He doesn’t seem very convinced, but then he agrees and tells me that the second session should take place immediately. I suggest that he should rest for a couple of hours, in order to be able to relax as deeply as possible. Maybe he should listen to music while trying to empty his mind of thoughts.
He rejects my suggestion and invites me to go for a ride instead.
He asks me to drive. Walter brings the car out and we set off. Josh tells me the way. We stop somewhere near the turnoff to Interstate 95, twenty miles down the highway, at a place named Nancy’s Diner. We order two portions of lobster, but he barely touches his. He talks to me about fishing techniques and tells me that during the season he used to go fishing with a friend. His thoughts seem to be elsewhere, his attitude has changed. He seems half absent, somewhat hostile. The fact that I’m taking notes seems to bother him.
I ask him whether he’s remembered something and he avoids giving me a straight answer.
I point out to him that any detail might prove vital in a psychological investigation of this kind.
He hesitates for a few moments and then tells me, “I think I killed her, James. I remembered some things … Different things, bad things … They just came to me. I can see them in front of my eyes even now, but in a neutral way, as if it wasn’t me, as if I were watching it in a movie or something.”
“You don’t realize it now,” I tell him, “but a real storm has taken place in your brain. Allow things to settle before jumping to conclusions. Our memory not only has hiatus, but there are plenty of false memories. Eyewitnesses to a car accident, for example, often describe things completely differently than what in fact happened. What is stored in our memory isn’t what has been recorded by the retina, because we aren’t robots. Our consciousness operates like a director, cutting scenes from his film however he pleases and weaving bits together to give them a certain meaning and significance. We don’t actually record facts, but meanings and emotions, which differ from one individual to the next, even if the facts might be the same.”
“I know all this,” he says wearily. “But I’m more convinced than ever that I was the one who murdered her. I don’t know why I’d have done something like that, but I did it.”
He’s reacting as if he’d never seriously believed that he was the one who committed the murder and that all of a sudden he’s had an overwhelming revelation, which leaves little room for doubt.
We return to his estate.
His blood pressure, heart rate, pulse, and blood sugar level are checked once more. He is administered his current medication, without the painkillers. We go into the living room and turn on the recording device. We change the seating arrangement. He lies down on the couch and I sit in the armchair. The second session commences.
Session 2
The patient goes into the trance more easily this time. He’s breathing deeply, suggesting a state of deep sleep.
He reacts positively to my suggestion that he’s four years old and tells me about buying his first pair of sandals. He’s very cooperative. He again mentions the troubling presence of nearby water.
I ask him how he ended up in Paris after graduating from college. He frowns.
“He suggested that I should leave. I don’t know why. I don’t want to go there. But after the scandal, nothing was the same again.”
“What scandal are you referring to?”
Silence.
I repeat the question, “What scandal are you referring to?”
“That story with her husband. Who cares? Everybody knows. He was killed and I went to Paris, but things got worse. With him, things always get worse. And everybody has to let him have his own way. He’s never to blame for the things that happen to him, is he?”
“Are you referring to Abe?”
“He was … If he’d just listened to me, the whole scandal would never have happened.”
“Are you referring to Abe?”
“The guy who … I’m not allowed to say anything.”
His tone of voice shifts. He’s “looking” carefully all around him.
“We shouldn’t be talking about this … If he finds out … Better let things lie … I don’t know what to do … Neither of us knows.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He’s whispering something unintelligible and shaking his head.
“How do you feel about Simone?”
With no hesitation, he says, “She’s different. I don’t want to do her any harm. I’m certain he’s going to hurt her if ... I love her, I think.”
“Is there someone who wants to harm her?”
“He does … That’s the way he is, the way he’s been taught to be. He’s a bad person. ‘And each man kills the thing he loves … The coward does it with a kiss … The brave man with a sword.’”
There’s a long pause.
“She doesn’t love him. He should leave the country.”
“And what does he want to do to Simone?”
He sighs, runs his right hand through his hair, and turns his head. His eyes are closed but I can see his eyeballs moving rapidly beneath the closed eyelids.
“My stupid kindness … He always tells me he’s going to … Although I’d demonstrated to him then that …”
“Is Abe the one who wants to hurt Simone?”
He gives me a nasty grin. His voice has changed. “No, it’s fuckin’ Santa.”
“I want you to listen to me carefully. How did you arrive at the Hotel Le Meridien, with Simone and Abe? Did you arrive later? What time does the clock on the wall show when you enter the apartment?”
He looks frightened, his face is contorted. “Who told you that?” he whispers. “Nobody can know. It’s very important that nobody knows. He stole my passport, the crazy bastard!”
“You told me, because you have complete trust in me. And I want you to continue telling me what happened.”
He shakes his head and keeps trying to get up from the couch. “I’m afraid,” he says.
“There’s no point in being afraid,” I assure him. “You’re safe now and nobody can hurt you.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” he asks me irritably. “It’s very important that nobody know anything. He would kill her.”
