A Citizen of the Country: Reisden & Perdita Mysteries, #3

A baby, Jack the Ripper, and other disasters

FOR A LONG TIME after they were married, he told her she should divorce him as soon as their child was born. You didn’t bargain on this, he said.

Nobody bargains on having the front of their house fall off on their wedding day.

You know what I mean.

I’m happy, she said.

How could she not be unhappy? She’d lost everything by marrying him. She was American to her core; he knew it. She was training for a career as a concert pianist, in America, and loved it. He ran a business in Paris, and loved it. They’d been friends.

He was never going to be anything but her good friend.

And then—

It’s the man’s responsibility to keep his lover safe from the consequences of love. In every possible way he’d failed her. She’d been thrown out of the Conservatoire. Saved only because he’d married her. Now, she gave performances, but why waste one’s time? She might play adequately, but she was a woman and an American, by definition inferior to any Frenchman.

She should divorce him. He told her that sincerely.

And then Toby arrived.  

Toby. Red and skinny and bean-shaped, bags under his eyes, wailing as he came into this cruel world, and why not; but a person, a new person, a new chance.  And when Toby was cleaned and wrapped in a blanket, Reisden held him, and Toby’s tiny wrinkled scrap of face turned toward him, and Toby’s perfectly shaped little fingers reached out trustingly to grab Reisden’s thumb, and Reisden fell utterly, inconceivably in love, and everything changed.  

He kept an index card in the locked middle drawer of his desk, with a list on it.  He read it every morning before work.  It was reminders to himself: Perdita must be able to make music and I will not hurt myself or her.  The day after Toby was born he wrote the list over and headed it with a new item.  

I will be worthy to be Toby’s father.

🙚🙚🙚

They were living in a construction site.  On the very day that he and Perdita had married, as if it were an omen, the front wall of Jouvet had collapsed.  Paris had flooded, a sinkhole had opened in the street, and Jouvet had essentially fallen in the hole.  The bedlinens smelt of wet plaster; they woke to the sound of hammering.

It was not only wretchedly inconvenient, it was expensive. So expensive that they literally couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. Reisden had spent most of his life with a comfortable cushion of money. He’d spent it all on Jouvet, and was now far in debt.

That put him under suspicion.

Five generations of Dr Jouvets had treated all the mad upper-class families of Europe. They’d specialized in the rich and eminent. In the twentieth century, with no Dr Jouvet to carry on, the company had closed. Reisden had bought it for the building and the archives.

No one more naïve than an academic.

He’d been an academic then, and he’d bought the archives to do longitudinal studies of family madness. He’d had only a general idea what was in them. When Jouvet unexpectedly had proved to be a going concern, he’d laid the archives project aside.

In the chaos after the Flood last year, they’d had to move the archives to the third floor. He’d asked his secretary if there were any dead files they should be especially careful of; she’d brought him a stack that had clearly been waiting for him to request them. He’d taken them into his private office that night. He still remembered it, sitting by the study lamp with a glass of wine, innocent as a lamb.

Halfway down the pile were Jack the Ripper’s medical records. The most shocking thing about them was who the man was related to. It went on from there, spectacularly. 

The British royal family; the German imperial family; the Russian imperials, the Austrians, members of most of the families Reisden had grown up with. 

The Jouvets had treated them all.

So here we are. Reisden. Alexander von Reisden, Austro-Hungarian, not even a Frenchman, a dubious foreigner; and look who his guardian had been, Graf Leo von Loewenstein, known to be no friend to France. Reisden, now head of Jouvet. Not a medical doctor. Not previously interested in the history of the mad. He’d bought Jouvet more or less between Thursday and Saturday. 

He’d even said he’d bought it for the archives.

What he had bought with Jouvet was the largest trove of blackmailable information in Europe. Among Jouvet’s archives were the uncomfortable secrets of kings and consorts and ministers, and of all the less illustrious people who liked to go to the same doctor as royalty. Manufacturers; railroad barons; generals; bootmakers to the Army; people far more vital to a war than the average king.

Reisden needed money.

Dear Heaven, who’d believe he wouldn’t sell secrets?

🙚🙚🙚

Sigi von Loewenstein was in the family business; he worked for the Evidenzbureau, the Austro-Hungarian spy network. Sigi came to visit Jouvet when the floodwater was still waist-deep in the cellars and piles of rubble were being cleared out of the courtyard. Sigi surveyed the bracing beams holding up half of the building, the smashed furniture and instruments, the boxes of rescued records in disarray, and offered Reisden a blank check.

