“What about your grandmother?”
“She recovered well.”
“I’m glad to hear that, James. Well, it’s great to know early on what you want to do in life and to have the strength to persevere,” he remarked, as we were brought our salads. “That way you don’t waste time and energy on things you later think of as utterly pointless. On the other hand, you risk carrying curiosities, regrets, and sorrows around with you—what might’ve happened if I’d opened that door, if I’d followed that impulse, if I’d answered that invitation. Kierkegaard wrote that one would be better off killing a baby in the cradle than leaving behind a wish unfulfilled, with the condition that the wish does nobody any harm. Have you always been sure you chose what was best for you?”
He’d barely touched his salad, but he poured himself a glass of red wine from a carafe and drank it in one go.
I shrugged. “No, never. As a scientist, I refuse to ask myself questions for which I can never find the answers. I don’t know what would have happened if I’d chosen to be an explorer, for example, or if I’d gotten married in my senior year at university to a girl from California named Jessica Fulton and moved to the West Coast, like I almost did.”
“I think you’re wrong,” he said. “I think the things we haven’t done define us just as much as the things we have. I think it’s no coincidence when we find ourselves in front of a door at a given moment, even if we choose to never open it. The doors we never open are just as important as the ones we walk through. People are tempted to forget, and at the hour of reckoning, nobody counts the doors that stayed closed, but only the few doors they chose to open.”
“Forgetting is an important part of our mental immune system, Josh,” I replied. “Our brains erase the files considered to be useless or even damaging, just like a computer eliminates viruses, old documents, and useless icons. Then there are other disturbing memories that are faked, airbrushed or spruced up, in an attempt to save parts of them, for one reason or another. Freud supposed that a sort of recycling bin does exist, the subconscious, which can be accessed by the psychoanalyst—that is, a place where all the erased memories end up, the memories the patient isn’t even conscious of. He believed that psychologists only need to comb through them to reach the real causes of the mental impasse the subjects finds themselves in. Jung, his brilliant apprentice, took it even further and believed that all individual recycling bins are somehow connected in an invisible network he called the collective unconscious.”
“By your tone, I take it you don’t agree with these famous gentlemen,” he said as we were brought the main course.
“Well, psychoanalysis has always had its limits, and an extremely speculative side. Human knowledge seemed omniscient in those days of scientific enthusiasm,” I said. “Scholars were looking for unifying, all-encompassing theories, that’s how Einstein came up with the theory of relativity, a theory that can encapsulate the whole universe, an equation by which you can explain almost everything, a scientific philosopher’s stone. In the spirit of the times, that was what Freud attempted to do, with his theories about the libido, Jung, with his concepts of individuation and archetype, and Adler with his notion of complex. All these are very seductive from the intellectual standpoint, but the main aim of the medical act is ultimately to cure, isn’t it? The psychoanalytical method is more often than not exhausting for the patient as well as for the therapist because it takes a lot of time, and it’s also very costly. It’s a luxury of the modern world, which replaced the old confessional with a fancy leather couch in a downtown medical practice.”
“Do you really think it will ever be possible to measure the human mind using figures, formulas, and equations?” he asked.
“If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be a scientist,” I stressed.
He shook his head. “Allow me to be skeptical,” he said. “Maybe you can get inside a man’s mind, dissect it, rummage around, and then sew it back up. But there’s still that thing commonly known as the soul, which isn’t tucked away in the brain, as we like to think nowadays, or in the heart, as people in the Middle Ages believed.” He sighed and looked down. “I think we’re getting closer to the reason I asked you here, James …”
We were alone. The nurse had not come back, and the butler had left a tray with coffee, a sugar bowl, and a milk jug on the small table by the armchairs.
“In your book you argue that there’s no guarantee that a subject in a state of hypnosis will communicate … let’s call it reality,” he said. “I don’t like to use this word. It suggests that there’s an objective truth, beyond the appearances in which we’re shackled by our senses, our perceptions, our convictions, and our taboos, as you underlined in your lecture. But nonetheless I would like to try the method.”
