Pilgrim Read online

  White King, White pawns, White Queen.

  Where were all the black pieces? None was visible—all were white. And when would his opponent make the next move?

  Doctor Jung came and stood behind him, lifting his finger to his lips so that Kessler would not speak.

  Kessler nodded and stepped aside.

  Jung came forward on the diagonal, moving to Pilgrim’s right, nodding and mouthing words of greeting at various familiar attendants who were standing near their patients.

  It was four o’clock.

  The sun was moving towards its final position before descending behind the mountains. A low, winter sun, with a curious, almost midsummer redness to it. Orange.

  There’s an orange out there, Pilgrim thought. Perhaps it’s part of the game. A player. Or a manipulator. God.

  A god.

  That was it.

  God was a ball of fire in the…

  What? What? What? Oh, what is it called?

  Jung could now see Pilgrim fully in profile. He said nothing. He watched.

  Pilgrim shifted his hands. His wrists had stiffened.

  They’d been frozen in the snow.

  They will die.

  Part of me will die.

  How wonderful…

  Jung took note of the fact that Pilgrim’s lips had parted, but saw no words being formed.

  Twilight. The best of times. The time between.

  Jung thought this in Pilgrim’s behalf, remembering what Lady Quartermaine had said about the permanent twilight of his first eighteen years.

  Perhaps there had been no thoughts of suicide then. It seemed, from what Jung had gleaned from his long study of schizophrenia, that its onslaught most often took place at the age of seventeen or eighteen. Nineteen, perhaps, or twenty.

  Had Pilgrim lived so long in the shadow of this disease? It seemed impossible—no one could survive that long without detection. He must now be fifty or fifty-one years old. No. The onslaught—if, indeed, there had been one—must have come later—and if so, then it was most unusual, given the norm.

  But something certainly had happened when Pilgrim was eighteen. A trauma of some kind—an accident—a sudden death—a disease—the violent breaking of a relationship. Something. And that trauma, whatever it was, had been the progenitor of his present loss of self-possession. And the loss of self-possession, whatever else it was—whether an illness or not—was certainly a condition.

  There it was again—Lady Quartermaine’s bête noire—the unacceptable suggestion that Mister Pilgrim was ill.

  But he was.

  Jung knew that for a certainty.

  The man in the Bath chair now under scrutiny could not be anything less than ill. No mere momentary depression or despair had thrown him into this state. His posture alone belied that possibility, given his rigid back and neck, given his motionless feet that might just as well have been shackled—and the stiff, automatonic movements of his hands.

  Jung made his way towards the windows, where he stood with his back to the light and was thus unrecognizable. The light, however, was streaming over Pilgrim in his chair. He might have been the stone-carved figure of a king. His hawk’s nose, his wide staring eyes, the shock of his hair where it touched his brow and the mouth with its lips so eager to speak and yet, unable.

  Jung nodded at Kessler, giving the signal that Pilgrim should be taken to his rooms.

  As Kessler kicked the brake and began to move the chair, Pilgrim cried aloud—or thought he did: NO, DON’T! and pointed at the sun. HE HAS NOT DIED YET!

  But all was silent; not a sound, excepting the mouselike whispers of the turning wheels as Kessler pushed his patient back towards the dark.

  16

  The Countess Blavinskeya lay back in her bath. Her feet, gnarled and ruined by dance, were floating way, way off in the mist. Once such tiny, perfect feet. Her mother had always said so. And her father. And her brother.

  Alexei.

  He put his hands beneath the covers and held my feet in his icy fingers, pressing his thumbs into my soles and whispering: round and round and round we go and where we will stop, no one can know.

  A long, long while ago.

  Was it?

  Yes. A long, long while.

  It doesn’t seem so. I can still feel the cold of his fingers.

  You were just twelve years old.

  Twelve? I don’t remember. I do remember I was a dancer. That I know.

  Yes. And a good one. Even when you were ten, everyone said you would become a great ballerina.

