Warnings: Sexual themes, suggestive themes (steer clear if mental health is a trigger for you), human names, alternate universe, terrible writing
The Cabinet of Dr. Héderváry
Chapter 1
The promotional brochure for the clinic features a young girl, long black hair tied with red ribbons, smiling unreservedly for the camera. Her eyes are closed in bliss, and she clutches what appears to be a magazine. It may just be a trick of the light, but her knuckles appear white to me, arms unnaturally strained.
I put the pamphlet back on the ash desk, looking back up at the proprietor of the clinic, Dr. Elizabeta Héderváry. She sits aristocratically straight, hands folded in her lap, green eyes fixed solidly on whatever object occupies her attention, which is currently me.
I pick up my notebook, mainly to break the steady gaze as the digital recorder has been taking care of proceedings thus far, and pretend to make notes in a code of my own devising.
"The girl on the cover of the brochure," I indicate with my pen, "was she your first patient?"
"My first success." The correction is minimal, but alters the meaning entirely. I make a note to come back to this later in the interview. Dr. Héderváry continues with a smile. "Patient S. was brought to my attention two years ago, by her grandfather. Normally a bright and sociable child, she had become prone to bouts of depression and self-loathing, sometimes externalising her feelings through explosive anger."
I raise a hand. "Doctor, are you able to tell me this? Surely you have a duty of confidentiality to your patient?"
She waves dismissively. "S.'s grandfather agreed to waive that duty once S. had left this country. As the treatment was such a success, he saw the need to publicise my work so more can benefit. Of course, in the circumstances, I charged no fee."
I nod uncomfortably, with visions of a destitute old man being forced to agree to Dr. Héderváry's terms on presentation of a bill for six weeks' residential care and treatment, but allow her to continue. The press is hungry for details.
"On probing, S. confirmed she had been bullied since starting at a new school. She felt her peers viewed her as 'backwards'. One boy had essentially enslaved her, another was constantly trying to take advantage of her." Dr. Héderváry's cool, narrative tone slipped a little here, showing at least a tiny sliver of empathy for her patient's situation. "I pushed further on this point, but could not get S. to open up to me. I was convinced she had suffered sexual abuse, but was unable to treat her for something she would not confirm."
"So you tried another approach." My prompt is unnecessary, as if she has composed a script in advance, with pauses only to recall the next paragraph.
"Indeed. I wondered if she might respond instead to visual prompts. Patient S. was supplied with a selection of reading matter, comics with characters bearing similarities to herself and her schoolmates." Dr. Héderváry tosses a slim A4 document across to me, casually. A couple of pages in I can feel the colour starting to creep up my cheeks. I look up to see the doctor smiling, studying my embarrassment. I try to cover with a question. "Th-this is…"
She pats my hand gently, like a sister. "Erotica, yes. As you have so ably demonstrated, a quick way to provoke an involuntary emotional response. S. responded in much the same way at first."
I am compelled to explain. I am an adult male, and as such no stranger to pornography. However it is a private rite, not one to be shared – especially with a psychiatrist. The thought of such a woman observing the sacred bond between man and paper resulted in my over-reaction to her gambit.
Dr. Héderváry relents. "Anyway, I have videos of the treatment I can show you. Would you perhaps like a tour of the clinic in the meantime?" I confirm that seems an agreeable idea, and we stand to leave the office, the doctor first.
Away from the desk, she seems relaxed and cheerful. I follow her down long white corridors bathed in sunlight, highlights gleaming in her long brown hair. To the right, large square windows overlook the landscaped gardens of the estate in which the clinic is situated; to the left, doors that could as easily be to hotel guest rooms as to patient accommodation. She eagerly points out the communal lounge up ahead. Heads look up from no doubt risqué reading material as we enter.
Bay windows are open onto the lawns, heavy curtains still at each side like guardians. I ask Dr. Héderváry if she has any issues with security.
"Most people don't want to leave," she jokes, but I can believe it given the conditions. The place is like a country house hotel and spa. "Of course we have one or two more difficult patients, and we have specialised staff to deal with them, but we try not to encourage an 'us and them' attitude here. We all have our quirks, and coming here either as a patient or staff is about learning to deal with those."
She moves on, heading for the treatment rooms. I ask her what she would consider to be her own quirks.
"I have an unnatural interest in the lives of others," she slaps me on the back, laughing uproariously. It was a serious question, but it can wait.
