City of Knives

by William Bayer

  "I know where you're going with this, Tomás. And it's impossible!

  Simply impossible! Carlos could never have been involved in such a thing. Never!"

  "Of course not! That's what I keep telling myself. But how else explain his eruption? Before I lay down on his couch, he was his usual friendly, compassionate self. Ten minutes later he'd turned into a beast. So it had to be something I said."

  "That's exactly what the girl says, the one who was in session with him when he ran out. I've taken over her treatment. She's convinced it was something she said that set him off."

  "Did Carlos speak to her as he did to me?"

  Ana shook her head.

  She's still the most desirable woman I know, he thought.

  He wanted to touch her face again, but settled for her hand. He grasped it from across the table.

  "Was there anything odd that happened," she asked, "before you told him what was troubling you?"

  Tomás thought there was. "I found it strange that he more or less ordered me onto his couch."

  "You'd given him no inkling why you'd come?"

  Tomás shook his head. "Just that I needed his advice. I thought I made it clear I was coming to him as a friend."

  "Yet he wanted you on the couch—that is strange," Ana agreed. "I've gone to him for advice many times, and never once did he suggest I lie down."

  "He had a sixth sense. That's what I thought at the time. He sensed how troubled I was and felt he could help me best if I lay down and he stayed out of sight." He paused. "If Carlos was the one who denounced Sarah."

  "Impossible!"

  "I know. But if he was, that would explain the explosion and his suicide just hours later. But how could he have been? He loved her, loved us both. When she was arrested, he made the rounds, called on all his government contacts. He was the only one who stood up for me when the board refused to intervene. So it couldn't have been him, could it?"

  He gazed into the deep grey of Ana's eyes. He couldn't seem to get enough of her eyes today.

  "And yet...wouldn't that explain the way he spoke to me, and his meltdown just hours later? So far no one has come up with an explanation. Victoria, who saw him daily, says she saw no sign. I keep telling myself he was putting on an act for me, exaggerating for effect, trying to show me the worst part of myself, acting out the beast he saw lurking in me, acting as my mirror so I'd reject the notion of revenge...which, admittedly, I'd been toying with? But there was no follow-up, no pull-back, and, most important, no analysis. That isn't how Carlos practiced. I never knew him to use that kind of cheap trick."

  "So what are you saying?"

  "I'm just trying to understand what happened."

  "And yet the only explanation you come up with is one we both agree is utterly impossible."

  He released her hand, looked away, then took hold of it again. Suddenly he realized how much he needed her, her understanding and her friendship.

  "I admit that what I'm going to suggest is farfetched. But please, Ana, hear me out, then critique my analysis. I need that from you, need it desperately. Will you?"

  "Of course! How can you even ask?"

  He was grateful. She was now, he realized, his closest friend in the world. Of all his friends, she was the only one who could begin to take Carlos' place.

  "Suppose for a moment," he said, "that Carlos did denounce Sarah? Not for the usual vile reasons, but in the mistaken belief that the arrest of such an obviously innocent person would be enough to break the studied neutrality of the Institute? Admittedly farfetched, but in those very bad times, good people did a lot of crazy things. We both know of altruistic acts that backfired, heroes who became devils, misguided attempts to mobilize resistance that ended in arrests and disappearances. Suppose Carlos reasoned that the Proceso thugs would quickly realize Sarah was merely 'parsley' (as they used, so quaintly, to call the innocent) and let her go. No harm done to her, yet her arrest could be a turning point in the resistance. But he forgot an important fact—there was no sense of reality in that time, no sense of justice. So, tragically, his dumb plan backfired, Sarah was disappeared, cheated out of her life, and Carlos lived with his guilt for over twenty years. Then ten days ago I came in with my tale about Tony, and Carlos understood that finally his crime would be exposed. All those years he was like a bomb waiting to explode. What I told him was the spark that ignited the fuse. He did explode, first at me, and then at himself." Tomás paused. "Couldn't that explain what happened?"

