by John Irving
“You should speak English to him,” Pamela said. “If he were real, he would speak English—like in his movies.”
“I have an appointment with Professor Ritter!” Jack called after the nurse.
“Ich bin gleich wieder da!” the nurse called back to him. (“I’m coming right back!”)
They had disappeared down the corridor, but Jack could still hear the too-thin patient—her voice rising. It registered as a kind of insanity on his part that he’d mistaken her for someone who worked at the place.
“They don’t usually say anything,” Pamela was telling the nurse. “Normally they just appear—they don’t talk, too. God, maybe the medication isn’t working!”
“Das macht nichts,” the nurse told her, gently. (“It doesn’t matter,” she said.)
Jack Burns was a movie star in a psychiatric clinic; not surprisingly, the first patient who saw him thought he was a talking hallucination. (Not a bad definition for an actor, Dr. García might have said.)
When the nurse came back, she was shaking her head and talking to herself—almost inaudibly and in German. Were it not for her uniform, and if he hadn’t seen her before, Jack would have believed that her self-absorbed muttering marked her as a patient. She was a short woman in her fifties, stout and brusque with curly gray hair—a former blonde, Jack guessed.
“It’s funny that the first person you, of all people, should meet here is our only American,” the nurse said. “Bleibel,” she added, vigorously shaking Jack’s hand.
“Excuse me?”
“Waltraut Bleibel—I’m telling you my name!”
“Oh. Jack Burns.”
“I know. Professor Ritter is expecting you. We’ve all been expecting you, except for poor Pamela.”
They went outside the building and walked across a patio; there was a sculpture garden and a shallow pond with lily pads. (Nothing anyone can drown in, Jack was thinking.) Most of the buildings had big windows, some of them with those black silhouettes of birds painted on the glass. “Our anti-bird birds,” Nurse Bleibel said, with a wave of her hand. “You must have them in America.”
“I guess I went to the wrong building,” Jack told her.
“A women’s ward wouldn’t be my first choice for you,” Nurse Bleibel said.
The grounds were beautifully maintained. There were a dozen or more people walking on the paths; others sat on benches, facing the lake. (No one looked insane.) There must have been a hundred sailboats on the lake.
“I take William shopping for clothes, on occasion,” the nurse informed Jack. “I’ve never known a man who likes shopping for clothes as much as your father does. When he has to try things on, he can be difficult. Mirrors are a challenge—triggers, Dr. von Rohr would call them. But William is very well behaved with me. No fooling around, generally speaking.”
They went into what appeared to be an office building, although there were cooking smells; maybe a cafeteria, or the clinic’s dining hall, was in the building. Jack followed the nurse upstairs, noting that she took two steps at a time; for a short woman in a skirt, this required robust determination. (He could easily imagine his dad not being inclined to fool around with Waltraut Bleibel.)
They found Professor Ritter in a conference room; he was sitting all alone, at the head of a long table, making notes on a pad of paper. He jumped to his feet when Nurse Bleibel brought Jack into the room. A wiry man with a strong handshake, he looked a little like David Niven, but he wasn’t dressed for tennis. His pleated khaki trousers had sharply pressed pant legs; his tan loafers looked newly shined; he wore a dark-green short-sleeved shirt.
“Ah, you found us!” the professor cried.
“Er hat zuerst Pamela gefunden,” Nurse Bleibel said. (“He found Pamela first,” she told him.)
“Poor Pamela,” Professor Ritter replied.
“Das macht nichts. Pamela just thinks it’s her medication again,” the nurse said as she was leaving.
“Merci vielmal, Waltraut!” Prof. Ritter called after her—a bilingual “Many thanks!” in French and Swiss German.
“Bitte, bitte,” Nurse Bleibel said, waving her hand as she had at the anti-bird birds on the big windows.
“Waltraut has a brother, Hugo, who takes your father to town—on occasion,” Professor Ritter told Jack. “But Hugo doesn’t take William shopping for clothes. Waltraut does a better job of that.”
“She mentioned something about mirrors,” Jack said. “She called them triggers, or she said one of the doctors did.”
