Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, book 1)

«To-morrow then, at ten o'clock!»

«Good,» I said, «and be on the dot. I'm going to charge you by the hour. Sixty minutes and no more. If you're not on time it's your loss...»

«You're going to charge me?» he echoed, looking at me as if I had lost my mind.

«Of course I am! You know very well how important it is for the patient to pay for his analysis.»

«But I'm not a patient!» he yelled. «Jesus, I'm doing you a favor.»

«It's up to you,» I said, affecting an air of sangfroid. If you can get some one else to do it for nothing, well and good. I'm going to charge you the regular fee, the fee you yourself suggested for your own patients.»

«Now listen,» he said, «you're getting fantastic. After all, I was the one who launched you in this business, don't forget that.»

«I must forget that,» I insisted. «This is not a matter of sentiment. In the first place I must remind you that you not only need analysis to become an analyst, you need it because you're a neurotic. You couldn't possibly become an analyst if you weren't neurotic. Before you can heal others you have to heal yourself. And if you're not a neurotic I'll make you one before I'm through with you, how do you like that?»

He thought it was a huge joke. But the next morning he came, and he was prompt too. He looked as though he had stayed up all night to be there on time.

«The money,» I said, before he had even removed his coat.

He tried to laugh it off. He settled himself on the couch, as eager to have his bottle as any infant in swaddling clothes.

«You've got to give it to me now,» I insisted, «or I refuse to deal with you.» I enjoyed being firm with him—it was a new role for me also.

«But how do we know that we can go through it?» he said, trying to stall. «I'll tell you... if I like the way you handle me I'll pay you whatever you ask... within reason, of course. But don't make a fuss about it now. Come on, let's get down to brass tacks.»

«Nothing doing,» I said. «No tickee, no shirtee. If I'm no good you can bring suit against me, but if you want my help then you've got to pay—and pay in advance... By the way, you're wasting time, you know. Every minute you sit there haggling about the money you're wasting time that might have been spent more profitably. It's now»—and here I consulted my watch—«it's now twelve minutes after ten. As soon as you're ready we'll begin....»

He was sore as a pup about it but I had him in a corner and there was nothing to do but to shell out.

As he was dishing it out—I charged him ten dollars a session—he looked up, but this time with the air of one who has already confided himself to the doctor's hands. «You mean to say that if I should come here one day without the money, if I should happen to forget or be short a few dollars, you wouldn't take me on?»

«Precisely,» I said. «We understand one another perfectly. Shall we begin.... now?»

He fell back on the couch like a sheep ready for the axe. «Compose yourself,» I said soothingly, sitting behind him and out of his range of vision. «Just get quiet and relax. You're going to tell me everything about yourself... from the very beginning. Don't imagine that you can tell it all in one sitting. We're going to have many sessions like this. It's up to you how long or how short this relationship will be. Remember that it's costing you ten dollars every time. But don't let that get under your skin, because if you think of nothing but how much it's costing you, you'll forget what you intended to tell me. This is a painful procedure, but it's in your own interest. If you learn how to adapt yourself to the role of a patient you will also learn how to adapt yourself to the role of analyst. Be critical with yourself, not with me. I am only an instrument. I am here to help you.... Now collect yourself and relax. I'll be listening whenever you're ready to deliver yourself....»

He had stretched himself out full length, his hands folded over the mountain of flesh which was his stomach. His face was very pasty; it had the blenched look, his skin, of a man who has just returned from the water closet after straining himself to death. The body had the amorphous appearance of the helpless fat man who finds the efforts to raise himself to a sitting posture almost as difficult as it would be for a tortoise to right itself when it has been capsized. Whatever powers he possessed seemed to have deserted him. He flipped about restlessly for a few minutes, a human flounder weighing itself.

My exhortation to talk had paralyzed that faculty of speech which was his prime endowment. To begin with there was no longer any adversary before him to demolish. He was being asked to employ his wits against himself. He was to deliver and reveal —in a word, to create —and that was something he had never in his life attempted. He was to discover «the meaning of meaning» in a new way, and it was obvious that the thought of it terrified him.

After wriggling about, scratching himself, flopping from one side of the couch to the other, rubbing his eyes, coughing, sputtering, yawning, he opened his mouth as if to talk—but nothing came out. After a few grunts he raised himself on his elbow and turned his head in my direction. There was something piteous in the expression of his eyes.

«Can't you ask me a few questions?» he said. «I don't know where to begin.»

«It would be better if I didn't ask you any questions,» I said. «You will find your way if you take your time. Once you begin you'll go on like a cataract. Don't force it.»

He flopped back to a prone position and sighed heavily. It would be wonderful to change places with him, I thought to myself. During the silences, my will in abeyance, I was enjoying the pleasure of making silent confession to some invisible super-analyst. I didn't feel the least bit timid or awkward or inexperienced. Indeed, once having decided to play the role I was thoroughly in it and ready for any eventuality. I realized at once that by the mere act of assuming the role of healer one becomes a healer in fact.

I had a pad in my hand ready for use should he drop anything of importance. As the silence prolonged itself I jotted down a few notes of an extra-therapeutic nature. I remember putting down the names of Chesterton and Herriot, two Gargantuan figures who, like Kronski, were gifted with an extraordinary verbal facility. It occurred to me that I had often remarked this phenomenon chez les gros hommes. They were like the Medusas of the marine world—floating organs who swam in the sound of their own voice. Polyps outwardly, there was an acute, brilliant concentration noticeable in their mental faculties. Fat men were often most dynamic, most engaging, most charming and seductive. Their laziness and slovenliness were deceptive. In the brain they often carried a diamond. And, unlike the thin man, after washing down troughs of food their thoughts sparkled and scintillated. They were often at their best when the gustatory appetites were invoked. The thin man, on the other hand, also a great eater very frequently, tends to become sluggish and sleepy when his digestive apparatus is called into play. He is usually at his best on an empty stomach.

«It doesn't matter where you begin,» I said finally, fearing that he would go to sleep on me. «No matter what you lead off with you will always come back to the sore spot.» I paused a moment. Then in a soothing voice I said very deliberately: «You can take a nap too, if you like. Perhaps that would be good for you.»

In a flash he was wide awake and talking. The idea of paying me to take a nap electrified him. He was spilling over in all directions at once. That wasn't a bad stratagem, I thought to myself.

He began, as I say, with a rush, impelled by the frantic fear that he was wasting time. Then suddenly he appeared to have become so impressed by his own revelations that he wanted to draw me into a discussion of their import. Once again I firmly and gently refused the challenge. «Later,» I said, «when we have something to go on. You've only begun... only scratched the surface.»

«Are you making notes?» he asked, elated with himself.

«Don't worry about me,» I replied, «think about yourself, about your problems. You're to have implicit confidence in me, remember that. Every minute you spend thinking about the effect you're producing is wasted. You're not no try to impress me—your task is to get sincere with yourself. There is no audience here—I am just a receptacle, a big ear. You can fill it with slush and nonsense, or you can drop pearls into it. Your vice is self-consciousness. Here we want only what is real and true and felt....»

He became silent again, fidgeted about for a few moments, then grew quite still. His hands were now folded back of his head. He had propped the pillow up so as not to relapse into sleep.

«I've just been thinking,» he said in a more quiet, contemplative mood, «of a dream I had last night. I think I'll tell it to you. It may give us a clue....»

This little preamble meant only one thing—that he was still worrying about my end of the collaboration. He