The Complete Short Stories

‘It’s absurd, but I feel guilty about her. Suicide is a highly suggestive act, I reminded her of Muriel Bortman’s death. Damn it, Philip, I could have given her the sort of general advice any sensible layman would have offered.’

‘Dangerous. Of course you were right,’ Philip assured him. ‘After the last three years who could argue otherwise?’

Gregory looked out across the terrace at the traffic whirling over the neon-lit cobbles. Beggars sat at their pitches along the sidewalk, whining for sous.

‘Philip, you don’t know what it’s like in Europe now. At least 5 per cent are probably in need of institutional care. Believe me, I’m frightened to go to America. In New York alone they’re jumping from the roofs at the rate of ten a day. The world’s turning into a madhouse, one half of society gloating righteously over the torments of the other. Most people don’t realize which side of the bars they are. It’s easier for you. Here the traditions are different.’

Kalundborg nodded. ‘True. In the villages up-country it’s been standard practice for centuries to blind schizophrenics and exhibit them in a cage.

Injustice is so widespread that you build up an indiscriminate tolerance to every form.’

A tall dark-bearded youth in faded cotton slacks and rope sandals stepped across the terrace and put his hands on their table. His eyes were sunk deep below his forehead, around his lips the brown staining of narcotic poisoning.

‘Christian!’ Kalundborg snapped angrily. He shrugged hopelessly at Gregory, then turned to the young man with quiet exasperation. ‘My dear fellow, this has gone on for too long. I can’t help you, there’s no point in asking.’

The young man nodded patiently. ‘It’s Marie,’ he explained in a slow roughened voice. ‘I can’t control her. I’m frightened what she may do to the baby. Postnatal withdrawal, you know—’

‘Nonsense! I’m not an idiot, Christian. The baby is nearly three. If Marie is a nervous wreck you’ve made her so. Believe me, I wouldn’t help you if I was allowed to. You must cure yourself or you are finished. Already you have chronic barbiturism. Dr Gregory here will agree with me.’

Gregory nodded. The young man stared blackly at Kalundborg, glanced at Gregory and then shambled off through the tables.

Kalundborg filled his glass. ‘They have it all wrong today. They think our job was to further addiction, not cure it. In their pantheon the father-figure is always benevolent.’

‘That’s invariably been Bortman’s line. Psychiatry is ultimately selfindulgent, an encouragement to weakness and lack of will. Admittedly there’s no one more single-minded than an obsessional neurotic. Bortman himself is a good example.’

As he entered the tenth-floor bedroom the young man was going through his valise on the bed. For a moment Gregory wondered whether he was a 1.5W spy, perhaps the meeting on the terrace had been an elaborate trap.

‘Find what you want?’

Christian finished whipping through the bag, then tossed it irritably onto the floor. He edged restlessly away from Gregory around the bed, his eyes hungrily searching the wardrobe top and lamp brackets.

‘Kalundborg was right,’ Gregory told him quietly. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘The hell with Kalundborg,’ Christian snarled softly. ‘He’s working the wrong levels. Do you think I’m looking for a jazz heaven, doctor? With a wife and child? I’m not that irresponsible. I took a Master’s degree in law at Heidelberg.’ He wandered off around the room, then stopped to survey Gregory closely.

Gregory began to slide in the drawers. ‘Well, get back to your jurisprudence. There are enough ills to weigh in this world.’

‘Doctor, I’ve made a start. Didn’t Kalundborg tell you I sued Bortman for murder?’ When Gregory seemed puzzled he explained: ‘A private civil action, not criminal proceedings. My father killed himself five years ago after Bortman had him thrown out of the Bar Association.’

Gregory picked up his valise off the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said noncommittally. ‘What happened to your suit against Bortman?’

Christian stared out through the window into the dark air. ‘It was never entered. Some World Bureau investigators saw me after I started to be a nuisance and suggested I leave the States for ever. So I came to Europe to get my degree. I’m on my way back now. I need the barbiturates to stop myself trying to toss a bomb at Bortman.’

Suddenly he propelled himself across the room, before Gregory could stop him was out on the balcony, jack-knifed over the edge. Gregory dived after him, kicked away his feet and tried to pull him off the ledge. Christian clung to it, shouting into the darkness, the lights from the cars racing in the damp street below. On the sidewalk people looked up.

Christian was doubled up with laughter as they fell back into the room, slumped down on the bed, pointing his finger at Gregory, who was leaning against the wardrobe, gasping in exhausted spasms.