things in the swirls. Like thorns. Humboldt’s pen hovers above his pad. The windows are dirty again. It must have rained. Dirt spatters the glass in raindrop patterns. The sky is no longer blue. It’s grey and low.

  “Clearly not,” Doctor Petrakis says after a while. She doesn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Humboldt flicks her a look. She stands up and comes around from behind the desk. There’s a smaller chair next to mine. She turns it to face me and sits down. Close.

  “Do you have dreams, Nathan?” she asks. Humboldt writes one word. I bet it says “dreams.” Doctor Petrakis is very beautiful. Like a cat. The cheekbones and the slightly slanted green eyes. She has fine parentheses at the corners of her mouth. A little radiance of lines at the corner of each eye. Her hair is so straight it could be Chinese. It has random threads of silver in it. They add an element of gravitas. She sounds like Sonia though. I’m sure she’d be disappointed if I told her that. I’m sure she’d be disappointed if I told her all I want is my flat and my job back. That I don’t want to rule the world. It’s not what she means by “dreams.” She has her soft face on.

  “Recurring dreams? Anything that repeats, specifically? By way of images or themes or both?”

  I climbed out of the canoe and my bum was wet. I dragged the boat from the water up the shore. The canoe was wide and heavy, and once half of it was out of the water I stopped. A needle of fibreglass was stuck in my finger. It was translucent and yellow and I found it with my teeth and tugged at it. I licked at the little mushroom of blood it left behind. I couldn’t get my feet clean. After I rinsed them in the lake I had to go through the mud again. Square One, as Mom always said. This meant going back to the beginning, with no gain. I didn’t know what Square One actually, really meant. Why not Square Two, or Cube Three? I thought about this for a minute. Then I realised that if you squared one, you were left with one. One times one is one. You ended up exactly where you began.

  I picked up the paddle and my sandals. I walked up to the house and then veered off to the woodshed to put the paddle away. I couldn’t get the door open. Isabel had fetched the paddle. She’d bolted the door and I couldn’t open it. I leant the paddle against the wall. I went behind the woodshed to pee. Nobody would see me from the house. The shed was made of wooden slats nailed close together. I tried to pee through the gaps between the slats. Pee splashed onto my feet. The world smelled of pine needles and chopped wood. Of dust and grass. And now, a little bit like pee.

  Yes, I don’t say to Doctor Petrakis. It’s a dream of blackness. The blackness smells bittersweet. With mildew in between. Hell isn’t made of fire and brimstone. It’s made of black. It’s chilly and damp. It smells of mould and dust and pine needles. It’s made of people.

  “What I’m trying to say is this,” says Doctor Petrakis. “Do you still have the same dream you told me about when we last met?”

  I look away from the dirt on the window. Humboldt has stopped writing. I wonder if he believes her. I wonder if he knows that I don’t. I look at her. Look at her hair, her eyebrows. Her mouth. It’s pink inside and at the corners where the lipstick has worn off. I look at her chin. At the chain with the glasses dangling from her neck. I look into her lying green eyes. She looks back for a moment and then looks down. She flicks through some papers. She opens her mouth and closes it again. She glances at Humboldt. His huge head makes a tiny nod. She breathes in and then out. She looks back at me.

  “What can you tell me about the smell of pine needles?” she says.

  Johnson has to come for me again. He has September with him. He is almost as big as Johnson. Just fatter. Someone is screaming from far away. The men in the ward stop what they’re doing. They’re staring at me. And at Johnson and September. Which of them is doing the screaming, I wonder. Next thing I’m in my bed with cuffs around my wrists and ankles. The cuffs are connected to chains. The chains are connected to the iron of my bed. The cuffs are padded. They still hurt. The ward sister comes in. She’s new. I don’t know her name. She’s holding a clipboard to her chest. Doctor Petrakis walks in. Humboldt appears at the door. Doctor Petrakis takes the clipboard from the sister. She puts on her glasses. She frowns at whatever it is that is on the board. She runs the end of her pen down the page. She turns to the sister and her mouth moves. The screaming person is still at it. I wish he would stop. I’m sure there’s a medication for that. The sister can’t hear Doctor Petrakis speak. Doctor Petrakis taps at the clipboard with her pen. Shakes her head. Points at the page. Holds up two fingers. The nurse nods. She mimics Doctor Petrakis’s actions. Doctor Petrakis nods. September and Johnson take my arm and hold it still. The sister has pulled a syringe from somewhere. Doctor Petrakis watches. Then Humboldt squeezes himself against the doorframe to let her out.