  Yes—and I did.

  Tatiana could feel the aureole of her hair spreading out around her shoulders, stranding down to her breasts, her nipples rising to its touch. Dora Henkel had told her not to untie the ribbons, but Tatiana had turned away and floated out of reach.

  There was salt in the water. A healing agent, according to the therapist, and a relaxant—a word that Dora had not encountered before. It simulates weightlessness, the therapist had said. This in itself encourages relaxation.

  Certainly, the Countess looked less tense than she had—sleepy and pendent in her Sargasso Sea of hair. Dora sat back and smiled.

  According to Doctor Furtwängler, Blavinskeya had been a dancer at first in St. Petersburg, and after with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. But something had happened—the Doctor would not say what—and her career had been ended some months after her marriage to the Count Blavinsky. That same year, she had been elevated to the rank of ballerina. Choreography for a new ballet had been created for her by Fokine. Music had been composed by Stravinsky. Work had even begun on sets and costume designs, but something…

  Something had happened.

  Something had happened and Tatiana Blavinskeya had gone to live on the Moon. She had gone, she said, to seek her mother there. My mother—Selene, Goddess of the Moon.

  The gods themselves were in love with Selene. All the gods. But she fell in love with a man—a mortal—and was banished from her kingdom. She and her mortal lover were married in the presence of the Tzar of Russia! So the Countess said. And in time, they had two children: Alexei Sergeyevitch and Tatiana Sergeyevna.

  At first, all was well. To hear the doctors tell it, since both Doctor Jung and Doctor Furtwängler knew her story so well, it seemed that Selene and Sergei Ivanovitch, her husband, had lived in a fairy tale.

  But something—something had happened.

  Something, but no one knew what.

  Doctor Jung insisted that the Countess knew, but would not or could not tell it. Not so, Doctor Furt-wängler. Doctor Furtwängler’s version of the story was that nothing had happened. She had been ill and could—and would—be cured. There is nothing wrong with Tatiana Blavinskeya that time and patience cannot put right. No one lives on the Moon. It is impossible.

  On the Moon, Blavinskeya had told Dora Henkel, we are weightless. That is why I love the water so. It is like going home—as if I could float all the way from here to there.

  As for her husband…

  No.

  She would not discuss the subject of her marriage. There were no children. How could there have been? she had said enigmatically.

  Count Nicolas Blavinsky was dead. Someone had killed him—perhaps, it was rumoured, her father.

  Tatiana parted her lips and drew a strand of her hair between them. She stared out vacantly into the steam, but there was no one there she wanted. Everyone she wanted had disappeared. Only those she did not want persisted. Her brother, her father, herself.

  Alexei put his hands beneath the covers and held my feet, while someone…

  Who?

  While someone watched.

  Oh, what? What? What—what—WHAT?

  Tatiana began to thrash in the water, biting the strands of her hair clean through.

  She made a moaning sound, but no words. She began to choke.

  Dora Henkel ran to the far side of the tub.

  “Countess! Countess!” she hissed.

  She was not allow
ed to raise her voice, for fear of alarming the other patients.

  “Quickly,” she called out, sotto voce. “Someone help me.”

  Two attendants came running—an orderly and another nurse.

  The orderly climbed down into the tub and pinioned Tatiana’s arms. In spite of his strength, she went on thrashing her legs and kicked at him with her heels. Still, he held on while Dora Henkel and the other nurse drew the Countess up and out of the water, where they immobilized her in a makeshift straitjacket of towels.

  Tatiana pressed her head back far as her neck would let it go and howled.

  “Help me! Help me! Help me! Help!”

  But no one came to save her. No one. Only those already present and those already present told her: you have no need of help. All is well. We are with you. There, there, there—be quiet.

  It was the same old story. No one could see one’s enemies but oneself, and all one’s enemies could see was you.

  17

  The next morning, Pilgrim refused to eat.

