“So that’s what it is. The chorus of murmuring! Old Israelites in my cells.”
“Correct, and it’s time they shut up. We’re going to dissolve that old glue. One whiff and you’ve got a clean slate.”
“And there goes that beautiful moment ten years ago, and the taste of the kiss that killed. Tell me, does it blot out everything?”
“That’s the whole point, you’d start from the beginning. Don’t be afraid, we’ll take care of you. We’ve got marvelous laboratory facilities, trained staff. In six weeks, you’ll be fit to walk out on the street.”
“What about sex?”
“Under our program, the sexual drive in the pathological forms in which we have known it will disappear. There will be love and physical enjoyment, but no fixation—a sane and happy world. It horrifies you?”
“The vision is not exactly original.”
“Of course not. It’s as old as sin. We have finally found the way. But you have to be spiritually ready. We are taking only convinced members. Did I tell you we are founding a new Church? Only way you get anything done in this country...”
“God help us.”
“Admit it, you can’t live without those murmuring Israelites. ‘May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I forget thee, Oh Jerusalem!’”
“But of course, to part is painful, to part with an old rag, even a tumor. It’s part of human nature to love one’s tumor. But seriously, Kate, I’m not hanging on to the old psychology, ego hang-up, continuity bit, the whole business of being a person, it’s absurd. Of course I believe in science. Glue around the neurons. Sure. But a chemical solution is simply not interesting. It’s not respectable. Or am I hopelessly sentimental?”
“Sophie, you’re a nut. You better go to your trial. And remember if you need anything, we’ve got it.”
TWO-FIFTEEN. Due for routine psychiatric examination. All these stupid formalities. Nicer office than her father’s. Abstract paintings, wall-to-wall carpeting and Scandinavian glass—must produce different free associations. She lies down on the couch. Just to show him she can do it. Not inhibited.
“What do you want me to talk about—Sex? Father? Mother? Bedwetting? Electra Complex? Penis Envy? Anything you want me to—just let’s get it over with quick because I’ve got a ticket.”
“Sophie love, dear child, my darling, sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart—!”
It’s her father’s Hungarian colleague ——. His wife died recently. Suicide most probably. Father said should consider his marriage proposal: fine man, has humor, father’s best friend, loved her since she was born, flourishing practice, first-rate mind, little paranoia belongs to it. Something to consider. Age difference often a positive factor. Marriage great temptation at sixteen. Couldn’t at sixteen; dreaming of a dark man.
He stands in the middle of the room, his plump hands clasped; drops his head dolefully like a priest while he repeats: “Before you do anything you need at least seven years of analysis. Minimum five; absolute minimum.” His head tips to the other side, he waits. He pulls his chair closer. So different from her father. Bright blue, popping, bloodshot eyes; delicate, moist, pink skin; speaks excitedly. Hoarse whisper with an undertone of choked laughter, choked terror, implores her to reconsider before she makes a life decision.
Fatman: not the heavy, trapped kind, entombed in a motionless stupor or twisting uncomfortable in his fat. No, the opposite; bubbling, volatile, excitement puffs out his face, swells flesh on his fingers. Bursting out of the skin. Pink from continual state of explosion.
He speaks to her in Hungarian, she answers in English. His use of diminutives, the first-person possessive suffix, it works on her—my dear, my little Sophie, she hears the nouns wrapped up in the “my” ending.
Can I love this man? He is imploring her with all his chins not to throw her life away. She dare not make any decision before she’s had seven years of therapy. She paces impatiently. Nothing can sway her from her purpose. He must understand. She must settle things. Divorce. Find school for the children. Check shipment from Paris. Five articles due. Contract for her new book.
“But what about your life? Your life!” he sings. She has made her decision. It’s clear she could love him. Sees some part of her lover in him.
“I must repeat my mother’s life,” she tells him firmly.
“You can do anything you want after your analysis, sweetheart,” he pursues, “go on the stage, study metaphysics; you can have all the affairs you want with cavalry officers, Olympic skiers, artists; you can be an aviator, a femme fatale, or marry and have ten children; anything, dearest, that makes you happy, but not before—” He is beseeching, hands clasped on his knees, embracing her in a cascade of possessive endings: not to make any final decisions, to wait—not to rush headlong—
“I must. I must.”
“What, my sweet, tell me what you must. I want only your happiness.”
“I must cross the Atlantic on the first plane. Visit the volcano. Must take the ferry boat down the Danube from Belgrade to Silistra and up the Volga from Astrakhan to Knibyshev. Explore the Galapagos Islands, the Amazon. By helicopter. I must travel all over the world. I can’t begin to tell you about all the journeys ahead of me. To Rome, Athens, Jerusalem, Prague, Lima, Tokyo, Moscow. Someone I love is waiting for me in every city and places not marked on the map. Along the Trans-Siberian Railway. The road to Delphi to consult the oracle. Down to Piraeus from the Agora. Must make a long sea voyage to Knossos; track down the minotaur in the labyrinth.”
He listens wide-eyed, with a stricken look, mouth hanging open, beautifully imbecilic.
“I have a travel grant,” she continues, suddenly afraid he knows everything. Sees paper with her father’s handwriting on his desk. Crazy fatman. Padded walls. Must get out. “They’re paying all my expenses; two-week Mediterranean cruise; may get a role in super Franco-Italian production on the island of Naxos. Will read all the psychoanalytic literature on the subject for my part. What