Don’t worry about money.  Don’t think about it. I can help.

Hard on the heels of Sigi came the Russians, who offered him a great deal more than the Evidenzbureau had; and then an Italian who was fronting for the German Abwehr and expected him not to know it. He even had a visit from the British.

Be careful to be on someone’s side, Reisden’s guardian had said to him long ago.  Your fault, Sacha, is that you always prefer to be independent and alone. That is how pawns get hurt. Pick a side and play the game.

He considered it. One should always consider everything.

Reisden went downstairs and looked at the patients in the waiting rooms. Every one of them trusted Jouvet. He looked at the portraits of the five Dr Jouvets, who for two hundred years had kept secrets that would start a war, or stop one. He looked at the rows and rows of files in the now-locked third floor archives. Every folder some family’s heartbreak.

He went upstairs to their apartment and watched his sleeping son.

I will be worthy to be Toby’s father.

Toby’s father a traitor?

No. Nor a bankrupt either.

He needed a plan to make money, and an ally.

🙚🙚🙚

General Lucien Pétiot of the French army had a pointed beard and twinkling sky-blue eyes, the color of his dress uniform.  He was supposedly in charge of procurement (Medical Section) for the French army.  General Pétiot bought miles of bandages, barrels of mercurochrome, trainloads of cough pastilles for the French army.

Now he wanted to administer intelligence and sanity tests in the same large numbers.  Every man in France, even convicted criminals, served three years in uniform, and the army needed to identify potential problems before a problem picked up a gun and shot its commanding officer.

Jouvet hadn’t done competency testing on this scale before; but no one else had either. 

Reisden began making friends in the conservative wing of the French army. He put together presentations for one army committee after another. He made a particular friend of Pétiot, who became as familiar at Jouvet as the concierge’s cat, poking his nose into the morning staff meetings, sniffing at a technician’s bench, hovering outside the locked and guarded doors of the famous Jouvet medical archives.

No one else from French intelligence talked to Reisden, which made Pétiot’s actual role fairly clear; and, like everyone else, Pétiot eventually asked about the records.  The archives were potentially quite valuable, Pétiot said. One wouldn’t want them to fall into enemy hands.

Jouvet has kept secrets for two hundred years, Reisden said.  It’s a tradition I intend to continue.

The Jouvets kept secrets, Pétiot pointed out.  But they were French and you are Austrian. Leo Loewenstein’s boy. One wonders would you act the same way?

The archives are medical records and will not be used for anything else.

I imagine you’ve been approached by the Germans, Pétiot said.

And the Russians, Italians, British, and my cousin Sigi.

Would you listen to an approach from us?

Not from anyone.

So you propose to be—

On our patients’ side. Keeping their secrets.

But you’re asking us for the medical testing contract. What do you intend to give?

Reisden chose to let himself look amused.  Results.

Pétiot shook his head.  You intend to be a little country of your own. Dangerous. You will be invaded. You, your little American wife, your child…

He forced himself to keep smiling.  You would find me quite comprehensively savage toward anyone who threatened them. I mean to be useful. Help me help you by giving Jouvet the contract.

Put you under our protection?  For nothing? You’re an idealist, Pétiot said. 

If I were to give way to any pressure, neither of us can guarantee it would be yours. We both know how to play this game. Recognize an obstacle as an opportunity.

Pétiot looked at him almost with amusement. Count Leo trained you, didn’t he.—Who knows, perhaps you’ll get away with it.

🙚🙚🙚

Reisden was then officially a citizen of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, where he hadn’t lived for— forever, really. At Pétiot’s suggestion, he applied for French citizenship.

The citizenship process would take probably a year unless he was declared to be of special value to France. If Jouvet got the Army contract, he would be.

The contract with the French army inched along for the first six months of Toby’s life.

He almost began to think he’d win.

But something had to go wrong, and it did.

Amber; suspicions fall on Reisden;

Maurice Cyron

"ARE YOU A SPY for the Austrians? Milly asked him.  Maurice Cyron, the old windbag, is going round all the salons saying you are."