So that was what this whole thing was about. “Josh, it appears that you’ve studied the subject thoroughly enough to know that hypnosis involves a series of risks,” I said.
“I’ve read a lot on the subject, yes. I know those risks and I’m prepared to take them. In my condition, I don’t think I’ve got very much to lose.”
“I’m not just talking about physical risks.”
I’d lost my appetite, and he hadn’t touched his plate. We got up and went over to the coffee table, where we sat down in the armchairs.
“The experiences of a subject in trance are just as strong as if he were really living through the episode he reproduces or imagines in that state,” I said. “Sometimes they’re even stronger, especially during a regression. I don’t know whether it’s the best idea for someone in your state, especially if it’s a question of a very traumatic event, as you’ve led me to believe. If you’ve forgotten it, even only apparently, it was because your mind decided that was the way things had to be. Forcing it to come back up to the surface might create serious and uncontrollable consequences.
“What’s more,” I went on, “I’m skeptical about the practical results, as I’ve told you before. It’s not a question of lying … In fact, the patients don’t lie under hypnosis, not in the same way they use lies in a waking state, as a weapon from our natural arsenal of self-defense. The problem is that the ‘truth’ a subject communicates doesn’t necessarily correspond to reality.”
He bent over the table and looked me straight in the eye. “James, I’ve spent forty years obsessed with what happened that night and I don’t want to pass away without trying everything possible to discover the truth.” His voice was harsh. “I chose you precisely because you’re a skeptic and there’s no risk of you manipulating the session, of using me as a lab rat in one of your experiments. If we don’t succeed in shedding some light on what happened back then, that’s that, but I’m determined to try, if you’ll agree to help me.”
He was very sad, as if he’d just received an overwhelmingly bad piece of news.
“Have you ever heard about the Book of the Dead, the ancient Egyptian funerary text?” he asked. “Well, the manuscript says that in front of their judges, the dead have to swear that they haven’t committed during their life any sin from a list of forty-two. After that, their hearts are weighed on a pair of scales. If the scales balance, it means that the deceased told the truth: He led a good life, so he’s admitted into paradise. But if he lied and his heart is out of balance, then a beast named He Who Lives on Snakes, or the Devourer, eats his heart and sends him into hell for eternity …
“Now it’s time I tell you what all this is about. One night, Simone was murdered, and Abe vanished for good without a trace. We’d been together that night, all three of us …”
six
“THAT NIGHT WAS THE climax of a tragedy that began the moment I first met Simone at that restaurant, Chez Clément,” he said.
“I’ve already mentioned that she didn’t seem to be in love with Abe, treating him with a kind of touching friendship, the way a gentle person treats somebody in pain, who’s begging for attention. Behind his appearance of having adapted to Parisian life, I quickly realized th
at Abe had remained the same young man full of inhibitions and complexes. But Simone was the scion of an aristocratic family, heir to a considerable fortune, and the bearer of a name that opened many doors out there. She didn’t make a show of such things, but it was clear that she belonged to a sophisticated world as far away from Abe’s as a planet in another galaxy.
“Put simply, we fell in love with each other. At that age, I guess, things either happen straightaway or they don’t happen at all.
“In a way, it was a repeat of the story with Lucy, but this time, things were much more serious for both of us. At first, Abe merely looked on in amazement, avoiding the subject. Simone didn’t change her behavior toward him, showing him the same friendship, but he was smart enough to guess how things were developing. She didn’t seem to care that the way she acted when we were together might hurt him.
“As for me, I was discovering feelings I’d never experienced before. The small mole on her right wrist, the way her eyes changed color depending on the light, a lock of hair tumbling across the nape of her neck, the way she moved her shoulders when she walked in high heels, all these things seemed extraordinary to me and they became the center of my universe the instant I noticed them. When we weren’t together, not even a minute passed without me thinking of her.
