For at least a month I lived in constant terror of a fresh panic attack. It’s laughable, looking back on it now. I lived in terror of being assailed by terror.
I thought that when it happened again, I might go mad and perhaps even die. Die mad.
This led me, with superstitious dismay, to remember an occurrence of many years before.
I was at university and had received a letter, written on squared paper in a loopy, almost childish hand.
Dear Friend
When you have read this letter make ten copies in your own handwriting and send them to ten friends. This is the original Chain Letter: if you keep it going, your life will be blessed with good luck, money, love, peace and joy, but if you break it, the most terrible misfortunes may befall you. A young married woman who had for two years longed for a child without managing to become pregnant copied the letter and sent it to ten friends. Three days later she learned that she was expecting. A humble post-office clerk copied the letter, sent it to ten friends and relations, and a week later won masses of money on the lottery.
On the other hand, a high-school teacher received this letter, laughed and tore it up. A few days later he had an accident, broke a leg and was also evicted from his home.
One housewife got the letter and decided not to break the chain. But unfortunately she lost the letter and, as a result, did break the chain. A few days later she contracted meningitis, and though she survived she remained an invalid for the rest of her life.
A certain doctor, on receipt of the letter, tore it up, exclaiming in contemptuous tones that one shouldn’t believe in such superstitions. In the course of the next few months he was sacked from the clinic where he worked, his wife left him, he fell ill, and in the end he died mad.
Don’t break the chain!
I read the letter to my friends, who found it highly diverting. When they had got over laughing they asked me if I intended to tear it up and die mad. Or else sit down and diligently make ten copies in elegant handwriting, something that they would not fail to keep reminding me of – rather rudely, I presume – for at least the next ten years.
This got on my nerves. I thought they wouldn’t have been such Children of the Enlightenment if they had received the letter themselves, but told them that of course I’d tear it up. They insisted that I do it in front of them. They insinuated that I might have had second thoughts and, once safe from prying eyes, might make the famous ten copies etc.
In short, I was forced to tear it up, and when I’d done so the biggest joker of the three of them said that, whatever happened, I needn’t worry: when the time came, they would see to it that I was admitted to a comfortable loony-bin.
Some eighteen years later I found myself thinking – seriously – that the prophecy was coming true.
In any case, the fear of having another panic attack and going mad was not my only problem.
I began to suffer from insomnia. I lay awake almost all night every night, falling asleep only just before dawn.
Rarely did I get to sleep at a more normal time, but even then I unfailingly woke two hours later and was unable to stay in bed. If I tried to, I was assailed by the saddest, most unbearable thoughts. About how I had wasted my life, about my childhood. And about Sara.
So I was forced to get up and wander about the apartment. I smoked, drank, watched television, turned on my mobile in the absurd hope that someone might call me in the middle of the night.
I began to be worried that people might notice the condition I was in.
Above all, I began to worry that I might totally lose control of my actions, and in such a state I spent the entire summer.
When August came, I didn’t find anyone to go on holiday with – to tell the truth, I didn’t try to – and I wasn’t brave enough to go off alone. So I mooned about, parking myself in the holiday homes and the trulli of friends, either at the sea or in the country. I’m sure I didn’t make myself very popular during these peregrinations.
People would ask me if I was a bit under the weather, and I would say, yes, a little, and as a rule we didn’t pursue the matter. After a very few days I’d realize it was time to pack my bags and find another bolt hole, trying as far as possible to put off going back to town.
In September, as things got no better, and especially as I couldn’t bear the sleepless nights, I went to my doctor, who was also a friend of mine. I wanted something to help me sleep.
He examined me, asked me to describe my symptoms, took my blood pressure, shone a torch in my eyes, made me do slightly demented exercises to test my balance, and at the end said that I’d do well to see a specialist.
“Eh? What do you mean? What kind of specialist?”
“Well ... a specialist in these problems.”
“What problems? Give me something to make me sleep and let’s have done with it.”
“Listen, Guido, the situation is a bit more complicated than that. You have a very strained look. I don’t like the way you keep glancing around. I don’t like the way you move. I don’t like the way you’re breathing. I have to tell you, you are not a well man. You must consult a specialist.”
“You mean a ...” My mouth was dry. A thousand incoherent thoughts went through my head. Perhaps he means I should go and see a consultant. Or a homeopath. Or a masseur. Even an Ayurvedic practitioner.
Oh, that’s fine if I have to go to a consultant, masseur, Ayurvedic practitioner, homeopath. To hell with it, that’s no problem, I’ll go. I’m not one to shirk treatment, not I.
I’m not a bit scared because ... a psychiatrist? Did you say a PSYCHIATRIST?
I wanted to cry. I’d gone mad and now even a doctor said so. The prophecy was coming true.
I said, all right, all right, and now could he give me that damned sleeping pill, and I’d think about it. Yes, all right, I had no intention of underestimating the problem, see you soon, no no, there’s no need to give me the name of a – mouth very dry indeed – of one of those. I’ll call you and you can tell me then.
