Pilgrim

by Timothy Findley

  When they returned at midnight, the bottle was empty.

  In the restaurant, they sat at the very same table where Jung had sat on two occasions with Lady Quarter-maine. Their conversation was seemingly desultory. Nothing of apparent importance was discussed. They talked of patients past and present. They spoke of sand-castles, graves and caves. Emma spoke of Pilgrim’s journals—of having discovered passages regarding the great cathedral at Chartres, of an episode at Jerusalem in the fourth century B.C. and of Prussian intrigues in the court of Frederick the Great.

  Jung was clearly distracted.

  He kept thinking of Lady Quartermaine, of Blavinskeya, of Pilgrim—of anyone but the woman he was with. She sat there, I sat here; he said this and I said that…

  A man with an elaborate moustache was watching them from a corner table.

  They ate a dinner of beef, roast potatoes and artichokes. Emma was radiant. Jung was not. He faded—red tie and all.

  At eleven-thirty, they rose to leave.

  The man with the elaborate moustache raised his glass at their backs.

  “Your loss,” he said aloud.

  Stepping into the night air, Emma pulled her wrap about her. We are not in the world, she was thinking. We are not really here. This is nowhere. I am lost. And Carl Gustav? He is somewhere in the fog, leading us on.

  13

  On Friday morning, June 21st, Forster received the third pigeon with the following message: TOMORROW. 2 P.M. SONGS. WAIT FOR “NOW! THEN ROPE LADDER OVER THE WALL. P

  On Saturday, at 1:30 p.m., Pilgrim and Kessler appeared in the “prison yard”—Pilgrim seemingly more bulky than on previous days. The truth was, he was wearing his pyjamas under his suit. In his pockets, he carried his identification, cheque book, diary and the bulk of his favoured handkerchiefs. Each of the latter had been flavoured with Blenheim Bouquet cologne, whose bottle he knew he would have to leave behind. He had also removed the photograph of Sybil Quartermaine from its silver frame and placed it in his vest pocket between the folds of one of the scented handkerchiefs. The suit he wore was the dark one, woven of black and blue threads. After all, he thought, I am making for the night.

  There was not a cloud in the sky. Pilgrim carried the black umbrella furled, as if at any moment he might raise it against the sun. But he did not. Unobserved, he threw it over the wall, where Forster reclaimed it and placed it in the back seat of a small Renault. This was a daring move on Pilgrim’s part, but he had chosen it deliberately to see how much attention it might attract. The answer: none.

  At 2:15, the child actress came into the yard with Schwester Dora. She looked particularly appealing. Perhaps she was playing Little Nell. There were flowers in her hand, ribbons in her hair and tears in her eyes. Pilgrim spoke to her.

  “Yesterday, you sang,” he said.

  “Yes. I like to sing.”

  “My favourite songs,” Pilgrim said, “are counting songs. Do you know any of these?”

  “I can sing Three,” said Little Nell.

  “What is Three?” Pilgrim asked, not having heard of it.

  “One and one and one is three,” the woman sang. “Four less one and two plus one are three. One into three is only three and me myself and I is three.”

  “That’s very clever,” said Pilgrim.

  The child-woman smiled. “I have ten fingers,” she said. “Ten toes, two arms, two legs, two lips, two ears and one head. The rest of me is a muddle.”

  “I see.”

  “Can you count?” the woman asked.

  “Oh, yes. It is one of my favourite occupations.”

  “Do you know Green Grow the Rushes, O?”

  “I think so. It’s been a long time since I sang it.”

  The woman, whose eyes were bright and large and rather alarming because they had no focus, reached out and gathered Schwester Dora by the hand.

  “Let us make a circle,” she said, “and we can dance it.”

  Pilgrim was somewhat perturbed by this. Having hoped to get the others singing, he had not expected to take part.

  “I will conduct,” he said.

  The woman was delighted. She tucked her small bouquet of flowers into her belt and put out both her hands. The brothel owner, the infanticide and the man-who-thought-he-was-a-dog immediately joined in. Also Schwester Dora and other keepers and interns—including Kessler.