“Once, when we were alone together—Abe had to go to the foundation, and I’d offered to walk her home—I brought up my fears regarding the strange triangle that we’d unwittingly brought into being. Simone told me that she shared my concern and didn’t want to hurt Abe. But she also told me that she wanted us to be together, and that was the most important thing for her.
“So, after three weeks or so, we started seeing each other, just the two of us, although our relationship was still platonic. One night, we went to a party with Abe, somewhere in Montmartre, and that was where we kissed for the first time. On the way home, I tried to work out whether Abe had noticed anything, but he was drunk and gloomy, and it was impossible to talk to him. The next day I didn’t have the guts to broach the subject.
“But the worst blow for Abe came a few days after that party—the foundation withdrew the offer of a job just a few days before it would have become permanent. He was completely bewildered and not even capable of explaining to me coherently what had happened. All he said was that L’Etoile had cancelled the offer, and then he sat for a while on the couch, staring into empty space, before dashing out of the building. At first, I didn’t believe him—I called the foundation to check for myself, pretending to be one of his relatives from America. A secretary confirmed that it was true—Mr. Abraham Hale’s offer of employment had been withdrawn for reasons that were to be communicated to him, in writing, in the near future.
“I didn’t see Abe for a couple of days. He didn’t even come back to change his clothes. I was the one who received the envelope from the foundation and signed for it in his name. I didn’t open it. I placed it on the phone table in the hall and asked myself what to do next, given the new circumstances.
“I knew that it was likely that Abe would have to go back to America, because he’d already blown through all his savings. If that were the situation, I would have to decide whether I would help him with money to prolong his stay or not. The rent agreement for the apartment on the Rue de Rome depended on the foundation, so we would be losing it either way.
“By that evening, I’d made my decision: I would stay in Paris, whether Abe left or not. If he agreed to stay and let me help him, I had enough money for us to live comfortably until we found jobs. I kept telling myself that things weren’t as dire as they seemed. I knew that Abe had a kind of stubborn pride, but I still hoped that he would accept some friendly help.
“Abe was absent for the rest of the week, and I was on tenterhooks the entire time. Simone was away visiting her parents in Lyon and we spoke on the phone. She knew that Abe’s job offer had been withdrawn and she seemed very upset by it. She invited us to go to Lyon, to meet her parents and forget about our problems for a couple of days.
“When he got back home—it was a Sunday—Abe seemed completely changed. It was obvious he’d been drinking heavily. He was unshaven, he’d lost weight, and his clothes were in disarray. He was furious, even though he was trying to look calm and self-assured, and had an expression on his face that I’d never seen before: he was showing his fangs, literally, his face twisted into a kind of grimace that thrust his lower jaw forward and bared his teeth.
“I tried to encourage him, telling him that we had enough money to live on until we found jobs, but that we had to start looking for another apartment first thing. He opened the envelope from the foundation, cast a brief glance at the letter inside, and then crumpled it up and set fire to it in an ashtray.
“‘You don’t think I’m going to live on your handouts, do you?’ he said at one point. ‘That would be the limit. Don’t worry. I’ll manage. I know some people who are going to pull some strings and everything will be alright.’
“Given his condition, I was worried about the kind of people he’d met, but it wasn’t the time for such a discussion. I told him that Simone had invited us to Lyon to meet her parents.
“‘You mean that she invited you,’ he bitterly pointed out. ‘You’re the dream of every mother who wants to see her precious daughter married off—handsome, well dressed, rich, and successful. I’m poor and with no prospects. And if Simone were in love with anybody, it would be you, pal.’
“He continued to feel sorry for himself for another hour or so. Though he hadn’t done anything wrong, he seemed to take a real pleasure in punishing himself. He kept repeating that his father was right: the poor man’s sacrifices had turned out to be for nothing.
“There was a bottle of cognac in the apartment and he drank most of it by himself, after which he fell asleep fully clothed, with a lit cigarette between his fingers. I helped him to bed and threw a blanket over him.