  Mr. Naicker opens with the king’s pawn. He moves it two squares towards me. He sips at his coffee. He recoils and blows at it. He waits for me to respond.

  “You’re not really here today, are you?” Mr. Naicker says. He looks into the coffee in his cup. I’m watching Socks Ferreira. He is sitting the wrong way round on a chair. His hands grip the top of the backrest. He is rocking. Gently banging his chest onto the backs of his hands. Maybe he is staring at the rain streaking the window. I wonder what’s going through his head. Not much, I decide. Mr. Naicker is right. I’m deep in a mist of drugs. I’m trying to find something. I don’t know what it is. Then I remember. It’s the hot coal of anger. I want to hold it again like I did yesterday. Squeeze it tightly in my hands. Feel it burn into my palms. Feel it ignite the rest of me. Feel it burst into a righteous kind of fury. My flat, my photographs, my dreams. The coal glows for a second. It dims again. I repeat: My flat, my photographs, my dreams. The coal glimmers. I repeat the words. Again. Until I’m rocking with their rhythm. Like Socks is rocking with his own list of stuff he’s holding onto. The coal has died. It’s cold and black in my hand. The drugs are like a fire extinguisher. My flat. My photographs. Flat, photographs, dreams. As combustible as wet socks. Flat, photographs, dreams, anger. All gone.

  Mr. Naicker is suddenly next to me. He’s holding two paper cups of coffee. He puts one down in front of me. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Nathan,” he says. “I know what they can do to one. I know what they can do to one’s head. I especially know what they can do when it comes to the matter of time. They can stretch it or squash it at will. It’s a brilliant and magical trick, and it’s why people like you and I don’t know if it’s this week or Christmas.” He sips his coffee. “We can give the chess a rest for today,” he says. He sits down and packs the pieces away. Then he leans forward. His elbows are on the table and his chin is resting on his hands. “You and I,” he says. “You and I need to consider each other as family. Not close family, for sure, because that can be,” he says and stops. The empty table helps him think. “That can be, well, counterproductive,” he says. “Familiarity and all that. We can be cousins, shall we say. That will allow enough distance for good sense. At the same time, we’d still be close enough to look out for each other.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about
.

  “It’s all about family, isn’t it?” Mr. Naicker continues. His hands drop to the table. He looks at Socks Ferreira rocking on his chair. He looks at the rain on the glass behind the bars. He looks at the backs of his hands. “Or it used to be in any event.”

  I wiped my peed-on feet on the lawn. They still had mud on them. I climbed the steps to the deck. Dad was lying on the wicker couch. Mom and Aunty Mike were leaning with their elbows on the balustrade. Aunty Mike said something and Mom laughed. The laughing made her spill some of her drink into the flower bed below. Hamish looked up at me. He banged his tail on the wood of the deck. I could see that he was too lazy to get up. Isabel came out and took some dishes from the table. She went back into the house then returned for the rest.

  “Hey, sailor,” Aunty Mike said. He used to have a wife called Aunty Margaret. When I was little I confused the two of them and called him Aunty Mike. That’s what they told me. Everyone thought it was so funny that the name stuck. One day Aunty Mike arrived without Aunty Margaret. We didn’t see her again. Aunty Mike wasn’t our real uncle. We just called him that.

  “How were the high seas?” Aunty Mike asked.

  “Wet,” I said and he laughed.

  “I can see,” he said. He smacked my bum as I walked past.

  “Feet!” Mom said. I went back and rinsed them under a garden tap and stomped them dry on the lawn. Then I went upstairs to change my shorts.