“Ah, yes—we’ll get to that!” Professor Ritter said. He was a man used to running a meeting. He was friendly but precise; he left no doubt about who was in charge.
When the others filed into the conference room, Jack wondered where they’d been waiting. On what signal, which he hadn’t detected, had they been summoned forth? They even seemed to know where to sit—as if there were place cards on the bare table, where they put their almost identical pads of paper. They’d come prepared; they looked positively poised to take notes. But first Jack had to endure the obligatory handshakes—which, in each case, went on a shake or two too long. And each doctor, as if their meeting had been rehearsed, had a characteristic little something to say.
“Grüss Gott!” Dr. Horvath, the hearty Austrian, cried—pumping Jack’s hand up and down.
“Your on-screen persona may precede you, Mr. Burns,” Dr. Berger (the neurologist and fact man) said, “but when I look at you, I see a young William first of all!”
“On the other hand,” Dr. von Rohr said, in her head-of-department way, “should we presume that we know Jack Burns because of our familiarity with William? I’m just asking.”
Dr. Huber had a look at her pager while shaking Jack’s hand. “I’m just an internist,” she was telling him. “You know, a normal doctor.” Then her pager beeped and she dropped Jack’s hand as suddenly as she might have if he had died. She went to the telephone in the room, which was just inside the door. “Huber hier,” she said into the phone. There was a pause before she added: “Ja, aber nicht jetzt.” (“Yes, but not now.”)
Jack was sure that he recognized Dr. Anna-Elisabeth Krauer-Poppe—the fashion model who protected her clothes in a long, starched, hospital-white lab coat. She looked knowingly into his eyes, as if trying to discern what medication he was on—or what she thought he should be taking. “You have your father’s good hair,” she observed, “if not—I hope not—his obsessions.”
“I’m not tattooed,” Jack told her, shaking her hand.
“There are other ways to be marked for life,” Dr. on-the-other-hand von Rohr remarked.
“Not all obsessions are unhealthy, Ruth,” Dr. Huber, the internist, said. “It would appear that Mr. Burns adheres to his father’s diet. Don’t we all approve of how William watches his weight?”
“His narcissism, do you mean?” Dr. von Rohr asked, in her head-of-department way.
“Are you seeing a psychiatrist, Mr. Burns?” Dr. Berger, the fact man, asked. “Or can we rule that out?”
“Actually, I have been seeing someone,” Jack told them.
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter said.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” the deputy medical director, Dr. Horvath, shouted.
“I don’t suppose you have any indication of osteoarthritis,” Dr. Huber said. “You’re too young,” she added. “Mind you, I’m not saying that William’s arthritic hands are anything you need to worry about. You don’t play the piano or the organ, do you?”
“No. And I don’t have any symptoms of arthritis,” Jack said.
“Any medications we should know about?” Dr. Krauer-Poppe asked. “I don’t mean for arthritis.”
“No, nothing,” he told her. She looked somewhat surprised, or disappointed—Jack couldn’t be sure.
“Now, now!” Professor Ritter called out, clapping his hands. “We should let Jack ask us some questions!”
The doctors cheerfully tolerated Professor Ritter, Jack could tell
. The professor was head of the clinic, after all—and he doubtless bore lots of responsibilities of a public-relations kind, which the doctors probably wanted nothing to do with.
“Yes, please—ask us anything!” Dr. Horvath, the skier, said.
“In what way are mirrors triggers?” Jack asked.
The doctors seemed surprised that he knew about the mirrors—not to mention triggers.
“Jack had a conversation with Waltraut, about taking William shopping for clothes,” Professor Ritter explained to the others.
“Sometimes, when William sees himself in a mirror, he just looks away—or he hides his face in his hands,” Dr. Berger said, sticking to the facts.
“But other times,” Dr. von Rohr began, “when he catches a glimpse of himself, he wants to see his tattoos.”
“All of them!” Dr. Horvath cried.
“It might not be the appropriate time and place for such a detailed self-examination,” Professor Ritter explained, “but William seems not to notice such things. Occasionally, when he starts taking off his clothes, he has already begun a recitation.”