  They talked it through for over an hour, examining this hypothesis from every angle, then examining other possibilities. In the end, they agreed, whatever they came up with would at best be speculation. In the end, the single thing that was certain was that Carlos had snapped.

  "So we agree it's impossible for us to ever know," Tomás said, "...except for one little thing."

  "Tony?"

  Tomás nodded. "If I were to come to terms with him and then he told me Carlos was the denouncer, that would confirm my theory."

  "It would tend to confirm it. But without proof how would you know that what he told you was true?"

  "I wouldn't," Tomás agreed, "and more to the point, now that Carlos is gone, does it even matter?"

  They shrugged simultaneously, confused, exhausted, both filled with guilt and despair. They would never know, and the only relevant thing now was that they had lost a great mentor and friend...and understood that they would never know why.

  The storm had passed. The sun shined brightly through a chasm between dark clouds. Out on the street, Tomás took Ana in his arms, held her tight.

  I still love her, love her terribly, he told himself. But he feared telling her so just then. Not today, the day of Carlos' memorial. But soon, I will tell her soon...and then it will be up to her to say whether she returns my love or not.

  Tomás Hudson knew that the best route to recovery from the trauma of Carlos Peña's suicide was to devote himself fully to his patients. Carlos himself had taught that lesson in his seminars: "In the worst of times, our most troubled patients become our refuge."

  Tomás' most troubled patient was Claudio G, also his favorite and the one for whom he held the greatest hope. So he was pleasantly surprised when Claudio turned up at session carrying a new set of drawings of his adoptive parents.

  "You see," he said, handing the drawings to Tomás, "sometimes I do follow your suggestions."

  Tomás had suggested that Claudio draw the Solers as if they were begging for forgiveness, an approach he hoped would inspire Claudio to forgive. But though the Solers did not appear evil in these drawings, they looked more sinister than sincere.

  Still, Tomás felt, a certain amount of progress had been made. But then, when Claudio started telling him about an astounding nocturnal visit to their house, Tomás wondered whether his patient would ever be able to give up his hatred.

  "A few nights ago, a little after midnight," Claudio said, "I awoke from a nightmare. I don't remember what it was about, but my heart was pounding and my sheets were drenched. I got up, washed, dressed, grabbed an old gaucho knife I've had since I was a kid, got on my motorbike and drove out to where they live."

  "They?"

  "The Solers."

  This doesn't sound good! Tomás thought.

  "I drove to their house, parked down the block, then crept around the back to their bedroom window. The window was open, and though the drapes were drawn, there was a gap wide enough for me to peer in. I saw them sleeping not three feet from where I stood. I never did understand why they kept their bed so close to the window. Anyway, there I was, knife in my hand, close enough so all I had to do was push aside the drapes, step into the room, stand above them, then plunge it into their hearts."

  Claudio paused. "I actually considered doing it. I had this vision of myself holding up the bloodied blade to the moonlight, proclaiming to the spirit of my birth parents that I'd finally avenged their deaths."

  Tomás felt his stomach turn but managed to maint
ain his composure. He did not want Claudio to see how disturbed he was by his story.

  "I want to be sure I understand you," Tomás said. "You're telling me this wasn't a dream, that you actually stood outside their window holding a knife?"

  Claudio nodded. "As I said, standing there I fantasized about killing them. Of course I didn't. I'm no kind of a murderer. Instead I slunk back into the night feeling like a total nutcase. In fact, the moon wasn't even shining. And though it was all a kind of walked-through fantasy, my murderous feelings were very real."

  Tomás knew better than to give his patients advice. His job was to help each understand the processes of his unconscious and by so doing relieve his pain. Yet, on hearing Claudio's tale, he set aside this axiom of orthodox practice. If there was ever a situation that called for advice, this, he felt, was it.

