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GREG LAZARUS
When in Broad Daylight I Open My Eyes
KWELA BOOKS
One
If Maria Petros is feeling nervous, she hides it well. To face a semicircle of philosophers can’t be comfortable, especially when they’re waiting for her to speak. Her voice, when it comes, is low and clear. “Thank you for being here. Professor Sullivan has asked me to conduct a session for the department. He’s told me, briefly, about the trauma.”
Kristof Zoetman looks from Maria to the bay window behind her. The view is partially obscured by a tree outside, its fine black branches pressing lightly against the glass. On the opposite side of the room a gas fire burns, blue flames playing over the volcanic rocks. A painting above the mantel depicts a host of figures in feverish activity.
The head of department, who is sitting in the chair nearest Maria’s, says, “Please – call me Luke. In this room I’m not a professor.” A rustling, just short of amusement, comes from the other three philosophers. “To be clear: this isn’t really a therapy session – nothing so formal. Only a discussion that Maria has agreed to guide.”
Kristof observes how earnestly Maria appears to be listening, the way she inclines her head to the side. Her appearance is striking: blonde hair cut short, pageboy style, with a thick fringe in front. She wears a masculine button-down shirt, high-heeled black boots over her jeans, and no make-up.
“We need something like this,” Luke adds. “It’s poisoning the department, the situation. I don’t think I’m putting it too dramatically.”
For a moment, only the faint roar of the gas can be heard.
“Do the rest of you feel the same?” Maria asks the other philosophers.
“No,” says Joan Castle from deep in her sofa, into which she has sunk. “Only Luke and Kristof think this is a good idea. The rest of us have objections.”
Maria seems unperturbed. She nods, as if to say Go on, please.
Cyrus Jackson, sitting next to Joan, speaks up. “No offence, but most of us reject the principles of your profession. It simply isn’t intellectually feasible to believe in psychotherapy, psychoanalysis, whatever you want to call it.” It appears that Cyrus could say more – much more – about this, but he closes his mouth firmly and sits back.
Maria turns her head back to Joan, whose choice of clothing – today, a voluminous purple tie-dyed dress – could be mistaken for gaiety of spirit. “Actually, the department is larger than this,” says Joan. “Certain people didn’t come today because they refused. And of those who are here, some of us are present only out of respect for Luke.”
A faint blush has painted Luke’s pale complexion pink. “There it is, Maria. You’ll find that philosophers, or at least our philosophers, aren’t loath to speak their minds.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” But Maria’s face is grave; she seems to have taken to herself these objections, and to be burdened by them. Perhaps this is her habit, swallowing the disquiet of others. For her patients, it must be soothing to feel that someone else is absorbing negative feelings from the air.
Kristof sits the furthest from Maria, and he has not yet spoken. Among the group, only he is directly facing her. “I’m not sceptical,” he says. “I welcome this.” Maria shifts in her chair, recrossing her legs. “I know my colleagues have serious concerns. But Luke is right. With all our skills, we seem unable to get ourselves back to some equilibrium. Even if there’s only a chance that it will help, I’m glad to try this session.”
Joan says, “And vot are you hiding beneas ze appearance of reason, Doktor Kristof Zoetman?” She laughs at her Sigmund Freud impersonation. Yet Kristof’s mild, sensible manner seems to have settled the matter.
Maria, by a small movement of her mouth, appears – despite her professional demeanour – to be pleased by Kristof’s contribution. The human being in her has peeped out from behind the psychologist. “Maybe one of you could explain what brings you here. I’d like to hear it with everyone present.”
Luke begins. “Last year,” he says. Then he takes a breath. “Last year we took in a postdoctoral scholar from the Netherlands, a young philosopher called Saskia Zeilmaker. She’d been with us for a year and a bit. Then, three months ago, on a Monday morning in mid-March, she didn’t come to work. We called her a number of times that week, but there was no response.”
“At the end of the week I went to her flat,” Joan adds. “No reply. The neighbours hadn’t seen her since Friday.”
“So we called her family in the Netherlands,” says Luke. “She’d spoken to them the week before, said everything was going well. That was the last they heard.”
There is a pause in the room, and once more the fire takes prominence. The gas hisses from its pipes, and is burnt away by the flame.
“Naturally,” says Cyrus, “we worked through the possibilities. We called the police; they broke open her flat. No sign of forced entry, robbery; everything was in place. We checked with the customs authority: she hadn’t left the country, at least via an airport or border post or ship. We went to the morgue, put up posters, spoke on the radio. Now we no longer know what to do.”
Maria is nodding as she listens.
“All this,” says Kristof, “wouldn’t usually be your concern. It would be purely a matter for the police. But for us it’s also become a terrible psychological strain. To understand this, you need to know something about our relation to Saskia. She was – is – a remarkable woman. Brilliant, of course, but also warm and kind.”
“Breath of fresh air,” says Cyrus briskly.
“Her presence brought life to the department,” Luke says. “We were planning to make her a permanent offer, and hoping she might accept. What makes this so dreadful is the uncertainty. It’s a hard thing to say, but sometimes I think that if she were dead, it might be easier. We could seek help individually; for all I know, some of us have done so” – Joan and Cyrus look away from Luke, dissociating themselves from the suggestion – “but the disappearance has been a blow to all of us jointly. I thought that, at least for one occasion, we should come together for psychological guidance. If we can learn how to cope with this, how to go on, we might even – if we can be of any more use to poor Saskia – be better able to help her one day. It was Kristof who suggested you, after I broached the idea of a debriefing with the department. I’m a believer in therapy, unlike some of my colleagues. He said you came highly recommended by the Psychology department.”
Maria absorbs the compliment with a small smile, and sits back. “I’m hoping we can discuss,” she says, “your relationship with Saskia. To get clear on that would be a first step towards coping. That’s why I asked you all to bring something to this session, an object that makes you think of her, and to describe the emotions it brings up.”
Once more there is a silence. In Kristof’s experience, there is seldom quiet among philosophers; usually they have many firm ideas and are willing to express them at length. But producing objects in order to describe the feelings they elicit is not a familiar task.
“I’m afraid I forgot to bring something,” says Cyrus decisively. Maria nods without challenging