“A what?” Jack asked.
“His body is a tapestry, which he can recite—both a history of music and a personal history,” Dr. Huber said. Her pager beeped, and she went back to the phone by the door. “Huber hier. Noch nicht!” she said, annoyed. (“Not yet!”)
“The problem for someone with your father’s meticulousness is that he can never be meticulous enough,” Professor Ritter told Jack.
“He’s proud of his tattoos, but he’s very critical of them, too,” Dr. Berger said.
“William thinks that some of his tattoos are in the wrong place. He blames himself for a lack of foresight—he has regrets,” Dr. Horvath elaborated.
“Other times,” Dr. von Rohr chimed in, “it’s a matter of which tattoo should have been closest to his heart.”
“But you can have only a limited number of things that are truly close to your heart,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe interjected. “He has marked his body with what he loves, but he has also recorded his grief. The antidepressants have calmed him, have made him less anxious, have helped him sleep—”
“But they don’t do much for the grief,” Dr. von Rohr said, bluntly—turning her head-on-a-coin profile to Jack.
“Not enough, anyway,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe admitted.
“It might be overwhelming to discuss specific diagnoses right away. For now, let’s just say that your father has suffered losses,” Professor Ritter told Jack. “The Ringhof woman, the German wife, but first of all you.”
“He is an absurdly emotional man,” Dr. Berger said, shaking his head—wishing that William Burns were more of a fact man, apparently.
“The antidepressants have helped—that’s all I’m saying,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said.
“Keeping him away from mirrors helps,” Dr. von Rohr remarked in her silver-streaked, head-of-department way.
“Are there other triggers?” Jack asked the team.
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter said. “Maybe Jack should meet his father first?” (The team, Jack could tell, didn’t think so.)
“Bach!” Dr. Horvath roared. “Anything by Bach.”
“Bach, Buxtehude, Stanley, Widor, Vierne, Dubois, Alain, Dupré—” Dr. Berger recited.
“Handel, Balbastre, Messiaen, Pachelbel, Scheidt—” Dr. von Rohr interrupted.
“And anything to do with Christmas, or Easter—any hymn,” Dr. Huber added; she was glaring at her pager, as if daring it to go off.
“Music is a trigger? Or even the names of certain composers?” Jack asked.
“Music and the names of certain composers,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe answered.
“And when he plays the piano, or the organ?” Jack asked.
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter said.
“When the pain starts—” Dr. Krauer-Poppe began.
“When his fingers cramp—” Dr. Huber interjected.
“When he makes mistakes,” Dr. von Rohr said, with what sounded like finality—at least in her mind. With almost everything she said, Dr. von Rohr spoke with the emphasis and certainty of a concluding remark—this in tandem with the way, as a tall person, she was always looking down at others. Dr. von Rohr seemed no less tall sitting down. (When he’d shaken her hand, Jack had observed that he came up to her shoulder.)
“Yes, mistakes are triggers,” Professor Ritter worriedly agreed.
“William’s meticulousness, once again,” Dr. Berger pointed out.
“And, albeit only occasionally, when he sees your movies,” Dr. von Rohr said, looking at Jack.
“Particular lines of dialogue, mainly,” Professor Ritter said.
“But for the most part, the movies help him!” Dr. Krauer-Poppe insisted.
“But other times—” Dr. von Rohr started to say.
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter said. “I think Jack should see his father, hear him play, talk to him—”
“In what order?” Dr. Berger asked, perhaps sarcastically; Jack couldn’t tell.
Dr. Huber’s pager beeped again; she got up from the table and went to the phone by the door. Dr. Krauer-Poppe covered her face with her hands.
“Maybe we should tell Jack a little bit about William’s schedule?” Professor Ritter asked.
“Talk about meticulousness!” Dr. Horvath cried.
“Your father likes to know in advance what he’s doing every day,” Dr. von Rohr explained.
“Every hour!” Dr. Horvath shouted.
“Just tell him the schedule,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “Maybe it will help.”