  "Your story chills me," he said, noting the surprise on Claudio's face. "I understand you're not a killer. I also understand fantasies of revenge. I've some experience with that myself. As you know my wife was disappeared. I spent years imagining what I would do to her killers, and the one who denounced her if I could discover who he was. But you know, Claudio, revenge can only diminish you, undermine your core sense of self. When you stoop to their murderous level (and I'm not saying the Solers were murderers, though they certainly collaborated with a murderous regime) then you become like them. And then they, the oppressors and killers, even well-meaning, pathetically limited people like the Solers—they win. When you become like them, their evil is validated. And then you, who have every reason to devote your life to erasing it, become the one who validates it."

  Tomás leaned forward. He wanted to speak to Claudio with sincerity now, not in the role of therapist but in the role of a father speaking to a troubled son.

  "I see in you this magnificent talent...undermined by rage. Fantasies of revenge won't reduce your rage. They'll only feed it. In order to release your talent, we must come up with ways to clear your anger. Only then will you be able to fulfill yourself and create great art. Think about it! Becoming a great artist—what sweeter revenge could there be? Could anything be a greater vindication, or a greater gift to the spirit of your birth parents? Is there anything else you could do in life that would begin to equal that?"

  Tomás sat back. He'd broken a primary rule, but at least he'd told Claudio the truth. Now the young man was staring at him as if amazed that his therapist, normally so cool, had let out with such a rant.

  "Dr. Hudson, what you just said is the most loving thing anyone's ever said to me. A few weeks ago I'd have probably told you I'd rather lose all moral authority than continue to live with so great an injustice. But I no longer feel that way. And I must thank you for that." He paused, his eyes filling with tears. "Now maybe, with your words in mind, I can draw the Solers a little better, a little more accurately. Anyway, I'm going to try...."

  Tomás was moved by Claudio's gratitude and also by the way he'd pronounced his adoptive parents' name, in a normal, neutral tone, the first time he'd ever referred to them without contempt.

  So perhaps we're making some progress after all.

  The session was over. Claudio rose. Tomás followed him to the door. They embraced.

  Feeling the warmth of Claudio's body, Tomás was moved again. The young man needed this visceral contact, and so, he realized, did he. He made no attempt to hide his feelings.

  It's good for him to see how much I care....

  After Claudio left, Tomás lay down on his couch and wept for both of them and also for all the years he'd followed the stringent rules of his profession, remaining neutral, disengaged.

  He knew that some colleagues would scorn him for responding so emotionally to a patient.

  "We're not soccer coaches or priests, we're psychologists," Carlos used to preach in his seminars. "We don't offer advice or comfort; we offer analysis."

  And maybe that's just what is wrong with us, Tomás thought. And maybe that's where you, poor dear Carlos, failed yourself.

  That night he made up his mind: he would not place the personal ad that would signal Tony he was ready to deal. As for Carlos' possible role as Sarah's denouncer, that no longer interested him.

  He thought about Ana all the time now. He longed for her...but didn't phone her, afraid of being rebuffed. They'd been lovers for nine years, and then one day he'd said something that cut her so deeply she could no longer bear to be with him.

  When they'd discussed it, she'd told him she couldn't accept what he'd said as an off-hand remark. Rather she believed that by it he'd revealed his deepest feelings—feelings she didn't doubt were true, and which she found she could not forgive.

  His comment, he recognized, had been cruel. Yet he'd said what he'd said, and having spoken could not take back his words. As Ana had rightly pointed out, cruel though his remark had been, it had also been heartfelt.

  It had been a gorgeous spring day, the air soft and aromatic, flowers bursting out all over the city, the jacaranda trees in bloom coating the sidewalks with light blue petals.

  They'd spend the afternoon lazily making love the way they liked to do on Sundays, lightly touching, holding one another afterwards, then rising, showering together, then dressing to go out for a stroll along the avenues.

  She was hooking her bra while he was buttoning up his shirt. That's when he'd said it:

  "You know, Ana, sometimes when we make love I think Sarah's with us in the bed—a ghost, you know, lying between us. And then I'm filled with shame."

  She turned to him, face flushed with agony. "What are you saying?"

  "Just a thought," he said. "Nothing important."