  He could smell the marmalade in the dish beside his plate of toast—toast which Kessler had buttered carefully, just the way he had seen Mister Pilgrim do it: not too much and not too little, with butter all the way to the edges.

  There was a teapot filled with a mixture of Lapsang Souchong and English Breakfast—Pilgrim’s favourite blend, according to Lady Quartermaine’s instruction.

  No grapefruit—only tea and marmalade and toast.

  Nothing had been touched.

  When Doctor Jung arrived a half-hour later, Kessler had carried off the tray and set it on the bed.

  “We won’t eat,” he said. “We’ve used the toilet with some success—we’ve bathed and we’ve brushed our teeth. I thought it best not to shave him. I thought it was not a good idea for him to see the implement just yet.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jung. “But I shouldn’t worry too much. Tomorrow, I would shave him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he sleep?”

  “Not a wink. Nor I.”

  “A pity. Will you be all right?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a nap when I’ve carted off these dishes. In fact, I may just eat this breakfast myself. Watching him starve, I’m famished.”

  “Then take it away and eat. Enjoy yourself. Relax. It’s nine o’clock. Come back at noon.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Kessler collected the tray from the bed and left, passing into the sitting-room.

  Pilgrim wore the usual pyjamas—the same grey robe—the same white stockings and chamois slippers. Someone had changed his bandages, even though no good medical reason for them persisted. They were there, in fact, only to keep the scars from falling under Pilgrim’s scrutiny.

  Jung stood in front of him and smiled.

  “You really should sleep, you know,” he said. “We all need sleep, even though, I confess, I sleep very little myself. But I couldn’t possibly do without it altogether.”

  Pilgrim shifted his gaze.

  There were pigeons on the…

  …battlements.

  Pigeons on…

  …the doorstep…

  …the hearth…

  …the place beyond the…

  There. Just there. Beyond just there…

  The…

  “Mister Pilgrim?”

  Pigeons.

  “Can you see me?”

  Yes. You are here.

  “Speak, if you are able.”

  I am not able.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  What?

  “Are—you—afraid—of—me?”

  Of course I am. Aren’t you?

  “Look at me, Mister Pilgrim.”

  No. Pilgrim turned his attention to the pigeons on the windowsills and balcony, though he could still not identify where they were.

  The battlements.

  “If you can understand me, nod your head.”

  Nothing.

  “If you can understand me, make some sign. It does not matter what it is—just make some sign.”

  Nothing.

  “I know you can move, Mister Pilgrim. I have seen you do so. Your fingers—your feet—your head. Give me some sign. Can you understand me?”

  Nothing.

  “Can you hear me?”

  One hand reached for the other.

  “You can hear me?”

  There was a toe-tap. One.

  Jung searched his pockets.

  “Do you smoke, Mister Pilgrim?”

  Nothing.

  “I hope you will not object if I indulge in a cheroot. It is a weakness, I fear, against which I have no defence. Cheroots and brandy—I think of them as food.”

  The box of cheroots was found and one of them extracted.

  “My, my, my—oh, my! Delicious!” Jung said this while holding the chosen cheroot beneath his nose. His gaze had not left Pilgrim’s face. “I could give you one, if you so desire.”

  Nothing.

  “No? Very well…” Jung returned the box to its pocket and found his matches.

  “Fire,” he said—and smiled. “Our gift from the gods,” and struck.

  Pilgrim moved his eyes. The flame was of interest.

  Jung lit up and drew two draughts of smoke before he spoke again.

  “You like cigars? Cigarettes? Do you smoke a pipe?”

  Still no reply.

  “I have noted that your friend Lady Quartermaine is given to cigarettes. I took my luncheon with her yesterday. She extends her regards.”

  The pigeons squatted in the morning light. The sun itself was still not visible.

  No Sun. No God.

  The sun rose every morning behind the Clinic and every day, as now, it lingered there as if to tantalize the waiting world. Its slanted rays were fingering the long wooded valley in which the Zürichsee lay out of sight, and farther off than one could calculate, the ghost of the fungfrau was shrouded in sunless clouds where the valley dwindled to oblivion.