  “Begin!” the woman cried.

  Pilgrim began.

  “I will sing you twelve, O!

  Green grow the rushes, O.”

  Everyone else repeated this.

  “I will sing you twelve, O!

  Green grow the rushes, O.”

  Pilgrim sang: “what is your twelve, O?”

  Everyone shouted. Some shouted gibberish, not understanding. Others shouted: “twelve for the twelve apostles!” They had started to tighten their circle, closing in on Pilgrim, who stood in the middle.

  “Eleven?” Pilgrim asked.

  “Eleven for the eleven who went to heaven!”

  “Ten?”

  “Ten for the ten commandments!”

  Pilgrim turned and scanned the wall.

  “Nine?” he shouted.

  “Nine for the nine bright shiners!

  Green grow the rushes, O!”

  “Eight?”

  Pilgrim ducked under the linked arms and began to back away.

  “Eight for the eight bold rangers!”

  “Seven?”

  “Seven for seven stars in the sky!

  Six for six proud walkers!”

  “Five?”

  “Five for the symbol at your door!

  Four for the gospel makers!”

  “Three?”

  Pilgrim had reached the centre of the wall’s length. The singers and dancers were watching the ground at their feet as they shifted one way and then the other.

  “Three for the rivals!” they sang.

  “Green grow the rushes, O!”

  Pilgrim shouted: “NOW!” over the wall and then he shouted back into the yard: “two!”

  “Two—two, the lily-white boys

  Clothed all in green, O!”

  The rope ladder touched the ground.

  Pilgrim began to climb.

  “One!” he called over his shoulder. “One!”

  “One is one and all alone

  And ever more shall be so!”

  Pilgrim paused for one second. In spite of the padding used to augment the ladder, his palms were bleeding.

  No matter.

  He looked back.

  Done with and over.

  He stepped down carefully onto Forster’s waiting shoulders and jumped to the ground. Forster pulled the ladder free of the wall.

  “One is one,” the singers sang. “And all alone—and ever more shall be so!”

  Pilgrim ran with Forster guiding him. The ladder was thrown into the back of the motor car. Nothing was said.

  Pilgrim retrieved a pair of handkerchiefs and wrapped each hand. The wounds were shallow.

  “Drive,” he said.

  It was a mere whisper.

  He was free—and that was all that mattered.

  That morning, at dawn, he had released the fourth pigeon. Its message was addressed to Herr Doktor C.G. Jung, Burghölzli Clinic, Universität Zürich.

  What it said was: goodbye.

  BOOK SIX

  1

  By dusk, Pilgrim and Forster had reached Basel. The Renault was small, compact and neat. It was black. Forster had taken a short course in mechanics from an employee at the dealers, who had shown him the rudimentary needs of the car. These were relatively few and simple—how to change a tire—where to put oil and water—how to use the crank and what to do when the cylinders wouldn’t fire. Forster had also taken lessons in how to drive and had become rather demonic in the role of chauffeur. He had purchased a tweed peaked cap such as he had seen in newspaper articles regarding the appropriate dress for riding in automobiles, which he now wore back to front in a das
hing manner, reminiscent of photographs he had seen of daring young men driving at sixty m.p.h.! The cap was augmented by tinted goggles. He also wore leather gauntlets, having been told that oil can ruin one’s sleeves if it happens to spit at one during application.

  The image of spitting oil cans was amusing, Forster thought.

  Not only was one’s clothing at risk from oil cans, but one could be scalded when dealing with the radiator, because the radiator was not content with spitting. It belched and hissed and blew steam in your face. Another good reason for wearing gauntlets, goggles and a staunch overcoat. For the latter, Forster had chosen something called a storm wiper. It made him look like the hero of a boys’ adventure story.