In the last year their friend Milly Xico had begun writing and acting in moving pictures.  The camera loved her but would never capture her: that foxy red hair, that distinctly Milly odor of perfume, cheap cigarettes, and dog, and those cynical blue eyes, which saw everything in Paris.

You should spy for the Russians, they pay best.  Do you believe this is what the Russians hand out to ‘lady shapers of opinion’?  Milly extended an arm, model-style, showing off her new jacket, sheepskin covered with colorful red embroideries that swore fashionably at her hair.  "Men journalists get parties, vodka, caviar.  Us ladies get pretty toys.  Amber—I have more earrings than I can count, I have necklaces, all courtesy of Ambassador Izvolsky…  She twirled her long necklace of silver and Russian amber.  Isn’t it pretty?  As if we’d never heard of pogroms.  It sickens me that we’ve got to be nice to the Russians because they’re our allies."

Perdita ran her fingertips broodingly over the amber necklace Milly had just given her.

But what did you do to Cyron? Milly asked Reisden. Why is Maurice Cyron telling every Army man in Paris you’re a spy?

Who is Maurice Cyron? Perdita asked.

Don’t you two ever do anything but have sex? Milly asked.  Does he ever talk to you? Men. Milly addressed her dog. Nicky, he doesn’t tell her a thing.

Cyron is the adopted father of a man I know, Reisden said.  A very long time ago, I gave André what Cyron considered bad advice, and he’s disliked me for it ever since.

"Cyron is the glory of France, chérie, he’s a national hero, Milly said to Perdita.  And your darling Sacha made an enemy of him, so your darling Sacha is foutu."

They were all sitting round the kitchen table, eating bread and cheese for a Sunday lunch.  Milly scooped herself a piece of Brie and spread it on a round of bâtard.

What did you do? she said with her mouth full.

I told André to become an actor.

"Chouette, that must have been a thousand years ago!"

He was still in the cavalry, and I was sixteen.

Why is this Cyron a hero? Perdita said.

Cyron was a guerrilla fighter.  When the Germans invaded, the rest of France surrendered in six weeks. But Cyron, never! Never, never, never.  He fought the French right up until the end of the German occupation.  So everybody loves him.

Nick-Nack, Milly’s pug, snuffling for scraps, looked up adoringly.  Milly spread a round of bread with cheese and dropped it for him.

Cyron’s also an actor now, Reisden said.

He has a theater, Milly corrected, he’s not an actor, he does military plays, they’re awful, but he’s hugely popular with the audiences. It’s ridiculous, he’s old now and fat and he looks like a big potato with a little potato for a nose, but he has audiences!

Toby, in Perdita’s arms, was gumming at her amber necklace.  No, baby, she said, pulling the necklace away and tucking it into the neck of her blouse.  If he’s such a hero and he’s going round saying these dreadful things about Alexander, does that mean people are going to believe him?

Yes, Reisden said soberly. 

Nick-Nack, who had swallowed all the bread at once, began to cough and retch.  Reisden picked the pug up and thumped him; a horrible bolus shot out of his mouth and splatted on the kitchen floor.  Toby giggled delightedly.  Nick-Nack blinked watery eyes, wriggled to be put down, and headed for it to swallow it again.

 His audiences are all Army people, Milly said.  They stick together. They love France and the Army like a dog loves vomit. Don’t you, Nicky?  You love it because it’s yours.

Toby was making blatting noises with his lips, trying to spit like Nicky.  Oh, don’t learn, love, Reisden murmured.  Such a bright child, but please don’t learn to throw up like a dog.

"Your darling Sacha is applying for citizenship and asking to work with the army," Milly said to Perdita.  "But is he really French?  Does he go to the Théâtre Cyron and stand up and shout ‘Bravo!’ and make Cyron repeat all the big speeches?  Does he worship at the glory of Cyron?  Does he love our friends the Russians?  It isn’t enough to be a citizen.  You have to be someone’s dog."

So he says I’m selling Jouvet secrets, Reisden said. Which is cutting into the business that Jouvet has, never mind the one we want. Without turning canine and telling André not to act, which would have been approximately no use even then, what can I do to stop Cyron?

Can you get him Alsace-Lorraine back?  

Perdita looked confused.  

Never mind, darling Sacha will tell you about Alsace-Lorraine. Honestly, do you two ever get out of bed?  Milly scratched her dog’s ears. How about reconciling André and his wife?

André is married? Reisden said, startled. To what?

