Chapter 4
"Romantic novels, to be more specific!" Unimpressed by Cal's loudly voiced frustration, the professor took the small green book, opened it and started to read in a deep baritone; his best imitation of on a stage actor's voice, "From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows doth with their death bury their parents' strife..."
The monologue was accompanied by Cal's increasingly irritated finger tapping. "I know the story of Romeo and Juliet," he said, struggling to keep his composure, "You don't have to lecture me about it."
"Then I suppose you're equally familiar with Wuthering Heights, the myth of Pyramus and Thisbe, Cyrano de Bergerac, Anna Karenina...?"
"Yes!" Cal answered quickly, before the professor could seize either one of these books from his desk. "Not the kind of literature I prefer, but I am not illiterate! But in which way do these books relate to my wife's illness?"
"Have you never wondered why the stories that we consider the most romantic love stories ever told usually end in death and despair? What do you think makes these tragedies so appealing, in a romantic sense?"
"I don't know," Cal replied, more confused than angry. "Tell me."
"The history of Romeo and Juliet is deeply moving, because their love is doomed, not despite of it. You see," –Mr. Steinberg stretched his hands as if he was imploring him - "The universal theme of love against all odds, and passion breaking the chains of social order strikes deep chords within most readers. Remarkably, this emotional effect is irrespective of gender, age or nationality. It's the story of a love that couldn't be contained or regulated, not even by death itself.
"The menace to Rose's imaginary love, therefore, does not contradict the notion that her fantasies are a psychological outlet for her unfulfilled sexual and emotional needs and her anger towards those who seek to control her and force her to keep those needs contained. On the contrary, it's the catastrophe looming around the corner that makes her feelings all the more poignant. Your wife's fantasies have so much in common with works of fiction, because they are constructed around a powerful example for what one of my Swiss colleagues calls archetypes. With your kind permission, I'd like to present her case on the next congress of the International Psychoanalytical Association." Cal frowned, but gave a hesitant nod.
Meanwhile, Professor Steinberg resumed his explanation. "Normally, in a healthy individual, archetypal images – like the star-crossed lovers, the hero, the good and the bad mother - give a sense of meaning and purpose. In your wife's case however, the 'self' appears to be possessed by the archetypal idea of star-crossed lovers to a degree where it stops to properly function."He made a short pause. "You don't look convinced, Mr. Hockley."
"Oh trust me, I am. I'm convinced that you are almost as crazy as your patients." Cal tried to look condescending, but succeeded only partially. "I don't understand a single word of this! How exactly is this – whatever you call it - causing her delusions and hallucinations? Why does it cause her to believe in things that are not there?"
"Hmm..." Thoughtfully, the Professor brought his right hand to his mouth like he was holding an invisible pipe. "Let me try to explain it another way. When you took the Aspirin, did it ease your headaches?"
"Um, yes, it did," Cal answered, rightfully surprised, "The pain is almost gone. But what..."
"Excellent. Do you remember when you started to feel relief?"
"Instantly," Cal replied after giving the subject a few seconds of thought."I think I felt instant relief. Or at least within the next three minutes. Now would you mind telling me why this is important?"
The Professor made a dismissive hand gesture. "Please be patient, Mr. Hockley. I will come to that, soon. When was the last time you ate?"
"I had an ample breakfast this morning, right before I left."
"And you took the pills... when was it? Twenty minutes ago?"
Cal nodded.
"Well, then you'll be surprised to hear that the active ingredient of the medication hasn't even entered your bloodstream, yet," Mr. Steinberg said calmly.
"Pardon me?"Cal pulled himself upright on the chair. "Now what is that supposed to mean?"
"No pill can act this fast. It's pharmacologically impossible," Mr. Steinberg patiently explained, "You see, I was trying to demonstrate the power of the unconscious to create and alter bodily sensations, even in healthy individuals such as yourself. You felt the effect of a drug long before it could have naturally occurred." He gave an apologetic shrug of the shoulders that would have seemed disrespectful, had it come from a man younger and less respectable man. "The psyche is a powerful entity and not even I fully understand its functioning. Maybe no man ever will."
Cal listened with a blank expression. There was no biting remark on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he felt strangely empty, as if he had already said everything that was to be said... Everything, but one thing.
"That's all well and good, Professor. I'll admit you got me there. See? I'm not even objecting anything you said. I would be lying if I claimed I understood your methods, but I won't question them again. But tell me one thing." Cal leaned forward on the chair, a sudden flash of hope crossing his features. "When can I take my wife home?"
