Involuntary Witness

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.