Carl Gustav Jung was in his late thirties and breathless with enthusiasms that seemed to have no bounds. He had already begun to gain a name for himself with the publication, in 1907, of The Psychology of Dementia Praecox. A study of schizophrenia, it had broken new ground and was also instrumental in drawing Jung to Sigmund Freud’s attention—which, in time, would prove disastrous.
As a psychiatric clinic, the Burghölzli had no rival—certainly not in Europe. A research centre of psychiatric studies and practice since 1860, it had gained international stature under the directorship of Auguste Forel, who took it over in 1879. On Forel’s retirement, the current director, Eugen Bleuler, had been appointed.
Bleuler’s expertise was schizophrenia—a word he himself had coined to describe dementia praecox. His theory was simple. Men and women who suffered from dementia praecox had been considered incurable. Those who suffered from schizophrenia—literally, split personalities—could at least be helped, if not cured, by bringing them back into contact with the real world and away from the fantasy world in which they tended to hide themselves and live out their lives.
Unmarried, Bleuler made the Clinic his residence and spent every waking hour either with his patients or with his staff—and, for the latter, his constant presence had become something of a burden. “I sometimes think he keeps a daily record of the number of times we use the toilet,” Jung had said.
Both Forel and Bleuler were strict teetotallers. Alcoholism cannot be treated by doctors who are not themselves abstainers, ran one of Forel’s dictums. “And if a patient suffers from priapism—must the doctor who treats him give up sex?” Jung had asked.
Now, in his sunlit office, Furtwängler greeted his two colleagues with a wave of his hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “be seated.” Going to his cabinet, he unlocked it to reveal a bottle of brandy and several tumblers. Such items could not, of course, be openly displayed. All the Burghölzli doctors had recently received a curt directive from the office of the Director: Rumours are circulating that some members of the Medical Staff consider it appropriate—even necessary—to maintain a stock of alcoholic beverages in their offices. I trust that such rumours have no basis in fact, since I have already expressed my opinion on such deplorable habits. Signed: Bleuler.
Though humourless and rather dull company, Doctor Bleuler was nonetheless respected. On the other hand, he was not respected enough to force one’s taste for alcohol out the door. Every doctor’s office had its cache.
Menken sat, but Jung remained on his feet.
“You look perplexed, Carl Gustav,” said Furt-wängler.
“I am,” said Jung. “Tatiana Blavinskeya has had a serious set-back and I’m torn between anger and disappointment. Something—I don’t yet know what—has forced or persuaded her to give up speech. She is now semi-catatonic—a great, great distraction to me because she was making such excellent progress. Is either one of you aware of any possible cause for this?”
Menken said no and accepted his brandy—which was, by coincidence, the very colour of the checked suit he had chosen to wear that day.
Furtwängler crossed the room and handed a tumbler to Jung, who stood by the central window. “Yes,” he said. “It is possible I am able to offer an explanation. But…” He returned to his desk and sat.
“But…?” Jung asked impatiently. “But—but…?”
“What I will tell you is pure speculation.” Furtwängler drank.
Jung busied himself nervously searching his pockets for a cheroot which, found, he lighted—throwing the burnt-out match on the floor.
“Do you mind?” said Furtwängler testily. “Please, no matches on the floor. And use an ashtray. You leave a trail of ashes everywhere you go.”
Jung took up an ashtray and, drink in hand, teeth clamped on his cheroot, hissed: “procee-eed.”
Furtwängler said: “Blavinskeya believes she has been sent a messenger from the Moon.”
“Oh?” Jung leaned forward.
“Yes. But of course she has not.”
“If she believes she has, she has,” said Jung. He was adamant. “Constantly challenging what the Countess believes is no help at all. Who was this messenger? Did anyone else see him? Him—her? Was it a man or a woman? Did she say? What? What? What did she say?”
“It was a man,” said Furtwängler. “I saw him myself.”
“Ah-hah!”
“Don’t go saying ah-hah just yet. The fellow is a new patient. Suite 306—down the corridor from Blavinskeya. Apparently they had an encounter.”
“This is wonderful. Wonderful. Are you telling me they recognized one another?”
“Only that she claimed to recognize him.”
“And…? Is he from the Moon?”
“Carl Gustav, please.”
“You know what I mean—does he claim to have descended from the Moon?”
“No. He makes no claim whatsoever. He is mute.”
“Moon-mutes! Two of them!” said Jung. “Perhaps there will be a convention!”
Menken almost smiled, but did not.
“When did he arrive, this messenger?” Jung asked.
“Yesterday afternoon. And he is not a messenger. He has come—he was brought from England.”
“Some people claim that England might as well be the Moon,” said Jung—and winked at Menken.
Menken sat stony-faced and silent. He felt like a referee at a tennis game. During such meetings this seemed to be his enduring role: a little less than participant, a little more than spectator. His, however, would be the most impeccable notes of their present encounter, taking no side and giving none.
“What’s his name, this man?” Jung asked.
“Pilgrim.”
