Chapter II, Chip


The question was like a powerful whip strike. My eyes bored into Lecter's face across the room.

He continued, amused "Peeing into the urinal container must have been a blast, too. But there's more, isn't there? I think it's safe to say that the past episodes that make all blood drain from your face, Miss Richardson, not unlike now, I may add, are plenty. You are of course no more at fault for what happened than if you'd been attacked by a shark swimming up to you from the dark deepness of the ocean. The dark waters of the mind. Suddenly becoming aware of them. I'd compare the experience to Clarence's Dream, after he's been pushed overboard by his brother Richard... "what dreadful noise of waters in mine ears, what sights of ugly death within mine eyes…". Anyone can stumble and fall into those dark waters - all it takes is repeatedly pressing the right buttons. How would you describe your childhood?"

"How did you know about the tube, Doctor?" – I asked, shifting into a comfortable position, suddenly feeling more at ease, but somehow alert at the same time.

"Your father mentioned your charming experiments. I assumed you would remember the incredibly unpleasant and entirely unique sensation. Combined with the overall circumstances, it has to be one of your most vivid memories from that period. A visit to my office was bound to bring those memories back. Were you easily hurt as a child?"

"Yes"

"What would you do to get rid of painful thoughts and all that short term emotional turmoil caused by, say, playground injustice, parental reproach…?"

"What can anyone do? Just let it gradually subside"

"Would you think about it, at length? Playing an unpleasant episode over and over in your head?"

"Yes"

"The very worst such episode being?"

"I don't know. There are several, I suppose. Almost all of them about feeling ashamed, embarrassed".

"You are exceptionally vain, aren't you, on the inside?"

I looked at him, sharply, and he winked at me.

"Embarrassment, sheepishness, nerves, social awkwardness are vanity. You want approval at all times, total acceptance, you don't want anyone, anyone at all, to threaten your ego. You frequent the Johns Hopkins Archeological Museum, is that right?"

My father's quite the Chatty Cathy, I thought.

"Yes, I like… I like history, the evolution theory. I find it…"

"Good"

He rose swiftly from his chair, went around his desk and across the room only to stop right in front of me, placing both hands on either side of my head, leaning in. What followed, after my initial surprise and uneasiness, was momentary blankness, then a sudden wave of relaxation, his maroon eyes inches away, his lips moving, saying something. The next moment he was back in his chair and talking, talking softly, suggestively.

"Why don't you focus your eyes on this lamp? This is, shall we say, a preparatory meeting. I'll plant a seed, see if it sprouts. You have neglected the needs of your own little pet monster called the subconscious, which stirred awake after a severe disturbance, namely your mother's stroke. It kicked and screamed and then predictably brought down the entire system.

"The subconscious is in fact that same bipedal Hominid who walked the Earth a hundred thousand generations ago, covered in hair, riddled with lice; stinky, sticky, sniffing scat, killing without any considerable hesitation (the Bartholomew's Night, for instance, that happened much, much later, was just a tiny glimpse at this particular quality), practicing cannibalism and mating with the obscenity of an animal. Striving to grant its own wishes much like a child, only with a lot less internal barriers, and it is of course widely known that a small child has none. Always looking out for a threat, any threat to its existence."

"We'll call him Chip, in your case."

"Chip is a weak juvenile. Dependent, submissive, but secretly longing for the biggest share of the kill. Fantasizing about it as he sits at a distance, chewing on a bunch of bland watery berries. He is overwhelmingly hedonistic, which was most likely caused by an early introduction to sexual pleasure. His strongest wish is never granted. To be fair, Chip isn't as weak as he considers himself to be. But he can't prove his superiority to anyone, because he himself constantly questions it. If we compare his primitive self-regard to a wheel, I would say there's a stick crashing into it every now and again, spoiling the steady, consistent turning. Who first pushed the stick into his confidence? The answer is of no importance, Miss Richardson, let's not blame your Daddy for every single wrong that happened in your life. Let's merely remove the stick, keep Chip happy. Negotiate. Do you follow?"

Click.

"Yes."

I finally looked at the Doctor, having stared at the lamp throughout his entire monologue, feeling numb, sleepy, and noticed that he was sketching. The pen and paper had appeared out of nowhere, without a single sound. A spider makes more noise than this man, I thought. He rose in his own time, folding the sketch in half.

"Alright. Meet you 7 p.m. Thursday. I trust you'll find your way out"

"Doctor Lecter, why is that bipedal friend of mine a he?" – I asked, getting up, trying to keep my legs from going as if I just had a very long swim and was climbing out of the pool.

He walked a few steps towards me, looking at the sketch in his hands, smiling vaguely. Through the mist of sleepiness and indifference covering me like a warm blanket, the light from the lamp getting dimmer, I felt a weak, passing urge to back away.

"That is part of the problem."

Hannibal Lecter handed me the sketch and I bid him goodbye, leaving, closing the door behind me, walking to the front door, saying goodbye to his secretary, thanking her for the tea again, stepping outside into the already dark street, unfolding the piece of paper in my hands, looking down at it in the orange outdoor light.

I slept for 14 hours straight, that night. Not counting the half hour I slept open-mouthed on the bus.