  I wonder how Ricky sees the world

  I wonder how Ricky sees the world through those eyes. It must be like looking through a letterbox. He is sitting in Mr. Naicker’s chair. I don’t like how Ricky plays chess. He is quick and aggressive. As if the object is to win. To win as quickly as possible. We’re on our third game. He’s won the first two. I wonder why he’s in such a hurry. It’s not like he has to catch a bus or hurry to a movie. He twitches so much I can’t think.

  “Come on, Nathan Lucius,” he says. “I haven’t got all day.” He is sitting on his hands. I wonder if he is trying to control them. His legs are jiggling up and down. If you strummed him he would play D-sharp. I don’t know where he thinks he’s going.

  “Where’s old man Naicker today?” he asks. He looks up at me. I think he rolls his eyes. It’s hard to tell. “Stupid,” he says. “Asking you.” Then he stops jiggling. “Just take that pawn already, okay,” he growls. He doesn’t wait. He reaches out and takes his pawn with one of mine. “You don’t mind, I’m sure,” he says. Then he jumps his knight into no-man’s land. “Go,” he says. “Go go go.” I didn’t want to take his pawn. I have no idea why he’s placed his knight where he has. He would have time to think if he didn’t rush. He starts jiggling again. Then he stops and leans forward.

  “Do you know the story about Naicker?” he asks. He is whispering. It’s louder than if he just spoke normally. Then he says, “Fuck it,” and his hand darts out and moves my bishop two squares to threaten his knight. “Naicker gets home from work one day. He greets his daughter and kisses his wife. The wife is making dinner. I would have fucked her for first course if I had a wife. Fucked her for mains too. Anyhoo, he goes to the bedroom and takes off his jacket and his tie and his shoes. He puts on his slippers and goes down for dinner. I definitely would have fucked his daughter. Fucked her for starters, mains, dessert and the cheese platter.” Ricky puts his knight into retreat. He leaves it up against the left margin of the board. “His wife has made a leg of lamb. She asks him to carve it. He goes to the sideboard. He starts carving and his daughter tells him about her day at the consulting firm. She’s yakking on about her work when old man Naicker turns around and slits her throat with the carving knife. His wife jumps up and starts screaming, so he stabs her five times in the chest and once in the eye. Maybe in the eye first and then in the chest. Nobody knows. Then, he carries on carving the lamb. The neighbours hear the wife scream and they call the cops. When they get there . . .” Ricky stops and moves my second bishop. His knight is under threat again. “When they get there, the cops I mean, old man Naicker is sitting calmly at the table eating roast lamb with a side of mash and peas. He’s even poured himself some juice. And added ice. His wife and daughter are in their chairs, stone dead and bleeding all over the place, and he’s just sitting there, chowing away.”

  Ricky glares at me. I wonder if he’s waiting for me to challenge his story. He moves a pawn randomly on the right-hand side of the board. He grins. “That’s us,” he says, “a hundred and fifty percent cuckoo crazy, every one.” He suddenly remembers his exposed knight. He looks down to confirm his mistake. “Fuck!” he says and slaps himself on the forehead. He takes his knight with my bishop.

  I’m waiting

  I’m waiting for Doctor Petrakis. She’s late. Humboldt is in the room. He is writing on his notepad. I don’t think he wants to look at me. He could be writing a shopping list. Milk, bread, grey socks. The windows have been cleaned. There’s new rain on them. Humboldt’s tan shoes are mottled with wet. As if he’s walked through grass in the rain. I’d like to do that very much. To walk through the grass in the rain. Except I probably wouldn’t wear shoes. I’d even run barefoot on tarmac for an hour right now. I think about Ricky and Mr. Naicker and Madge. If Ricky thinks he knows all about Mr. Naicker, what do Ricky and Mr. Naicker and Socks Ferreira and the rest think they know about me? It’s a village in here. Every story has a nub of truth. Smoke and fire. I can’t remember all the other clichés. Still, Ricky’s story about Mr. Naicker could be complete bullshit. The truth is probably half as bad. There’s probably bullshit that’s being shared about me as well. About Madge. Because I’m here because of Madge. I know I’m here because of Madge. Somehow, somewhere, someone found out. The careful CCTV selfies notwithstanding. The difference is that I’m not certifiable like Naicker or Ricky or Socks. I did Madge a favour. She asked me to. She asked me to because she was sick and in pain and not dying. I wish Doctor Petrakis would cut to the chase. Open the door on Madge. Maybe I’d even talk to her then. I’m sure I would. If she promised to leave alone everything else that is mine. Everything that belongs to me.