“In the morning he was somewhat more coherent. He still seemed depressed and as taut as a spring about to snap, but at least he’d given up on his endless monologue about his faults. He took a shower, shaved, and put on clean clothes. We went to a café and had breakfast. I mentioned Simone’s invitation again.
“‘There’s no question of my going,’ he said categorically. ‘But you should go. I can see how much you want to. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.’
“There wasn’t much else to say. I knew that I shouldn’t leave him by himself, that my going there wasn’t the right thing to do, but I was twenty-two and I was in love, and so I packed my bag and Abe came to see me off at the Gare de Lyon. I can still remember, even today, how he stood at the end of the platform and watched as the train departed, his hands thrust in his pockets and the collar of his coat turned up. October had arrived with cold, gloomy rains. For a moment I thought I should get off the train again and stay in Paris with him, that I should just wait for Simone to come back to town, but then the train picked up speed and the opportunity was lost. I left him there alone.”
The memory of that scene must’ve been painful for him, because for a few moments he said nothing more, sitting back in the armchair with his eyes half-closed.
For a few moments, it seemed that he’d even stopped breathing. “Almost inevitably, the days I spent in Lyon were catastrophic,” he eventually went on. “Simone’s mother, Claudia, was a kind and gentle woman, but completely dominated by her husband, Lucas, who was hostile to anything that wasn’t French. I learned that he wasn’t Simone’s real father, but he’d adopted Simone and her younger sister, Laura, when they were just toddlers.
“To him—he was very tall and slim, somewhat reminiscent of General de Gaulle—Americans were Neanderthals who posed a threat to European culture. It was unthinkable that his daughter might leave the country in the company of such a barbarian. He barely spoke two words to me. He’d been a member of the French Resistance against the Nazis during World War Two and had been arrested and tortured by the Gestapo. For one reason or
another, his experience at the hands of the Nazis had recently come back in the spotlight, because his name was all over the newspapers during that time.
“I asked Simone if she knew why Abe’s job offer had been withdrawn. She told me that she’d had a phone conversation with someone from the board, who had mentioned a letter about Abe sent from America.
“I didn’t stay at their house, although they had a two-story mansion, but took a room at a nearby hotel. Simone visited me in secret, as if we were teenagers, and it was there where we made love for the first time. I told her that I’d decided to stay in Paris for a while. Hearing this, her father stressed that France had become a magnet for bums from all over the world.
“As I mentioned, Simone had a sister, Laura, who was a year younger than her. She was studying English and lived in Paris too, but I hadn’t met her up until then. By chance, she was at her parents’ house and we all got together a few times. She adored America and could hardly wait to one day visit New York City. The three of us went for walks around Lyon and spent our evenings in interminable conversations, swathed in cigarette smoke and the scent of coffee.
“When I returned, the concierge told me that he hadn’t seen Abe during the entire time I’d been away. Some of his belongings were missing. He hadn’t left a note, but quite simply vanished, and I wondered whether he might have gone back to the States.
“A clerk from the foundation visited me at the apartment and we came to an agreement that I could keep it until the end of October. I had plenty of time to find a new place to stay.
“Abe turned up out of the blue a few days later. I think it must have been around midnight when I heard the key in the lock. He looked bad and was drunk and incoherent. All I could gather was that he had a girlfriend somewhere in Montmartre and that her ex was causing them trouble.
“When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. Not only was some cash missing from my wallet, but I also discovered a gold wristwatch and an expensive Dupont lighter were missing. I didn’t have any clue where to find him. The same thing happened a couple of times after that. When he came, I took care to leave some cash in a visible place, which he would disappear with after showering, shaving, and changing his clothes. He was like a ghost, arriving at midnight and vanishing at the third crow of the cock, taking away the offerings left for him by humble mortals. It didn’t bother me, but I was worried about him, and kept intending to have a serious talk with him.
Bad Blood Page 5
