an indulgent pause Dr Springer takes a deep breath and resumes her questioning. ‘We’ve read your text very carefully and with much enjoyment,’ she begins again. ‘However, we would like to ask you for a couple of clarifications because, frankly, we’re not quite sure whether we’ve understood correctly some of the things you’ve written. I’m sure you’ll agree we need to exclude the possibility of any errors and doubts.’ She gives me an indulgent look. ‘After all, it’s your life we’re talking about.’
Indulgence has changed into expectancy. I have no objections to clarifying anything not fully understood. Bold Miriam uses the royal ‘we’ to demonstrate she is speaking for the entire group. ‘For instance, Professor, what did you mean when you said you had two mothers, two or possibly three fathers, and why did you say you were given another sister in November 1987? Wasn’t that a time when your father had already died? Or should I say one of your fathers? You must admit it gets terribly confusing. Unless you mean some of these things metaphorically I think you’ll agree a lot of assertions about your family relations simply don’t add up.’
My response is immediate. ‘No, I didn’t mean it metaphorically,’ I reply, ‘unless you think all life is figurative. I also have two wives, two professions, two religions, two languages, two genders and two sisters. I was under the impression you wanted me to write down the truth.’
What I say causes a minor uproar among the professionals working for Humanitas. My words are met with amused disbelief and barely suppressed irritation. It seems what unsettles them most is my reference to two genders.
Dr Springer leans forward in her chair. ‘My dear Professor, we do appreciate embellishment can be an effective didactic tool, but for a speedy recovery your credibility will be of utmost importance. We have to be able to rely on the information you provide. Naturally, from time to time we’re making the necessary adjustments to statements made under duress or in the search for less painful euphemisms. But facts are facts. We realise you’ve been under considerable strain lately, but if you want us to help you get over your present’ — she hesitates for a moment before she finds the word she is looking for — ‘predicament, you need to tell us what is commonly referred to as the truth.’
I fail to be impressed either by the messy language or the curious logic of what she is saying. ‘I’m telling you the truth,’ is the only comment I offer.
At this stage I feel I have to intervene once more on behalf of my friend, to clarify and explain what’s been said. Whilst it is true that during his lectures he was in the habit of enhancing, or perhaps I should say enriching so-called facts or points of argument, he never did so without integrity. It was rather that his range of reality reached further than most people’s.
Ican verify that the man Humanitas has accepted as its patient does in fact have a very complicated family background. He wasn’t lying or boasting. On the contrary. That situation goes to the very heart of his life, not only of his present condition. But it’s not for me to go into details about these circumstances, at least not now. It’s best to wait until my friend has had his say about these matters. For there’s little doubt in my mind that before long his captors (I confess to sharing his assessment of the clinicians trying to rescue him from himself) will demand further biographical details from their victim. I believe this alleged sufferer from a mental illness is quite capable of speaking for himself. The least I can do is listen to him first, which is what I earnestly advise the committee to do.
The older lady with the unnerving stare compliments me on my Swiss-German, yet continues to speak in a very slow, deliberate manner as if she were talking to a retard. Her words are invariably accompanied by a weary smile signalling it’s all of no use. I have the feeling she doesn’t believe anything I’m saying or writing, but that may be the reason she considers me an interesting case. As I listen to her she slowly transforms into a tortoise.
‘You know, of course, the childhood woods you’re telling us about,’ she begins, ‘are a well-trodden locale, Professor. It’s here that most infantile experiences take place, only to be recollected in adult life.’ Then she stops in her tracks. A new thought seems to have entered her head. ‘Or are we dealing here with an unwitting transfer of fairytale lore? You are a literary man, are you not? What do you think?’ Are tortoises capable of a gesture of triumphant apology? Momentarily her melancholy smile becomes jubilant. She’s convinced her contribution to the inquiry has led the committee onto something. As an afterthought she gives me a wistful reprimand. ‘Don’t believe you’re out of the woods yet!’ She shakes her head, and her unnerving stare is intensified by a wicked grin.
As in a game of tennis the spectators’ heads turn back in my direction. ‘I’m not only a literary man,’ I inform the tortoise, ‘I am a book.’ Disappointed and exasperated, the panel collectively groans aloud.
Dr Springer takes off her glasses to signal she’s beginning to run out of patience. She is barely able to suppress her annoyance. ‘Well, yes, we’re all aware of that opinion. Rest assured we’ll get to it. May we return to the woods?’ I don’t know whether Bold Miriam’s call is intended to be equivocal, so I shrug it off.
Dr McAllister turns to me politely. ‘May I ask why you went to — what was the name again? — St Mary’s Wood after you’d been warned of the dangers?’
That seems a reasonable question. ‘It was dangerous everywhere,’ I reply respectfully. ‘Home too was a war zone. I found it easier to hide in the forest.’
‘I see. But primarily you went there to gather food, is that right?’
The answer is easy. ‘Food for the family, a bit of freedom for me.’
All at once everybody has more questions for me. Dr Enright, the youthful research fellow from Cambridge, who so far has been conspicuous by his silence, asks leave to speak. ‘Good afternoon, Professor,’ he begins rather formally. ‘Perhaps you remember, I’m a resident neurologist. I wonder whether we could go back to what you wrote about your mother and deaf brother. You say she subsequently spent some time in a mental home, but didn’t you tell us she was only protecting her son? In other words, she was perfectly normal. Why then was she sent to a psychiatric clinic, I wonder? That must have been some time after the war.’
‘I can’t tell you that. I’m not very good at family logic. Perhaps because having to protect your child from your own father is the sort of thing that can send you to a loony bin.’ My answer turns out more smug and aggressive than intended. I must admit the thought of being examined by a neurologist conjures up all sorts of horror treatments in me. As if to verify my disquiet Dr Enright’s immaculate manners, even the politeness of his voice, take on sinister overtones. He pretends to be unperturbed by my answer. With impeccable demeanour he continues to probe deeper. ‘So I assume there’s been no other mental illness in your family?’
Despite the transparency of his motivation the neurologist is clearly not aware what kind of a tricky question he has put to me. I’m hardly going to betray Marius, the father of one of my fathers, long dead and gone. There’s no doubt in my mind about the mental and political prowess of the grandfather on my mother’s side, but my paternal grandfather is a different case altogether. ‘No, Dr Enright,’ I reply, trying hard to sound as accommodating as my fashionable interrogator. Then I add: ‘Not in my opinion.’
The last member of Bold Miriam’s interviewing cohorts to question me is someone who appears to have joined the panel only today. I can’t remember him from the previous session. Why wasn’t he introduced to me? He’s a man of indistinct