“Pilgrim…Interesting. I wonder…”
“You wonder?”
“What do you know about him? Besides the fact that Tatiana Blavinskeya thinks he’s a lunar citizen like herself? Is there any chance he comes from the world of art and artists?”
“Good heavens. Yes,” said Furtwängler. “You’ve heard of him?”
“What’s his first name?”
“Doesn’t have one. Known only as Pilgrim.”
“That’s how he signs himself. I’ve read him. Art historian. Brilliant. Wrote the definitive work on Leonardo da Vinci. Dazzling fellow. So—what’s his problem? What’s his condition?”
“He’s a potential suicide?”
“Oh, me. How sad. Has he tried it yet?”
“Yes. Several times. This last attempt, by hanging. The circumstances are—believe me—quite extraordinary. The man should be dead.”
Furtwängler outlined the medical reports from Greene and Hammond which Sybil Quartermaine had left for him to peruse.
“I’d like to see him,” said Jung. “I’d like very much to see him. May I do that?”
“Of course. That’s why I’ve asked you both here.”
“And you say he should have died but did not on account of some extraordinary circumstance?” Menken asked.
“Well, it certainly seems so,” said Furtwängler. “Both the examining physicians had already signed his death certificate and departed when—all at once, five, six, seven hours after the hanging—he came back to life.”
“Could be he really didn’t want to die…” said Menken.
“But you say he’d tried it before. Other suicide attempts?” Jung asked.
“Yes.”
“By hanging?”
“No. Other ways. Drowning. Poison. The usual.”
“Well. Extraordinary. Unless, of course, Menken is right and he really never tried hard enough.”
“I would have said that being apparently dead for seven hours was trying hard enough,” said Furtwängler.
“And now Blavinskeya thinks he’s come to her from the Moon.”
“Yes. Alas…” Blavinskeya was not Furtwängler’s favourite patient.
Jung sat back and slapped his knee decisively. “Well!” he said, “when can we
see him?”
“Now, if you like.”
“I like it very much. Come along. Drink up. We shall all go together. To the Moon, gentlemen!” Jung raised his glass and emptied it. “To the Moon—posthaste!”
Furtwängler’s hand closed tighter on his tumbler as he drank. Mister Pilgrim was his patient, by prior arrangement with Lady Quartermaine—and with Bleuler’s implicit approval. And yet, as he set his glass aside and rose to join the others, he felt a momentary sense of foreboding. He had lost other patients to Jung in the past—most notably the Countess Blavinskeya—which was why he now resented the lack of progress in her recovery. Jung’s sometimes overwhelming enthusiasm could pull down the entire structure of another analyst’s treatment if he was not carefully monitored.
As they left, Furtwängler turned the key in the door and thought: one day, I might find a way to have him out of the Clinic altogether.
9
Pilgrim was standing childlike in the middle of the floor while Kessler attached a collar to his shirt. Kessler himself was sweating rather profusely.
Furtwängler was the first to speak. “Is he not able to do that himself?”
Kessler had only just managed to insert a recalcitrant stud and was somewhat breathless with frustration. “He fights it, sir,” he said. “I think he would prefer to dress himself, but there’s three other studs down there on the floor somewhere, the result of his having dropped them. I’ll just do his tie, if you don’t mind.”
The orderly had already selected a splendid blue silk cravat, which was draped across his shoulder. He nodded at the two other doctors who stood, white-coated and silent, near the door. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. And then, referring with a glance to Pilgrim, he went on. “We have been for our walk and are waiting for our lunch.” He put the tie around Pilgrim’s neck and began to form a knot. “We did not sleep well, but stood a long while over there by the windows staring out at the sky. At six o’clock, an hour before sunrise, we sat down and turned our back on the room with our knees pressed tight against the wall. At seven-fifteen we acknowledged the need to use the toilet, did so and returned to the window. When the sun appeared yonder, we raised our hand in greeting. Most extraordinary. Makes no other gestures. Hands to the sides most times, and clumsy in the use, as witness the three lost studs.”
Kessler drew the knot as if to tighten it, but Pilgrim threw up his hands to prevent him.
Kessler stepped back.
“Well now,” he said. “Another first.”
Pilgrim finished the knot and twisted it to one side.
Furtwängler moved across the carpet.
“Mister Pilgrim,” he said—his smile as perfect as practice could make it. “I have brought my colleagues to meet you: Doctor Jung and Doctor Menken.”
Pilgrim, who was pulling down the wings of his collar, turned away towards the mirror above the bureau.
“Mister Pilgrim…” Furtwängler put out his hand as if to take the patient’s arm.
“No. Don’t,” said Jung, stepping forward. “Let him be.”
Pilgrim’s arms fell to his sides.
Kessler moved towards him, holding a Harris tweed jacket.
Jung put his finger to his lips and took the garment in hand. Kessler moved away and waited with the others.
Jung said: “here is your jacket, Mister Pilgrim.”
Pilgrim turned only slightly—not enough to look into Jung’s eyes—and slipped his arms into the satin-lined sleeves.