  Throughout the journey, Pilgrim and Forster were mostly silent. Pilgrim, whose memory had been enervated by the prospect of what had seemed to be endless imprisonment, was becoming more aware of the recent past. His valet had slowly emerged from the fog of vague remembrance and was now a fully recognizable figure whose place in Pilgrim’s life was both familiar and comforting. It seemed almost as if there was nothing to say, they knew each other so well. Besides which, they had never shared a talkative companionship with one another. It had not been necessary. Their shared passion for pigeons was a silent one. How one felt on any given day could be dealt with in a few discreet sentences and how one intended to allot one’s hours and therefore what was required of one’s dress was equally a matter of few words.

  Dinner parties had been given when necessary—Pilgrim hated playing the role of host—but when they were required, Forster never failed to produce a glittering success which guests would comment on for weeks afterward. He had read Mrs Beeton from cover to cover twenty times and kept a copy of each of her books on a shelf in his pantry. If, as and when he disagreed with her, he simply ignored her advice and took his own counsel. For the most part, however, he was obedient to her superior taste. He loved the running of a house—the quietness of it and the dignity inherent in serving a gentleman whose needs were few but absolute. When a guest arrived, the delivery precisely fifteen minutes later of the sherry decanter and glasses on a silver tray—the dog-walks twice a day—the running of baths and the setting out of clothes. All to say nothing of serving meals.

  Forster’s co-management of the kitchen with Mrs Matheson was cordial and infrequently argumentative. They would discuss menus and on very rare occasions disagree about which merchant should be patronized. But on the whole, it was a well-ordered household which Forster oversaw and the final inclusion of the boy Alfred had given both him and Mrs Matheson a welcome focus on the future. As for the management of Pilgrim’s ultra-personal needs, this was another matter altogether.

  One’s house is not one’s life, Forster knew. It is merely where one functions. Pilgrim’s sense of privacy was extreme. He required many hours alone, while he wrote. Equally, when he studied. Knowing how to interrupt had paramount importance and this had been Forster’s triumph.

  As they drove through the mountains and valleys, he smiled at the memory of one particular lesson in how to interrupt. At a dinner party one evening, Forster had overheard—discreetly, of course—the historian F.R. French discussing protocol at the court of Louis XIV, the Sun King. Professor French, appropriately enough, was one of England’s greatest French scholars and looked not unlike Voltaire, with a poke-chinned face and an enormous nose. He spoke of the disgusting habits of the courtiers at Versailles, the palace which Louis had commissioned and in which he spent the latter part of his life.

  There was no one at table but the Professor and Mister Pilgrim. They had dined on lamb (never mutton!) and the air was redolent of mint which Mrs Matheson had crushed and made into a sauce with vinegar and sugar. Forster was offering the freshly shelled green peas as Professor French offered the news that: because there was a strict protocol concerning the order in which various members of the aristocracy were admitted into the presence of the King, they were loath to give up their places in the famous hall of mirrors which led to the Royal Chambers. But persons—even of noble rank—have human needs and chamber pots were secreted amongst the potted orange trees, producing—as Professor French put it—une odeur infecte! Not only that, the men relieved their urinary needs behind the curtains without even stepping outside. Because of the aesthetic visual qualities of the scene, the actors in it remain entirely misunderstood, according to Professor French. It was a court dressed in brocade and silk, with the manners of bedlam.

  Forster had then brought forth the parsleyed and buttered potatoes.

  Professor French went on: in the days when he was still a child, the future king was sent to say goodbye to his aging father, Louis XIII, who lay on his death bed. The protocol regarding entrance to a Royal Chamber was rich in symbolic gesture. While one never knocked, neither did one simply open the door and walk through. One scratched one’s way in.

  Scratched? Mister Pilgrim had said. Scratched?

  Yes. With the fingernail of one’s index finger, one scratched on the door and waited for the entrée. Many courtiers, in fact, grew this fingernail longer than the rest on their hand in order to leave their mark. At any rate—Forster by now had been serving stewed tomatoes—at any rate, as Louis XIII lay dying, the child who would succeed him went to the bedchamber door and gave the customary scratch. He was a devil child, as we know, and mischievous in spirit. Who is out there disturbing my dying moments? asked Louis Treize. Louis Quatorze, said the future King of France.