Milly rolled her eyes.  "To a dear little eighteen-year-old Cyron picked out for him. Are you completely out of touch? They’ve been married since last winter. Cyron practically marched André to the wedding, and they are not getting along well."

Eighteen? Reisden said.  André was nearly forty.

She’s an heiress.  Coal mines.  She’s pretty, even.  And mad for sex.  She actually likes André. But he--

Right. André ran a horror theatre. Not only ran it, but lived it. André’s preferred bride would be something a thousand years old, with eyes of fire. And an interest in appearing onstage.

You’re his friend.

I acted for him.

You acted for him, so you’re his friend. Sabine has Cyron turned round her little finger. Tell André how wonderful married life is.  Make him believe it. Get him to like her. And then get Sabine to tell Cyron to support you.

Milly, advice to the lovelorn is not something I’m good at.

You’ll be perfect, Milly said, you’re so married.

The Grand Necropolitan

PERDITA was going to America.  

Her New York agent had dropped her after she’d married; married women with children don’t tour. But recently he’d sent her a letter.  How was she, what was she doing, he’d talked to someone who’d heard her play at a Women’s Party concert in Paris. He had a couple of concerts, nothing big, the pay was nothing, it wouldn’t be worth her while, but if she was interested and free and could get to America—

Please, she’d said.  I know we can’t afford it, Alexander.  Please.

Of course we can afford it. They couldn’t, but they would.

He chose to think of this expedition as simply what she said it was, Perdita having a chance to play the piano in front of audiences. He refused to wonder why Ellis had thought she’d say yes. He refused to think how good her American audiences might be.

I must take Toby. Toby was still nursing.

He would miss Toby unbearably.  He would miss her.  He would worry about her liking America too much. 

Yes, of course.

I’ll see Uncle Gilbert while I’m there, she said hesitantly.

I don’t suppose I can convince you not to?

She shook her head.

Don’t bring Toby with you when you see him.

She didn’t say anything.

Tell me about your friend André? Perdita asked. Is André another Glory of France?

Not in the least.  André runs the Grand Necropolitan, the horror theatre. 

I’ve heard of that! I always wanted to go there.

You don’t really.

Those things don’t frighten me.

He considered. Perdita’s eyes should insulate her from most of what went on. André likes to frighten his audience. 

I’m not a kid, Alexander.  Let’s go.

🙚🙚🙚

The Théâtre du Monde, to give the Grand Necro its official name, was in the most sinister neighborhood André could afford, down the hill from the Place Blanche, the center of Parisian whoredom.  The Necro was the smallest theatre in Paris; it followed that it wasn’t profitable.  But now the lobby had been redecorated in elegant green and gold: moss-green upholstery, green velvet curtains, luxurious armchairs in Louis Seize style.  When André had still been doing amateur theatricals, he had directed his titled friends in comedies in château drawing rooms.  The new Necro looked like one of those private spaces, precisely what a château theatre dreamed of being: apart, that is, from the little carved skulls grinning secretly from the arms of the chairs. 

Where had the money come from?  The heiress wife, of course. The eighteen-year-old heiress wife, who adored André.

Monsieur le Baron, Madame la Baronne!  André’s assistant, Ruthie, half-ran up to greet them, a harried little gray dove of a woman with glasses and a streak of gray in her brown hair.  He heard you were coming tonight. He asked me to show you our new Egyptian mummy, but I won’t make you endure that if you don’t want to.

Thank you, Ruthie.  Perdita, Miss Ruth Aborjaily, one of the few sane people in this or any theatre.  Ruthie, this is my beloved and talented wife, Perdita.

 He’s put you both in the President’s box, Ruthie warned Reisden. He has something special planned for you.

I don’t suppose he’d leave it out?

It’s really very funny, Ruthie said dubiously. 

Yes, I would be afraid of that.

They sat in the President’s box, well back in the shadows.  If I tell you to duck, Reisden said, duck.

What’s going to happen?

Anything, beloved. André is ingenious.

The house lights went down, and down, and down, until nothing was left but pairs of red safeties, spider eyes in the cavelike dark.  One pair blinked slowly, like a well-fed predator.  André had always been good at details.