The treatment rooms look much like Dr. Héderváry's own office: new, clean, hardwood furniture, a plushly upholstered chaise longue up against the wall, a lack of medical paraphernalia of any kind, just a small PC on the desk. The main difference is a lack of windows, I assume for privacy, although the room is well air-conditioned. "Please sit, Honda-san." She gestures to the chaise longue and I perch on the edge obediently.
She logs on to the PC, connecting it to a projector aimed at the blank wall to my left. I turn to get a better look. I would be more comfortable resting back on the chaise longue, but I am unwilling to put myself in such a submissive position with the doctor. I have a brief glimpse of a dark-haired man in glasses, clothes and hair askew and a distressed expression on his face, before the video opens. "My ex-husband," smiles Dr. Héderváry, as she presses play.
The video is, as promised, of the treatment of Patient S. She is about to lie down where I am sitting now, in this room or another I cannot be sure. I look over to the position of the camera; either it's not there now, or it's concealed. Dr. Héderváry explains. "I tape all my patient sessions, for their benefit as well as mine. The main reason, though, is professional. When you're dealing with a controversial therapy like mine, there will unfortunately be people who will make claims of unprofessional behaviour…" she shrugs. "I can prove nothing untoward happened."
"Are you recording us now?"
"Why, are you about to do something interesting?" she grins, and points back to the moving image on the wall.
The video opens with the usual pleasantries, Dr. Héderváry enquiring after S.'s health and welfare in the clinic. The young girl responds in few words and seems motionless. Dr. Héderváry explains this session will be slightly different, and hands S. a small stack of comics. The content is obvious not from the covers of the magazines, which appear blurry due to the poor resolution of the recording, but from S.'s reaction on opening the first. She has opened the comic at its central point, gasps, and hurls it away. Unperturbed, Dr. Héderváry places the offending object back within S.'s reach, and leaves, ostensibly to fetch a glass of water.
Some minutes pass, S. sobbing on the chaise longue. She seems to realise that the doctor is not about to return, and takes a hasty glance around the room before slowly reaching once more for the comic. She opens it, closes it again, hesitates for a while before beginning to read.
The door eventually opens and Dr. Héderváry returns, glass in hand. S. leaps up, grabbing the free hand of the startled doctor, and begins speaking volubly in a language in which I am regrettably not fluent. Dr. Héderváry explains: "S. tends to lapse into French when excited." S. is pointing repeatedly at panels in the manga. She is eventually persuaded to calm down and there the recording ends.
"I used a visual stimulus to encourage S. to free her own memories. It worked very well in her case, perhaps because she was young and not used to guarding her emotions."
"But you didn't stop there."
"Getting S. to admit to the situation was only the first step. Then she became treatable." Dr. Héderváry stops, looking at me intently. "You know, a really good way for you to understand the therapy would be for you to go through it yourself."
I stop her there, raising my hands. "I don't need therapy. I have no problems."
The gleam in her eyes demands I say differently. "I read your article endorsing 2D love last month. Nijigen complex, yes? Won't that be an interesting exploration for both of us?"
"I'm sorry, I…" I try to interrupt, but she's on fire now.
"Gonzo journalism! You'll never get another opportunity like this! Plus free bed and board. Come on, it'll be a riot!"
I give in, figuring I can work my way out of this one in the morning. "I can't promise anything. I have other commitments…"
That's apparently good enough for Dr. Héderváry. "Yes!" she exclaims, stopping just short of dancing round the desk to me. "Shake on it." She proffers a hand which I take reluctantly, only to have the life crushed out of mine. "Your handshake is so effeminate… I bet you're the uke." She grins almost evilly, watching the shock in my face. "You are! You so totally are!"
I extricate myself from her clutches, wondering how this situation had arisen, and the best way out of it without offending the other party. Dr. Héderváry is a conundrum to me now, an odd mixture of educated, well-bred carer and passionate, base masculinity. I agree to stay the night in the clinic, if only to try to solve this enigma the next day.
Recovering her composure, Dr. Héderváry shows me to my room. It's stylish and comfy. I note there is no telephone or other access to the outside world. She explains all communications are monitored, so I must approach her or one of the staff if I need to send in the day's work to the newspaper. "Dinner is at seven, the dining room is just off the lounge. We'll start with a consultation tomorrow morning." She winks conspiratorially. "Until then we're friends, okay?"
I nod, bewildered, and lock myself in my room until the bell sounds for dinner.