"Well... I've run tests on her and I can assure you, your wife is not suffering from any physical disease, at least not from one that the most modern medical equipment could detect. The next goal that I have set for her is to regain her former weight. It's not unusual for a gain in weight to have positive effects on the mind, but in the long run, the course of a dementia praecox is hard to predict. Maybe, one day she won't need Jack Dawson any longer. We have to be patient with her..."
Cal shook his head wildly. "That's all you can do for her, Professor? After all this talk about Shakespeare and star-crossed lovers and our marital life? If that's all you can do, well, then your education is nothing more than a bag of cheap conjuring tricks! Do you hear me? All your clever words aren't worth a dime when they cannot bring her back!" He took a deep breath of air to ease the storm in his mind and continued shakily, "I... I understand now that I may not always have treated her the way I should... But I need her! I do! Even if I am the last thing that she needs..."
Steinberg gave him a sympathetic look. "I am deeply sorry. I wish I could do more for you and Mrs. Hockley. All I know is that reproaches or threats won't bring her back. What she needs is a stable environment that the nurses and I are giving our best to provide..." It was hard to tell from Cal's stoic expression if he was listening at all.
When he left the professor's office at last, the nurse, who was assigned to accompany him to the gate, had trouble believing that he was the same man that she had heard yelling and slamming his fist on the professor's desk a mere couple of hours ago.
xxxxx
"Welcome back, Sir." The chauffeur opened the door to the front passenger seat. Without returning the greeting, Cal stepped inside the vehicle.
His valet, a nephew of Lovejoy's, hastily stomped out his cigarette and took a seat in the back of the car. "We are late for your appointment at your broker's office, Sir," he reminded him, once they were on the road. "But I'm sure they will wait for an important client like you."
"Ah yes. The appointment." Cal was looking out of the window, only mildly interested.
He must have displayed a remarkably grim expression, for otherwise, Cal would not know how to explain the worried manner in which his valet addressed him again a few moments later. "Sir? Are you sure you want to do business today? Wouldn't it be more favorable to go home and repose?"
"I don't recall having asked for your opinion," Cal replied moodily. While Lovejoy's successor muttered a brief apology, Cal leaned back in the smooth leather seat cushions, looking even more distressed, now that it had been mentioned.
After a few minutes of shifting uncomfortable in his seat, he thought better of it.
"Driver! I think my valet was right when he remarked that a bit of repose would do me good. Drive me home!"
xxxxx
When he arrived at his big and empty mansion, Cal went straight into the parlour.
Now that all his business meetings have been cancelled or postponed, he at first didn't know what to do with himself. He took a few unsure steps around the room, his fingers striking the silk cover of the chairs and the smooth surfaces of the dark oak cabinets as he passed them by.
Cal remembered the last words that Steinberg had said to him, right before he left his office, and repeated them in a mocking tone, "Take care of yourself, Mr. Hockley."
Oh, and how I will!
He stopped next to an ornate silver wall mirror hanging above a waist-high cabinet. Whistling the melody of an irritatingly happy song, he took down the mirror, revealing a hidden opening in the wall. It was filled with bottles – his favorite spirits.
He hardly ever took a sip of the self-made alcoholic beverages that many of his compatriots produced illegally and that were only tolerable when mixed with syrup or cream to mask their horrible taste. Heaven forbid! Cal was lucky enough to have his own collection of 'imported goods'.
After settling on the Calvados – an excellent Brandy - he poured himself a glass, filling it to the rim. Careful not to look at his reflection, he put the mirror back to its place, hiding the Brandy with rest of his illegal spirits.
After this task had been accomplished, his gaze fell on the small cabinet that was in fact a Victrola. It was a fine machine, only one year old and unmatched in sound quality. At first, Cal had used it a lot, but he had quickly lost interest until he only played records on festive occasions– something that has, understandably, become very rare during the last seven months. But a fine machine it was!
When Cal opened the cabinet that concealed gramophone and horn as it was custom in modern households, he discovered with a chuckle that a Josephine Baker recording was lying on the turntable. Apparently, Rose had been the last person to have used the Victrola. It clearly wasn't his type of music, but he swore to himself to never again play any other recording. No! He was going to leave it there; as a reminder of a joyful past and a promise for a better future.
Following a sudden impulse, he started the device and gently put the needle on the spinning disc.
One of the maids could still be heard bustling in the adjoining rooms and he imagined it was Rose who had so often entertained herself by rearranging her numerous paintings or adding a newly bought one to the collection. He sat down in armchair and took a sip of the brandy, hoping that the combined effect of the alcohol and Josephine Baker would help him to sustain the pleasant fantasy. He welcomed the burning sensation in his throat like a visit of a dear old friend.