And in the dark theatre a ghostly, foggy spotlight lit a skeletal hand creeping from behind the curtain, and he appeared: the Master of Ceremonies of the Grand Necro, skeleton-tall, his face white makeup painted like a skull:

I, Necrosar, King of Terrors of the Grand Necropolitan Theatre du Monde!  The hollow, overprecise voice rang through the theatre.  Present Monsieur Jules Fauchard, the Most Assassinated Man in Paris!  Together with the company of the Grand Necropolitan Theatre!  Necrosar moved forward with the mincing delicacy of a spider, jerkily, as if he were on strings.  "Appearing tonight only! In a new—original—piece—in honor of our friends from Jouvet Medical Analyses--It’s Enough; or, A Domestic Crisis Resolved!"

Reisden leaned toward Perdita. Necrosar? he murmured. That would be André.

🙚🙚🙚

André had been a cavalry officer once. Maurice Cyron had destined André to join the Army, like André’s father the Count de Montfort and his grandfather the Count and his great-grandfather the Count before him; to ride in charges, die valiantly, and leave a grand tomb at Montfort. André didn’t challenge Cyron, no one did, but he had been pitiable as a cavalryman; he had actually lost his horse once. He had hidden in closets, writing plays. 

That was how things had been when Reisden, who was still at school then, had somehow got cast in one of André’s house-party plays, The Doom in the Skull.  

Working in André’s plays had been addictive.  Reisden had been sixteen, hadn’t had the least interest in school, had cut out to act. He’d been the juvenile straight man in three or four plays and the actual lead in one when he’d been invited out to Montfort castle for a weekend.  

And that had been the disastrous weekend when André had tried on a decomposing frock coat from the Montfort attics and instantly, irrevocably, had become Necrosar.

A greenish tattered coat out of an old trunk. . A top hat. Gloves. Absinthe-milky whiteface and black lipstick from Cyron’s own makeup box. As André stood in front of the mirror, making himself up, it was as if he were wiping his old face away. As if Necrosar had been living invisibly in André’s skin.  

Cyron had shouted at him.  Take it off!  The lipstick had been fingernails down a blackboard to Cyron; the lipstick, the epicene stiff slink, the air of secret, sinister knowledge.  The confidence of it all.  The rightness.  Even a sixteen-year-old could see it.

But a sixteen-year-old hadn’t known enough not to say so.

Why not? Reisden had asked Cyron.  He’s doing what you’re doing; he’s acting. And he’s good.  Cyron had roared with anger, not only at André but now at Reisden too. Cyron didn’t take criticism well. Reisden didn’t take bullies at all. Cyron had sent Reisden away from Montfort in disgrace on Saturday afternoon.  

André had come with him, brought the coat and hat and gloves, resigned his commission, and begun hunting for a theatre.  (A rumor had gone round that Reisden and André were lovers. No; whatever André fancied, it wasn’t Reisden.) Reisden had acted at the Necro once or twice, but André had gone pro and their lives had diverged. 

Onstage, Jules, the hero, was complaining to his wife.  What a day at the theatre!  Today, that hard taskmaster André du Monde has killed me five times!—crushed, impaled, guillotined!  It’s more than the mind can bear.  Jules clutched his forehead.

"Ah, mon pauvre ami! the wife said.  What will help you?"

My dear—I regret—I’ve got to kill the parlormaid.

The wife rang the bell.  Sylvie?  Monsieur Jules requires you.

The audience shrieked happily as Jules attacked the parlormaid. Necrosar looked on from the side of the stage, nodding like a skeleton on springs.

 I feel better, Jules said from below, "but not better enough.  It’s a shame, but—the chauffeur too.  He’s got to die."

How distressing, my husband!  Who will drive the car?

Now, as a father, Reisden almost sympathized with Cyron. He remembered; of course, it had been Victor who’d introduced them. Victor, friend of Oscar Wilde.  Reisden at sixteen had been thin, esthetic, and almost excessively handsome; his tastes ran robustly to heterosexual but Cyron wouldn’t have noticed.  

André, as the Count of Montfort, was supposed to marry and have a son.  André hadn’t shown the slightest interest until Cyron had arranged it.

André’s tastes ran to who knew.  One only hoped it still breathed.

And now André was having trouble with his wife.

Jules disposed of the chauffeur, then the cook.  Husband, are you feeling better? the wife asked.

Alas, no.  It’s—

Not enough! the audience shouted.

But, my dear husband, we don’t have any more servants!  How annoying!