And I ran for it, steering clear of the lift.
4
My doctor had agreed to prescribe something to help me sleep, and with those pills the situation seemed to improve. A little.
My mood was still mouse-grey but at least I wasn’t dragging myself around like a ghost, dead of insomnia.
All the same, my output of work and my professional reliability were dangerously below safety level. There were a number of people whose freedom depended on my work and my powers of concentration. I imagine they would have been interested to learn that I spent the afternoons absent-mindedly leafing through their files, that I couldn’t care less about them and the contents of their files, that I went into court totally unprepared, that the outcome of the trials was to all intents and purposes left to chance and that, in a word, their destiny lay in the hands of an irresponsible nutcase.
When I was obliged to receive clients the situation was surreal.
The clients talked. I paid no attention whatever, but I nodded. They talked on, reassured. At the end I shook them by the hand with an understanding smile.
They seemed pleased that their lawyer had given them their head in that way, without interrupting. He had evidently understood their problem and requirements.
I was a really decent sort, was the opinion confided to my secretary by a pensioner who wanted to sue her neighbour for putting obscene notes in her letter box. I didn’t even seem to be a lawyer at all, she said. How true.
The clients were satisfied and I, at the best of times, had only a vague notion of the problem. Together we proceeded on our way towards catastrophe.
It was during this phase – after I had managed to get some sleep for a few nights running – that a new factor intervened. I began to burst into tears. At first it happened at home, in the evening as soon as I got back or when I first got up in the morning. Later, it happened outside as well. As I was walking along the street, my thoughts went berserk and I began to cry. I did, however
, manage to control the situation, both at home and – more important – in the street, even if each time it was a little more difficult. I concentrated all my attention on my shoes or on the number plates of cars, and, above all, avoided looking into the faces of the passers-by, who, I was convinced, would be aware of what was happening to me.
Finally it happened to me in the office. It was one afternoon and I was speaking to my secretary about something when I felt the tears welling up and a painful sensation in my throat.
I set myself to staring dully at a small patch of damp on the wall, answering meanwhile by simply nodding, scared stiff lest Maria Teresa should realize what was going on.
In fact she realized perfectly well, suddenly remembered that she had some photocopies to make and very tactfully left the room.
Only a few seconds later I burst into tears, and it was no easy matter to stop.
I felt it was not a good idea to wait for a repetition, in the middle of a trial for example.
Next day I called my doctor and got him to give me the name of that specialist.
5
The psychiatrist was tall, massive and imposing, bearded and with hands like shovels. I could just see him immobilizing a raving lunatic and forcing him into a straitjacket.
He was kindly enough, considering his beard and bulk. He got me to tell him everything and kept nodding his head. This seemed reassuring. Then it occurred to me that I too used to nod my head while clients were talking and I felt somewhat less reassured.
However, he said that I was suffering from a particular form of adjustment disturbance. The separation had worked in my psyche like a time bomb and after a while had caused something to snap. Caused, in fact, a series of ruptures. I had made a mistake in neglecting the problem for so many months. There had been a degeneration of the adjustment disturbance, which was in danger of evolving into a depressive state of moderate gravity. Such situations ought not to be underestimated. There was no need to worry, though, because the fact of having come to a psychiatrist was in itself a positive sign of self-awareness and a prelude to recovery. I was certainly in need of pharmaceutical treatment, but, all in all, after a few months the situation would be decidedly improved.
A pause and a piercing look. They must have been part of the therapy.
Then he began writing, filling a page of his prescription pad with anxiolytics and antidepressants.
I was to take the stuff for two months. I must try to find distractions. I must avoid dwelling on myself. I must attempt to see the positive side of things and avoid thinking there was no way out of my situation. I must hand over 300,000 lire, there was no question of a receipt and we’d meet in two months’ time for a check-up.
From the doorway as he showed me out, he advised me against reading the descriptive leaflets enclosed with the drugs. He was a real authority on the human psyche.
I hunted for a chemist’s a long way from the centre of town, to avoid meeting anyone I knew. I didn’t want a client or colleague of mine present when the chemist yelled out to the assistant in the back some such phrase as “Look in the psychotropic cupboard and see if we have extra-strong psychiatric Valium for this gentleman.”
After cruising around a bit in the car, I selected somewhere in Japigia, on the outskirts of the city. The chemist was a bony young woman with a rather unsociable air, and I handed her the prescription with averted eyes. I felt as much at my ease as a priest in a porn shop.
The bony chemist was already making out the bill when I recited my little speech: “While I’m here I’ll get something for myself as well. Have you some effervescent vitamin C?”
She looked at me for a second, without a word. She knew the script. Then she gave me the vitamin C along with the rest. I paid and fled like a thief.
When I got home I unwrapped the package, opened the boxes and read the enclosed leaflets. I found them all interesting, but my attention was irresistibly drawn to the side-effects of the antidepressant. Trittico with a trazodone base.