“Why?”
“Because people wouldn’t understand … She suffered greatly because of …”
“But now they’re far away, safe, and they can’t do you any harm. They can’t harm you or anybody else. They have gone away for good. You don’t need to be afraid of them anymore.”
He shakes his head as if he’s not at all convinced that I’m telling the truth.
“What happened that night?”
“There was a fight.”
“Are you talking about Simone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you arrive at the hotel first? I mean, before him? Was Simone with you?”
“I got there first. I had a lot to drink. I was upset. At one point, I walked out and thought about leaving, but then I came back. I told him to stop hurting people.”
“What exactly are you talking about?”
“About him, about what he did to us.”
“Name the thing you’re referring to.”
“I can’t, nobody would understand …”
“And did he do that thing?”
“I was frightened, I don’t know …”
He stops. His agitation increases. He’s clenching his right hand into a fist and miming the striking of blows with his arm.
“Blood,” he whispers, and the tears begin to flow down his face. “Blood like on the highway. The highway is gray and all of them are dead. I can see her. There’s blood in her eyes. She’s crying blood.”
All of a sudden his entire body begins to quake, as if he’s just been administrated an electric shock. Flecks of white foam appear at the corners of his mouth. His hands are flexed, as if he were trying to push away a weight crushing his chest. His fingers are clenched like claws.
I end the session and bring him
out of the trance, but he remains frozen in that position. I press the panic button and the nurse arrives immediately.
I lingered there for two more days, but never got the opportunity to speak with him again.
He had suffered a nervous breakdown, even though the tests found no significant change in the parameters of his health. His general condition was severely altered. He wasn’t even curious to find out if the second session had revealed something new.
I wrote a report that was locked away in a safe, waiting for the moment when he’d ask to see it.
I avoided drawing any firm conclusions, but I was sure that at the very least he’d been an active accomplice in the woman’s murder, if not the sole perpetrator.
From the data I had, neither Josh nor Abraham Hale seemed to fit the psychological profile of a potential murderer. But there are people who should never meet, like Bonnie and Clyde. It’s like a chemical reaction—two innocuous substances can produce an explosion once they are mixed together. When he rang the doorbell of that apartment in New Jersey and met Abraham, his life changed for good.
Apart from that, there were a large number of things that didn’t fit, and whose sequence and real significance I hadn’t been able to unravel. But I told myself that, given the circumstances, it was of no importance.
When I went to say goodbye, while Walter was taking my luggage to the car, he tried to tell me something, but was unable to articulate the words. He was lying in bed and his hands and face were as white as the sheets. Then he gestured in disgust and turned his face to the wall.
I was certain that I’d never see him again. But I also got the feeling that the story wasn’t over.
Before I climbed into my car, Walter handed me an envelope with my name on it. “From Mr. Fleischer,” he told me. “I’d ask you not to open it until you get back to New York.”
I thanked him, put the envelope in the glove compartment, and drove away. He remained standing on the porch and waved to me, following me with his gaze.
When the iron gates closed behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt as if I’d been shut up in a musty room for days and somebody had thrown the windows open wide at last, and let the air in.
Of all the patients I’d had over the years, Joshua Fleischer had been the closest to death. And that death, his death, was almost a palpable presence, hidden in a corner, waiting for the right moment.
I don’t recall much about the journey back. The highway was more crowded than on the way there and a heavy gray rain dogged my progress for hours. I stopped at a gas station to fill up and drank a coffee, trying to decide what I should do the next day. I couldn’t get Josh’s story out of my head, and I was sure I wouldn’t succeed in doing so for a very long time.
nine
I ARRIVED HOME EXHAUSTED, took a shower, and went straight to bed. First thing in the morning, a colleague of mine from LA called and told me about a conference in Switzerland which was being held in three days. Professor Atkins had a cold and wouldn’t be able to attend, although he was one of the speakers. Even though the invitation caught me by surprise, I agreed to stand in for him—it would force me to occupy my mind with something other than Josh’s story.
I’d put the envelope from Josh on my desk at home and, after I got back from the conference, I glanced at it from time to time while I read my emails and wrote the outline of my report for UCLA, but I didn’t have the courage to open it. I suspected it was a farewell letter and I didn’t feel up to reading it yet.
I’d liked him. He was almost a romantic character, torn between good and evil, but he’d nonetheless found the strength to do so much good. Had he killed Simone in Paris long ago? If so, why had he done it? Probably nobody would ever know for certain.
One evening, I decided it was time to read the letter.
I’d been watching an old movie on TCM and had made myself a cup of coffee. I went to my desk and sat down to draw up my schedule for the coming days. The envelope was there, between the pencil holder and the laptop. It crossed my mind that it might contain some last wish on my former client’s part, and that I shouldn’t ignore it. I opened it.