  “Mister Pilgrim?”

  Jung brought a chair and placed it on Pilgrim’s right-hand side.

  “I should like to hear your opinion of the view. So often, a person’s idea of mountains depends on where he grew up. Were there mountains in your boyhood? In mine, there were—but not like these. These mountains here are wider, taller, braver than the mountains of my youth. I trust you follow me.”

  Pilgrim blinked.

  His hands moved—each hand laid palm upward on his knees.

  “I have wanted all my life to live beside the sea,” Jung went on, “though the sea has never been within my range of choices. I am able, of course, to visit the sea—the ocean. Anyone can do that. But I cannot live in its proximity. The sea is a privilege I must leave to others whose work allows them daily access…”

  Jung slid a glance at Pilgrim’s profile.

  Pilgrim sat stolid. Still. But listening.

  “My work is here. But there is water here, thank heaven—the Zürichsee—the River Limmat—the lakes and rivers all about us. Yes? Still, it is not the sea. It is not the ocean. I must be content.”

  Pigeons.

  “Have you ever considered death by water, Mister Pilgrim? Death by drowning?”

  Yes.

  “In dreams, I have drowned. But on the other hand, I have died many ways in dreams. As I am sure we all have. Many ways.”

  Do you ever kill yourself in your dreams, Doctor?

  “You have written somewhat of death—of dying. I have read your book on the life and death of Leonardo. Very well done. So full of insights. So enlightening. So full of anger. I was fascinated. Why would one be so angry at Leonardo da Vinci?”

  Why not?

  “And yet, there is such conviction in what you wrote, that one was almost persuaded.”

  Almost?

  “Where, one wonders, does such conviction come from?”

  I knew him.

  “Easy enough to be critical—and yes, to have good cause—but the genius of your book
—and I speak of its genius advisedly—the genius of your book lies in the clarity with which you separate your condemnation of the man from your admiration for his art.”

  Which is only just.

  “I am fascinated. Fascinated.”

  Pilgrim turned his hands palm down—a gesture duly noted by Jung.

  “We shall have an interesting conversation about your book, perhaps—once you decide it is time to speak. Unless, of course, by then you will think the subject of Leonardo has been exhausted—which I doubt somehow. The passion with which you attack him is so vehement, I suspect there is still much to say.”

  Pilgrim counted the pigeons. Six.

  The sun rose higher, off to the left of the building—and though an April sun, it had no real promise yet of spring.

  Jung had followed Pilgrim’s gaze and he remarked: “here in Switzerland you might think that winter will never end. And yet, the snow is already melting. I heard it this morning, making its rivers—running off beneath its surface. And in three weeks’ time, I promise you, there will be daffodils and crocuses showing themselves by the lake. It takes no time at all, once it starts, and before you know it, you turn around and it’s gone.”

  Five, now. One’s flown away.

  Jung stood up.

  “What, I wonder, did Leonardo think of snow—down there in Florence, where the mountains are little more than hills? The most he would know of snow, I should think, would be the dreadful floods it causes along the Arno during spring run-off. Mud and sludge and waste—not snow like that out there. He never painted snow, so far as I recall, though of course I am not as familiar with his work as you are, Mister Pilgrim. Nothing in him was drawn to it. It was not there, in his inner eye. His inner eye was filled with other vistas—other imagery. Yes? Not snow—but wind and rain—those stormy clouds of his—all those dramas played out in his landscapes…And yet, no snow. Perhaps you would agree with me, Mister Pilgrim. We are not free to choose what attracts our attention. It chooses us. This way, I have been chosen by you, Mister Pilgrim. You are my snow.”

  Jung went away behind Pilgrim’s rigid back and moved towards the door.

  “I will leave you, now,” he said. “I will return when you request my presence. Not before. Good day to you, Mister Pilgrim.”

  The door opened.