“Huber hier,” Dr. Huber was saying into the phone by the door. “Ich komme sofort.” (“I’m coming right away.”) She came back to the table. “An emergency,” she told Jack, shaking his hand. “Noch ein Notfall.” (“Another emergency.”) Jack had stood up to shake her hand; all the others stood up, too.
The team and Jack, minus Dr. Huber, prepared to leave the conference room. (Dr. Huber had left in a flash.)
“Wake up, hot wax, ice water, breakfast—” Dr. Horvath was saying as they marched down the stairs. Jack realized that the recitation of his dad’s schedule had begun.
“Finger exercises in the exercise hall, immediately after breakfast,” Dr. Berger explained.
“Finger exercises?” Jack asked.
“What William calls playing the piano for the dance class, because he is blindfolded and plays only the pieces he has memorized,” Dr. von Rohr told him.
“Why is he blindfolded?” Jack asked.
“There are mirrors in the exercise hall,” Professor Ritter said. “Lots of mirrors. William always wears the blindfold there, or—sometimes, at night—he plays in the dark.”
“Jogging, after the finger exercises—depending on the weather,” Dr. Horvath carried on. “Or sometimes a trip to town, with Hugo.”
“We haven’t really talked about Hugo,” Professor Ritter told the others.
“Must we talk about him?” Dr. von Rohr asked. “Maybe not now? I’m just asking.”
“Sometimes—I mean after the finger exercises—William needs more ice water, doesn’t he?” Dr. Berger asked.
“It seems to help,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said with resignation.
“Lunch—I mean after the jogging,” Dr. Horvath continued.
“Or after the Hugo business,” Dr. Berger said, shaking his head.
“Not now, Manfred!” Dr. von Rohr said.
“More hot wax, after lunch,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe noted. “More ice water, too. William often does this while he watches a movie.”
“One of yours, actually,” Dr. Berger told Jack. “A different Jack Burns film every afternoon.”
“And another one in the evening!” Dr. Horvath cried. “Always a movie before bed!”
“You’re jumping ahead, Klaus,” Dr. von Rohr said.
They entered the building with the exercise hall, which was outfitted like a dance studio; barres and mirrors ran the length of t
he interior walls. A piano, a C. Bechstein, shone a glossy black in the late-afternoon light—like the coat of a well-groomed animal.
“For the finger exercises, both the morning and the afternoon sessions,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said, pointing to the piano. “He plays again after the movie, in the afternoon. This time, not for dancers—it’s a yoga class. The music he plays is more atmospheric, softer—like background music, you might say. But he’s always blindfolded if there’s any daylight in the room.”
“The finger-cramping can be disturbing to the yoga class,” Dr. Berger interjected. “Less so to the dancers, even if William is in obvious pain.”
“He hates to have to stop playing,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “He pushes himself.”
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter said. “After the yoga class, we have the ice water ready—and the hot wax, too, if he wants it.”
“And the ice water again,” Dr. Berger stated; he was making sure that Jack had all the facts, in proper order.
“Calisthenics!” Dr. Horvath continued, waving his arms. “Especially if there’s been no jogging. Just some abdominal crunches, some lunges, some jumping!” (Dr. Horvath was demonstrating the lunges and the jumping, his big feet thudding on the hardwood floor of the exercise hall.)
“We have group therapy three times a week—the patients discuss dealing with their disorders. Your father’s German is quite good,” Professor Ritter told Jack. “And his concentration is improving.”
“Just so long as no one starts humming a tune,” Dr. Berger interjected. “William hates humming.”
“Another trigger?” Jack asked.
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter said.
“We have a movie night, every other Wednesday—in this case, usually not a Jack Burns movie,” Dr. Berger stated. “Once a week, we have an evening of lotto, which William doesn’t like, but he loves the storytelling café—this is when we read stories out loud, or the patients do. And we have a night when our younger patients visit the gerontopsychiatric ward. William is very sympathetic to our patients who are growing old.”
“Some nights we bring the older patients to the exercise hall, where they like to hear William play the piano in the dark,” Dr. von Rohr said.