  I’m thinking these things when Doctor Petrakis walks in. I’ve never seen her in a rush before. She’s bent slightly forward at the hips. Her bum sticks out. She has a sheet of A4 paper in her hand. “Sorry,” she says. “I was waiting for this.” She’s a little breathless. She can’t be very fit. She goes to the front of her desk and leans against it. She holds up the paper. The picture on it has been printed by a printer with calibration problems. Sonia has bands of white across her face. Her nose doesn’t join properly in the middle. I look at the rain on the window. It falls in little fits. There’s a sudden spattering. Then there’s silence. Then another wave of wet.

  “Your old boss tells me she was concerned about your memory. I was wondering if this was just her perception, or if you’ve been aware of any memory problems?”

  Her question strikes me as sneaky. If I do have memory problems, how would I remember having memory problems? And how could I possibly vouch for the validity of Sonia’s opinions? Sometimes the drugs do this to me. Instead of the mist, they bring about a sharpness. Not that it matters. I’m not going to say anything. Not to anyone, ever again. It’s surprising that Doctor Petrakis hasn’t understood this yet. All those certificates on her wall. She needs some sharpening drugs herself, I think.

  I yawn and snuggle deeper into the chair. The leather has warmed up. I put a leg over the armrest. It’s comfortable. I could stay like this for ever. It’s probably more comfortable than Doctor Petrakis would like. Outside it’s grey and wet. I bet Humboldt’s feet are cold in their wet socks. He probably hates winter. Me, I would have gone for a run in the rain. Come home and had a hot shower. Wrapped myself up in warm things. Pansyshell Park wasn’t made for the cold. I’d have watched movies for hours. Had a wank. Fiddled with the family on the wall. Made sure their faces, their personalities, logically lead to mine. Tweaking the genetics. For n
ow, I’m happy enough to be in Doctor Petrakis’s room. It’s dry. It’s warm. I still can’t figure out the pencil sketches on her wall. One looks like a bird. Or a ballerina with her leg extended. Too bad the frame is squashing on her from all four sides. A bit of music would be nice. I wouldn’t know what kind I want. Something sleepy. Piano, maybe. Now and then, like now for instance, I would like to open my mouth and speak. Purely to point out the obvious. How could I remember, if I have memory problems? Asking me if I remember memory problems doesn’t make sense. However sneakily it’s phrased. The actual truth is, I can’t remember. Can’t once remember Sonia bawling me out for my memory. All sorts of other things, definitely. Never memory. I can’t remember, so how would I know?

  It’s a boring session. Doctor Petrakis skirts around things. I get half of what she’s skirting around. The rain stops. Humboldt yawns with his mouth closed. It stretches the bags under his eyes down his cheeks. It’s not pretty. It makes me yawn. Doctor Petrakis too. I wait for Doctor Petrakis to start a question with the words, “So how did it make you feel?” At least she spares me that.

  Mr. Naicker is back.

  “I’ve been a little under the weather,” he says as he sets up the chessboard. “So it’s nice to see you again.” He scratches under his jaw. His beard has been cropped short. This should make him look younger. It doesn’t. The skin under his eyes is darker than before. I’m sure the lids are thicker than they were. While the rest of him has somehow grown thinner. He lines up his pieces. His hands shake. He knocks over his king. Johnson comes up and removes his paper cup of coffee. Mr. Naicker rights his king. Johnson comes back with a cup of water.