The patient began with simple dizzy spells, passing swiftly on to dryness of the mouth, blurred vision, constipation, urinary retention, tremors and alteration of the libido.
It occurred to me that I had already seen to altering my libido on my own, then I went on reading. I thus discovered that a limited number of men who take trazodone develop a tendency to long, painful erections, what is known as priapism.
This problem might even require an emergency surgical operation, which in turn might result in permanent sexual impairment.
But the end was reassuring. The risk of fatal overdose of trazodone was, fortunately, lower than that resulting from the use of tricyclic antidepressants.
Having finished reading, I fell to meditating.
What do you do in the case of a prolonged and painful erection? Do you go to a hospital holding the thing in your hand? Do you put on very comfortable underpants? What do you say to the doctor? What does permanent sexual impairment amount to?
And again, how much does one need for a fatal overdose of trazodone? Are two pills enough? Or does it require the whole packet?
I found no answers to these questions, but the Trittico ended up down the bog, along with the rest of the medicines prescribed by my psychiatrist. My ex-psychiatrist.
I conscientiously emptied all the packets and pulled the chain. Into the rubbish bin went the boxes, phials, ampoules and descriptive leaflets.
That done, I poured myself an ample half-glass of whisky – avoid alcoholic beverages – and put Chariots of Fire into the video machine. One of the few cassettes I had brought away with me.
When the first pictures started coming, I lit up a Marlboro – avoid nicotine, especially in the evening – and for the first time in a very long while I almost felt in a good mood.
6
When I was a boy I used to box.
My grandfather took me along to a gym after seeing me come home with my face swollen from the beating it had taken. Administered by a fellow bigger – and nastier – than me.
I was fourteen then, very skinny, with a nose red and shiny from acne. I was in the fourth form at grammar school, and was perfectly convinced that there was no such thing as happiness. For me, at any rate.
The gym was in a damp basement. The instructor was a lean man approaching seventy, with arms still lean and muscular and a face like Buster Keaton’s. He was a friend of my grandfather.
I have a precise recollection of the moment we entered it, at the foot of some narrow, ill-lit steps. There was not a voice to be heard, only the dull thud of fists hitting the punch bag, the rap of skipping ropes, the rhythm of the punch ball. There was a smell I can’t describe, but it is there in my nostrils now, as I write, and a thrill runs through me.
That I was going in for boxing was long kept secret from my mother. She only learned it when, at the age of seventeen and a half, I won the welterweight silver medal in the regional junior championships.
My grandfather, however, never got to see me on that pasteboard podium.
Three months previously he had been walking through a pine wood with his Alsatian when at a certain moment he stopped and calmly sat down on a bench.
A lad who was nearby reported that, after stroking the dog, he had leaned his head on the back of the bench in an unusual fashion.
The carabinieri had to shoot the dog before they could approach the body and identify him as Guido Guerrieri, former Professor of Medieval Philosophy.
My grandfather.
I won other medals after those regional championships. Even a bronze as a middleweight in the Italian university championships.
I never had a deadly punch, but I’d acquired a good technique, and I was tall and lean, with a longer reach than others at my weight.
Shortly before I took my degree I gave it up, because boxing is something you can keep up for long only if you are a champion, or if you have something to prove.
I was not a champion and it seemed to me I had already proved what I
had to prove.
Having decided to get along without modern psychiatry, I searched my mind for some alternative. And I found what I needed was a spot of fisticuffs.
Thinking it over, I realized that it had been one of the few solid things in my life. The smell of glove leather, the punches given and taken, the hot shower afterwards, when you discovered that for two whole hours not a single thought had passed through your head.
The fear as you were walking towards the ring, the fear behind your expressionless eyes, behind the expressionless eyes of your opponent. Dancing, jumping, trying to dodge, giving and taking ’em, with arms so weary you can’t keep your guard up, breathing through your mouth, praying it’ll end because you can’t take it any longer, wanting to punch but being unable to, thinking you don’t care whether you win or lose as long as it ends, thinking you want to throw yourself on the ground but you don’t, and you don’t know what’s keeping you on your feet or why and then the bell rings and you think you’ve lost and you don’t care and then the referee raises your arm and you realize you’ve won and nothing exists at that moment, nothing exists but that moment. No one can take it away from you. Never ever.
I searched for a gym that catered for boxing. The old basement of nearly twenty-five years before was long gone. The instructor was dead. I consulted the Yellow Pages and saw that the city was full of gyms for the martial arts of Japan, Thailand, Korea, China and even Vietnam. The choice was vast: judo, ju-jitsu, aikido, karate, Thai boxing, taekwondo, tai chi chuan, wing chun, kendo, viet vo dao.
Boxing seemed to have simply vanished, but I didn’t give up. I rang the local office of the Olympic Committee and asked if there were any gyms in Bari that did boxing. The chap at the other end was very efficient and helpful. Yes, there were two boxing clubs in Bari, one near the new stadium, housed by the council, and the other, which used the gym of a secondary school just round the corner from where I lived.
Involuntary Witness Page 2