I agree!  One can replace servants, Jules said, but a loving wife like you—

The wife gurgled and her heels drummed as Jules regretfully strangled her. The audience laughed.  André’s theatre was all about families and death.  

Jules was speaking.  It’s a continual crisis. Again, faithful servants to replace!  Again, an amiable wife slaughtered!  And why?  Why?  I ask myself, why?

Necrosar was André, but why?

Perdita touched his sleeve.  I wonder what sort of woman married your André? she whispered.

Indeed, love, he murmured back.  Who was this Sabine? 

Jules was now alone on stage with his slaughter.  He surveyed the corpses with speculative dissatisfaction, letting the laughter build, then looked out past the fourth wall, toward where Necrosar was standing, an amused, skeletal audience.

Him!

Jules pointed at Necrosar.

One man alone is the cause of my misery!  When I go mad he’s always there!  Jules reached into his coat and produced a huge rubber knife.  Die, Necrosar, die! 

Me? Necrosar mimed.  Jules lunged at Necrosar with the wobbling blade and stage-stabbed him.  André did a comic exaggerated death scene, grabbing at the curtain with one hand, holding the fatal dagger under his armpit with the other; he slid slowly down the curtain and sprawled on the stage, legs out stiffly, a skeleton with cut strings.  

The audience laughed, but tentatively; Necrosar was supposed to be in charge.

Finally! Jules said triumphantly, striding back to center stage.  It’s— and he held out his hands for the audience to finish the punch line with him.

It’s enough! half the audience shouted, but the other half was cheering.

Because Necrosar wasn’t dead.  Jerkily smooth, his head snapped up; Necrosar stood again in one long unnatural flourish like film run backward, undoing his own death.  André must have practiced the move for hours.  Necrosar advanced on Jules.  

Wait, wait.

A tall man in well-cut black stood up in the audience.  Reisden knew the actor, who had made a career out of playing gentlemen.  Oh my dear people, we really must talk about this.  This one’s dead—This one too—How excessive.

It’s true, Jules said repentantly, flourishing a gun at Necrosar.  Murder disturbs the harmony of family life.

It’s true, the dead bodies murmured.

But what shall we do? Necrosar hissed, producing a round object marked BOMB.

Who is that new person? Perdita whispered.

I’m afraid it’s me, my dear.  This was worse than the time when André had let loose live bats.  This was worse than André’s Hamlet.

Why, do what your friends do when they’re troubled, the actor said, turning to the audience.  Go to Jouvet!  We’ll solve your difficulties, the actor laid a finger to his lips, and never tell a soul.  

Reisden buried his head in his hands.

Come, friends, let’s sing.  Onstage, all the corpses stirred, sat up, rose.

Whenever your sanity wanders away,

Instead of to murder, just turn to Jouvet!

Trust your mind to them,

They’ll be your kindly friend,

Jou-Jou-Jou-vet…

I will kill André, Reisden thought.  Kill him, mince him, and serve him at a picnic. He’ll love it. The ghostly Necro spotlight shone into their box.

Take a bow, Alexander Reisden of Jouvet Medical Analyses! Three cheers for Jouvet!

I will not bow, Reisden thought, I will be d—d if I do; but of course he did, and smiled and waved.

And now, Necrosar said to the audience as the lights dimmed, we’ll give you something to test your sanity.

Shall we leave? Reisden whispered to Perdita.

How not to cure the fear of death

"DID I READ RIGHT what André was saying?" Reisden asked Philippe Katzmann.  

I hear you were the star of the evening.  

Oh G-d, don’t. 

Reisden had called Katzmann into his office. Katzmann was Jouvet’s consulting Freudian, balding, with a wild fringe of black hair.  In imitation of the Master he smoked cigars. As he spoke he flourished one and scattered burning ashes. 

André has family issues, Katzmann said.  He pinched a burning fragment of tobacco off the chair-arm.  The two halves of himself are fighting each other.

Jules and Necrosar, Reisden agreed.

The regretful family man and the horror in charge.  The issue is sexuality.  Potency.  The knife.

Isn’t it always with you Freudians.

Isn’t it always with us humans. Katzmann brushed cigar ashes off his ample vest.  How will André fix his issues?  He calls on you to fix it.  He trusts his mind to you because you’re his kindly friend.  You did catch the ambiguity in that?  You’re his Kindly One.  His Fury.  He’s also afraid you’ll destroy him.