  Mister Pilgrim had laughed so hard and long at this that Forster had then and there decided finger scratching would be his future notification that he required entrance, a gesture duly noted and appreciated by Pilgrim, who briefly went through a period where he always answered Forster’s scratches by saying: come in, Louis, come in!

  Now, Forster had become not only valet, butler and chauffeur to Pilgrim, they were about to enter a life of crime together for which their past in one another’s company had not prepared them. Gone were all the trappings of charm and leisure; gone too, the days of solitary scholarship and dutiful attentions. If once there had been suicide attempts and deep depression to survive, now there would be a destructive path towards death that had no precedent in Pilgrim’s descent into the dark. Previously, Forster had never once questioned his employer’s sanity, despite his deepest moments of despair and his seeming inability to vote for life. Pilgrim had always, then, come back up into the light.

  But now there was a difference, and Forster—seated opposite Pilgrim at dinner that night in the restaurant of the Hotel du Rhein in Basel—saw all too clearly that something had gone awry. Mister Pilgrim, once the arbiter of taste, was in significant disarray. His cravat was askew. His hair, at the crown, stood up like the hair of a boy athlete returning from the field, and his hands were still bound in what appeared to be mittens created from his handkerchiefs. Perhaps Pilgrim’s hold on his reason was gone, and the lack of it showed in his eyes. They were the eyes of an anarchist who has seen that he and he alone can save the world.

  2

  By Saturday evening, Jung had been advised that Pilgrim was missing. A distraught Kessler was sent out with the crew of the yellow wagon to scour the parks and other public places in the hopes that someone might have sighted his former patient and could say where he might have gone.

  Since nothing at that point was known or suspected of an accomplice in the escape, no one thought to consider the use of a motor car or of distance. Clearly, under these circumstances, Pilgrim must be somewhere in Zürich.

  By the time Jung had returned home to Küsnacht, there had still been no word. At dinner, he sat in his place, breaking the house rules—smoking a cheroot at table.

  “Eat,” said Emma.

  “No,” said Jung. And finally, “later.”

  “It is chicken, Carl Gustav. A favourite. Frau Emmenthal has excelled herself—the best we have been offered in years.”

  It smelled delicious. There was a tarragon-based sauce with chanterelles in cream;
there was a British stuffing, with bread and onions, sage and walnuts; there were haricots verts and tiny beets the size of thumbnails. In Jung’s case, all this effort had been spent for nothing.

  “How can we have lost him?” he said, waving his hand in the air. “How can this have happened?”

  “Looking the other way, my darling. It is the very same as happened with the Countess. You were not sufficiently attentive. You were seated in your office receiving favours from that woman.”

  As Jung looked down the table towards his wife, he realized that from her point of view, he was not there. Emma no longer referred to him physically. Her gaze was elsewhere. When she spoke, she was looking out the windows at the sun in the early stages of its evening decline. She was still enough, but he could perceive in her posture the gentle nodding of someone reciting an interior mantra for survival:

  You were

  Not there.

  You were

  Somewhere

  Unavailable.

  We were

  All here

  Waiting.

  You were absent.

  Will you

  Never

  Understand?

  That was the gist of it, he reckoned. And sadly, she was justified—given her grieving. Her own loss—the dead child—the marriage seemingly shipwrecked, the death of Blavinskeya and now the disappearance of Pilgrim.

  All his fault.

  Nothing in his character would allow Jung to admit this was true—aloud. Never, to Emma. It would give her powers he could not afford to lose. But reluctantly, he did admit it to himself. In the dark, he knew all this was true. Therefore, that evening at table he said nothing in response to Emma’s silent recitation.

  What he did say was: “is it possible he has somehow managed to kill himself? I have people searching the building—others searching the grounds. We know only that he was last seen in the exercise yard. One minute there—the next, not. Apparently the other patients were singing a song in English, of all things. Then he disappeared.”