I found another, smaller envelope inside. The larger one also contained two sheets of paper with my name written on them. It was a letter from Josh as I’d presumed.
Dear James,
When you read these lines, your job will be over. I don’t know whether we’ll ever manage to solve the mystery, and now I don’t even know anymore whether I ever really wanted to. But I do know that you came over to help me and that you didn’t do so for the money, and for that I thank you one more time.
I chose you not only for your proven competence and your renown in the academic world. My preliminary investigation also recommended you for another reason—in a way you have experienced a similar tragedy. I’m referring, of course, to Julie Mitchell. I suspect that you understand all too well the true sense of guilt and remorse.
You shouldn’t feel embarrassed at my researching your past. I did it only with the intention of knowing you better, before I entrusted you with the darkest secret of my life. And also, perhaps, because I listened to a certain type of intuition I’ve believed in all my life and which has rarely let me down.
Money is often looked down upon, and its power is unjustly considered overrated. I think this happens because wealth has always been the privilege of a tiny minority. This is why people who never get rich will never know about the almost mystical power concealed within true wealth. Believe me, its power is huge.
So my money has allowed me to obtain a copy of a certain document. It’s in the enclosed envelope. I must confess, I’ve read it. Its contents will, I believe, help you clear up a dilemma. It’s what I can do for you.
Why have its contents not come to light until now? Because two parents overwhelmed by grief chose to hide this letter from you. They were convinced that you indirectly caused the death of their daughter. Maybe a part of you believed the same thing. I don’t know whether you still believe it today, but I am more or less convinced that you do.
I lied to you when I said that I’m not afraid of death. When I think of the moment when I’ll be standing on the threshold, I feel the most terrifying dread I’ve ever experienced, even though I’m exhausted by my fight against this illness. I have the same feeling as I did then, in Paris, the terrifying sensation of facing something irreversible, fully conscious of the fact that what has happened and what’s about to happen to me can never be repaired, at least not in this world. And in the last few days I realized that, regardless of what really happened in Paris, whether or not it was my fault, I also died that night.
Now that I’m so close to death, I recognize the same sensations, the same tastes, and the same smells. My memory has perhaps deceived me in many things, but all those sensations have remained intact somewhere in a corner of my mind. Perhaps we won’t ever know what happened in Paris that night, but I know without question that I was in the presence of death.
We should never idealize youth. There’s no age in life more banal, and young people easily fall prey to clichés of every sort. They go to school only because they have to, and learn pointless things that they’ll quickly forget. They harbor naïve ambitions, fall in love, hate with reckless ease, because they have no idea of the meaning of love and desire and passion, nor what consequences extreme feelings have on a person’s life.
In fact, it’s the age at which many people destroy their lives and fall into traps from which they’ll never escape. It’s the age at which future alcoholics, murderers, thieves, torturers, swindlers, the silent accomplices of evil, construct their personalities.
At such an age, it’s believed that even the worst mistakes can be redeemed, forgiven, and forgotten. I don’t agree. I think we’re more likely to err irrevocably in our youth, when our true being is still intact, than later, when society has already made sure of enveloping us in a cocoon of fears and weariness and inhibitions, which anesthetize our senses and dampen
our genuine impulses. No adult will ever be as villainous as a villainous youth. Fate willed that I met such a man, and perhaps at the time I was one of them too. Abe, Simone, and I should never have met each other. It would be easy for me to put the blame on them, but something inside me accepted and even loved the evil that surrounded us, and followed it into the room where the murder took place.
Most likely, I’ll never see you again. I’m sorry that we didn’t meet earlier, under different circumstances. Take care of yourself. You’re a good man.
Your friend,
Josh
P.S. Please don’t try to dig deeper, because things are much more complicated than I’ve been able to tell you. I realized something during our discussions: Some events should never come to light, because once they do, they shrivel up like flowers pulled up by the root, and their shapes become meaningless. They’re merely abstract designs, senseless occurrences, ink splotches in which everyone is free to see whatever they want to see, because regardless of what each person might see, the initial meanings have long since vanished, even for those who experienced them at the time. All of us have the right to forget and be forgotten. So let the dead sleep in peace, James. It’s better this way.
I realized that he must have written the letter on the morning of the day when we’d carried out our sessions, or the evening before. Once again, I felt dreadfully sorry that I hadn’t been able to give him the peace he sought.
I examined the second envelope.
Julie had always seemed detached and confident during our relationship, as if it was all just a game. It wasn’t even a relationship in the proper sense, all it boiled down to were a few sexual encounters in places and circumstances bizarre enough to make me feel like I was nothing but an experimental prop, like one of those crash-test dummies.
I told her so once, and she more or less confirmed it.
She said, “I think that men sometimes look at the reverse situation as being normal, with women as sex objects. For centuries you’ve imagined women as creatures subject to your pleasures, without it ever entering your heads that the reverse might be the case. Maybe there’s always been a conspiracy of women, who knows?”
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