Aren’t you being too clever?

No, no, no, Katzmann waved his cigar in a shower of sparks. Necrosar knows about the Furies.  They protect him.  But he wants to be saved from them.

Reisden considered this.

What do you know about his background? Katzmann asked. The family background?

André says his mother poisoned his father and herself.

This surprised even Katzmann. True?

No, they died of cholera. But you know André. He has the bottle she ‘used’ in his office. Rat poison, he said.

Similar symptoms, cholera and arsenic. Tell me the story he tells.

Reisden leaned back and tented his fingers, remembering André’s long-ago stories. "The Montforts were poor after the war, though I suppose that’s changed since André married the heiress.  André’s father was in the Army until 1871; then he resigned and came back to Montfort to try to make a living.  In the country the local seigneur is supposed to pay for the village doctor, but André’s father had no money so he doubled as the doctor himself.  He took André to deathbeds to cure him of the fear of death. Instead of being merely unafraid, André became fascinated. What parents do to their children." 

Katzmann knocked the ash off his cigar.  And then?

And then his mother killed his father and committed suicide. According to André.

You could find out more?

He’d tell me stories. 

Of course he will. This patient deals in stories, Katzmann said.  This patient is an artist, a dramatist.  He’s showing you a play through gauze.  On the scrim, the patient paints the picture he wants you to see, big and colorful and dramatic, and shines a light on it so that the picture bounces back into your eyes.  Rat poison!  Mysteries!  You must look hard, move the light, to see through the fabric to the real drama behind.

And the real drama is the one he staged last night?

Where you’re the kindly, ambiguous friend, yes, I think so.  He wants you to save him from the murder that destroys the harmony of family life.  Get him to come to Jouvet and give him to me.  We’ll get him on the talking cure.

He’ll just tell you stories. Because he’s good at that.

He can tell stories, as long as they’re about his parents’ deaths. Freud says the patient can be cured and his sickness can disappear, immediately and forever, Katzmann leaned forward, "‘when we succeed in bringing clearly to light the memory of the event by which it was first provoked.’  The patient must describe the event, in all its details, just as it happened to him, with the emotions that it provoked then.  If the patient was frightened then, he must be frightened again and describe it, he must banish the experience by putting it into words." 

He does that every night.

No, not quite. Rather than think of their deaths, your friend hides behind Necrosar and murder.  Every patient resists going back to the traumatic episode, because it’s so painful for him, and the resistance feeds his sickness.— Do you know the first thing they say after you’ve spent months, years, trying to get them to describe what happened, and they’ve finally done it?  Katzmann chuckled and flourished his cigar.  The very next thing they say, invariable:  ‘I could have told you that anytime.’

Reisden had spent his own share of time in waiting rooms like the ones at Jouvet. No, he thought. Some people can’t tell you that anytime. Some not at all.

Get him talking, Katzmann suggested.  André. Not Necrosar.  Spend time with him.  You’re a newly married man.  Talk with him about his marriage.  The inevitable adjustments, the thoughts it brings up.  Katzmann pointed a stubby finger.  He’s waiting to have you save him.

Reisden shook his head.  I’m just the owner, Katzmann.

Get him talking, then send him to me. You have the most essential thing already.  He thinks you can help him.

Perdita leaves for America

"YOU’LL SPEND TIME WITH André while I’m gone? Perdita said.  Golly. Good luck."

Reisden’s dressing room was the only room in their apartment not chaotic with packing, so that was where they were, he and Perdita and Toby, all sitting on the chaise longue.  Through the windows they could smell the June night in Paris and hear a last carriage horse trotting toward the boulevard St.-Germain.  In the next room, Aline, their ponderous invaluable maid, was packing, folding concert silks into tissue paper.  S

Toby pulled himself up by the sofa leg and held on to Reisden’s knee, swaying back and forth and yawning.  On ordinary days they would have put him in his crib or let him fall asleep between them.

Come, Toby love, Perdita said, come to Mama and try to fall asleep.  She unbuttoned her dress and Toby nuzzled against her breast; her hand supported Toby’s head, she rocked him, effortlessly close to her boy.  One of Perdita’s fans was lying on the floor.  Reisden unfurled it and fanned her.

The fan was feminine, white, scalloped, decorated with green letters.  Je désire voter, he read.  I want to vote.