Finally, the machine started to sing and Baker's raspy voice filled the room.
"Oh no!" Cal groaned aloud, "Not that goofy singer again! If you can even call her that much since all she ever does is cross her eyes and dance topless in banana leaf skirts!" Since nobody else did, he chuckled about his own snide comment. "She'll never amount to anything. Trust me, sweet pea." He lifted his glass like in a toast and then allowed himself another sip.
"Lovely; now I've started to talk to people who aren't there too. But why aren't you answering me, Rose? Are you strolling about the deck with your Romeo again? Trust me, I'd shoot him, if he weren't in your head, my dear." He held up his hand like a gun and pretended to aim at various pieces of furniture. At last, pointed the gun at his head, moving his thumb like a trigger.
"Bang!"
He let his hand sink again, laughing bitterly. "It strikes me that you are the one to envy and I am the one to pity, you lucky maniac," he lamented, indifferent whether a servant could hear him over Baker's singing. His voice was slurring a little and he already felt a little tipsy, despite the little that he had drunk. Probably because of the Aspirin, he mused and quickly emptied his glass, not at all unhappy about this effect.
He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the armchair, breathing in deeply through his nostrils. At some point in time, he must have also released his servants from work, for no single person crossed his path for the rest of the day.
Rose, the way she was when he met her for the first time, appeared before his eyes, dancing and laughing. Eventually, the Victrola must have stopped playing, but he couldn't tell when that had happened. The concept of time was only meant for the living and the sane.
Cal tried to reach for her, touch her, but she escaped his hands with the lightness of a feather blowing in the wind. "Why do you tease me so?"
The girl laughed. Once again, she moved quicker than the middle-aged man whose fingers only clasped the air around the edges of her long revealing nightdress.
"You've lost, darling," Rose whispered, barely audible, and her full red lips curved into the sweetest of smiles.
xxxxx
In the early morning of the next day, Cal was stirred by the clicking of the door. The young beauty was gone. His body, laying half on the chair, half on the ground, felt battered and heavy. He tried to stand up, but let himself sink back instantly, as even the smallest movement caused such a shot of pain in his head that he feared it would rip his skull apart.
"Sir?"
He lifted his head slightly to see the chambermaid approaching him with hasty steps.
"No. Don't come." With great effort, he heaved himself up, supporting his weight with the backseat of the chair. "See? I'm fine."
She jerked to a halt in the middle of the room; stopped more by the smell of alcohol and sweat than by her master's orders. The maid was the same woman that found the cursed diamond seven months ago and the same person that tried to calm his wife when her deranged mind couldn't keep her mad thoughts contained any longer.
The good woman hadn't asked any questions since Rose's departure, and her discretion had ultimately saved her position. Her job at the mansion was to keep Rose's rooms clean and presentable, as if her return from her 'vacation in England' as Cal used to tell curious acquaintances was in fact expected any time.
Now, she didn't dare to move an inch from position. "Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?" she asked tentatively.
Cal pondered her question for a few seconds.
"Yes." He pulled himself together as best as he could. "I want you to go to Mrs. Hockley's room, take a couple of paintings from the walls and wrap them in paper. When my valet arrives, give them to him, so he can safely transport them to my wife."
"Of course, Sir!" The maid nodded eagerly. "She must have missed her pictures so much!"
"Certainly more than she has missed me."
The maid looked taken aback, but then relaxed her features, probably deciding to take his last statement for a joke. "Which paintings do you want to send her?"
"Umm... choose the ones she liked the most," Cal answered, realizing that he didn't even know which of them she kept on her walls. He usually avoided looking at them.
Fortunately, the maid was more familiar with his wife's taste than he. She just gave another quick nod and then rushed off to get to work.
Cal sighed and let himself drop back in the chair. He closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to come and replace the bleakness of his days with a maelstrom of redheaded fairies and words without meaning.
END
A/N: All names of singers, writers, organizations, brands and books that have been mentioned in this chapter belong to real people, real organizations, real brands and real works of fiction, respectively. Dementia praecox is a historic term for schizophrenia. Steinberg's character is loosely based on the life and work of Sigmund Freud (1856 – 1939) and Carl Gustav Jung (1875 - 1961).
To all readers: I hope you had as much fun reading this strange piece of fanfiction as I had writing it! A big thank you to all of you who alerted, favorited or (even better!) reviewed this story! And last, but not least, special thanks goes to DreamUpAReality, who not only beta-ed every chapter of this fic, but also happens to be the author of one of my favorite stories on this site: "Titanic, A Life Journey II"! I feel honored to have her as my beta-reader and I think she did a terrific job!