  "But it is," she said. "It's very important." She stared at him. "You don't understand, do you? You really don't understand!"

  "Hey! We had a great afternoon. Please don't spoil it now."

  "I'm spoiling it?"

  "Ana, please, I didn't mean to upset you. Please believe me, I didn't."

  "Oh...but you did," she said. "You very much did!"

  At the time, he thought, her reaction was disproportionate. After all, he'd been Sarah's husband, and she'd been one of Sarah's closest friends. But as she pointed out, they hadn't begun sleeping together until years after Sarah's disappearance. In fact, Ana had gone into exile in the States before Sarah was disappeared, and didn't return from New York until three years after the fall of the regime.

  She came down hard on him:

  Why had he said such a thing? And why did his absurd fantasy that Sarah was with them in bed make him feel so ashamed? Was she, Ana, a surrogate outlet for him? Was that how he regarded her? Didn't he understand that life goes on and that peoples' lives connect and reconnect in different ways? Did their lovemaking really make him feel guilty? Did he actually feel that their pleasure was a betrayal of his deceased wife and her deceased friend?

  He should think about all this, she told him, reflect seriously on the meaning of his words. Meantime, he should be so kind as to leave her apartment at once. And he needn't bother her with phone calls, or offers of discussions, or self-serving letters, or third-party interventions. In fact, she'd very much appreciate if he would simply leave her alone. Yes, right now! Immediately! Without another goddamn word! Because she was a person first of all, a vulnerable human being, and right now she didn't give a shit that they were both psychoanalysts. "Doctor, heal thy fucking self!" she shrieked. And then she literally shoved him out the door.

  They didn't speak for more than a year except as was necessary concerning work. She began dating other men. She told her female friends, who made sure it got back to Tomás, that she would never again take up with a colleague. Better a simple bricklayer, a garbage man, a student, anyone, so long as he wasn't another goddamn fucking shrink!

  In fact, she became engaged to a retired professor of astronomy, a man with white hair and a closely cut white beard that made for a striking facial resemblance to Freud. A few weeks before they were to be married, he suffered cardiac arrest
in a restaurant and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Hearing the news, Tomás phoned her, expressed condolence, then tentatively offered his friendship. She thanked him for his call, accepted his offer. After that they met for coffee, and, after a year, occasionally for dinner.

  They still enjoyed one another's company. They gossiped about colleagues, exchanged referrals and sought each other's opinions about coping strategies for difficult patients. They were supportive of one another, turning up at their respective case presentations and substituting for one another when, due to illness or a conflicting engagement, one or the other was unable to lead a scheduled seminar at the Institute.

  Now four years had passed. Every day he thought about phoning her, telling her how much he loved her, how much he regretted his stupid, thoughtless, hurtful words, and how greatly he longed to resume their affair. He wanted to tell her that now he was done with guilt, that his life had opened up, that it was her friendship that had made that possible. But he was afraid she might say, very kindly, of course: "Oh, Tomás, we've been down that road. Let's not spoil things. Let's stay good friends and not go down it once again."

  There was a great prose poem of Borges entitled "The Dagger." It came to Tomás' mind when he thought of Claudio standing with his gaucho knife outside the window overlooking the sleeping Solers.

  The last lines, he felt, were particularly poignant:

  ...the dagger endlessly dreams it simple tiger's dream, and, grasping it, the hand comes alive because the metal comes alive, sensing in every touch the killer for whom it was wrought.

  Sometimes it moves me to pity. Such force, such purpose, so impassive, so innocently proud, and the years go past, uselessly.

  There were people who called Buenos Aires "City Of Flowers"...and that the city surely was. Also "City Of Loss" and "City Of Despair"...for surely it had become that now. "City Of Nostalgia," "City Of Mysteries," "City Of What-Might-Have-Been"—the city was all these things and more. But the expression Tomás liked most was "City Of Knives," often used on account of the many knife-fights that took place in its dance-halls and bars—fights over a woman, a word, a misunderstood gesture or look.