“I know who you are,” said Jung.
Pilgrim attempted to do up his buttons.
“My name is Carl Jung and I have read your book about Leonardo da Vinci. Splendid, I thought it was. Splendid. And…”
Pilgrim suddenly turned and, passing the others, walked into the bathroom, where he shut the door.
“Is there a key?” Jung asked.
“No, sir,” said Kessler. “All the keys are in my pocket.”
“Is there a razor?”
“No. I’ve removed it. Shaved him myself this morning.”
“What was his reaction to that? To being shaved.”
“He knocked the razor out of my hand at one point. Same as he did with the tie, just now.”
“Did he try to pick it up?”
“No. He let me do that. Then I finished the shave and there was no more fuss.”
“What’s his opinion of you?” said Jung. “Does he resent you?”
“He doesn’t speak. I’ve caught him staring at me once or twice, but without expression. He seems to know who I am and that I’m here to help him, but aside from that, I hardly get a flicker.”
“Has he done this before—close himself in the bathroom?”
“Only when he’s used the toilet. I was in there with him when he bathed. I never leave a patient alone when he bathes. Not ever.”
“Good. It’s just as well. Even when there’s no intention to harm himself, there can still be accidents. And he hasn’t said a word?”
“No, sir. Not one.”
“Did he eat his breakfast?”
“Yes. Half a grapefruit. A piece of buttered toast and a cup of coffee.”
“That was all?”
“That was all.”
Jung regarded the bathroom door and turned to Furtwängler, who—after all—was Pilgrim’s physician.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
Furtwängler tried not to sound curt. “What are you thinking of doing?” he asked.
“Joining him. And if it seems to be appropriate, I shall close the door behind me. With your permission?”
Furtwängler raised an eyebrow at Menken. “I appear to be losing another patient,” he muttered. And then to Jung: “just remember he is mine, Carl Gustav.”
“Of course,” said Jung. “I merely want to make contact.”
“Very well, then. If you must—go ahead,” Furt-wängler looked again at Menken, who turned away towards the windows. “We shall wait here.”
“Thank you.” Jung gave a diffident bow and went over to the bathroom door. Slowly and gently, he knocked three times and went in.
10
There was no light. The room was in darkness.
Not knowing its geography, Jung hung back by the door, his left hand still on its handle.
“Would you prefer it if I did not turn on the light, Mister Pilgrim?” he asked.
There was no reply.
Jung waited, motionless.
He listened for Pilgrim’s breathing, but there was none.
“The dark has always been of interest to me,” he said. “When I was a child, I was afraid of it, of course—the way most children are. My father was a minister—a pastor of the Swiss Reform church. I often saw him in the local graveyard performing the service for the dead—and, being impressionable, I dreamt quite often of the image of him standing there, but in my dreams there was never light. It was always gloomy, murky—dark. I suppose it was the graves that frightened me as much as anything else about the service for the dead. They put you in the dark and then they leave you there. That sort of thing. Perhaps you might have had such dreams yourself when you were a child. Or very like. Most children do have them.”
Jung waited.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
There was still no reply, and still no sound except for the faintest echo of water running somewhere else in the building.
Jung let go of the doorknob and took a step forward.
Nothing.
He then took another step and waited again.
And again, nothing.
“Later in my life, perhaps around the advent of puberty, the dark took on new meaning for me. I no longer feared it, but welcomed it. No more graves. In fact, I rarely dream of graves any more. I may well in future, of course—growing older. But for the time being, the grave has been replaced by the cradle—you might say: the life force. After all, the dark most often is where we procreate…”
At a distance, someone flushed a toilet. The water pipe
s began to sing.
“I have never conducted an interview in the dark before,” Jung said. “It amuses me. Perhaps it amuses you.”
Nothing.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
Jung took a third step forward.
“Why do you insist on silence?” he said. “Is there really nothing you would say?”
Apparently not.
“If I thought it was really of interest to you, I would continue my dissertation on the subject of darkness, but I suspect…”
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away,” Jung said.
“But…”
“Go away. Be patient. Wait.”
Jung could hear conversation beyond the door but made out no words.
How long had he been in here?
He could not tell.
If only he knew where the light switch was.
He felt along the wall behind him.
They usually put it near the entrance, he thought—but there was nothing there.
“If you could assist me, Mister Pilgrim, I need to know where the light switch is because I require the toilet…”
This was, of course, a ruse, but he thought it might work. Anything might work. Perhaps he should shout for help. Or give a cry of: FIRE!
This thought made him laugh out loud.
“I am thinking the strangest, most ridiculous things, Mister Pilgrim,” he said. “I was thinking I might cry fire in order to trick you into responding—but, of course, if there was a fire you would see it…”
Matches.
How damnably slow I am!
As he searched his pockets—finding everything but his matches—he began to have the curious thought that somehow Pilgrim had escaped him and that, all this time, he had been talking to himself.
He stumbled forward—and stopped. Sickened.
His toe had caught at the edge of what might be an arm or a leg.
“Mister Pilgrim?