“Bitte?” the maid asked.
Phoebe mimed trying to lift the flap. She gestured towards the iron and held out the envelope. Taking it, the maid smiled wisely.
At once, she scattered a bit of water on the back of the envelope and lightly applied the iron. Steam rose. Then, triumphantly, she fingered the flap open and said: “Sie wollen wissen…? Ja?”
Phoebe retrieved the envelope and said: “danke,” the one German word she knew, having used it so often on receipt of the multiple breakfasts. Then, not knowing what else to do, she curtsied and went back into the corridor.
At the top of the stairs, she paused and extracted a single folded sheet of paper. On it was written: Tomorrow, and then, as signature: Messager. That was all. Tomorrow—Messager. It was meaningless.
Phoebe folded the page and put it back in its place, licked the flap of the envelope, sealed it and smoothed it out against her skirt—and went her way.
Half an hour later, a messenger was summoned and when he arrived, Her Ladyship presented him with an envelope addressed to Herr Doktor C.G. Jung at the Burghölzli Psychiatric Clinic, Zürich. Also six brown paper parcels addressed to Herr Doktor.
When the messenger had gone, his thinly clad legs and muscular backside closely observed by Phoebe Peebles, Madam closed and locked her door, explaining that she would rest until seven. At seven-thirty, a supper of cold roast beef, some Spanish green beans, a chafing-dish of scalloped potatoes, two bottles of wine and a decanter of cognac was ordered. At eight, the meal arrived, to be eaten in the sitting-room at a table near the window. Once it was all in place and the waiter sent away, Phoebe was told she might have the evening to herself, so long as she returned by ten.
Phoebe ate down the street in the dining-room of a Bierlokal and lingered there until nine-thirty, half hoping, half dreaming her messenger might turn up for an evening beer. But no such luck. Still, the dreaming of him was pleasant enough. The air outside, as she made her way back to the Hôtel Baur au Lac, held for the very first time the promise of spring.
Madam’s supper had been mostly eaten and one bottle emptied. The second bottle and the decanter had been retired with Madam to her bedroom.
On her own bed, Phoebe found an envelope with a note which read: I have ordered the car for eleven o’clock and will be driving in the mountains. I expect to return by late afternoon. You may have the day off to do as you will. I trust your evening was pleasant.
Tucked inside the envelope was a five-franc note. Almost a full week’s wages.
On the morning of the fifth day, it being the 14th of May, Her Ladyship rose and unlocked her door at eight o’clock. A light breakfast had been ordered and was consumed. Madam tubbed—and Phoebe helped her to dress in her blue tweed suit, black boots and her coat of black lamb.
At eleven, Otto arrived with the silver Daimler. Much to Phoebe’s surprise, Her Ladyship kissed her ever so kindly on the cheek as she departed.
That was the last they saw of one another, except that Phoebe was asked the next day—a Wednesday—to select a black gown from madam’s wardrobe and deliver it to the mortuary. On this occasion, Phoebe said her last farewell.
High in the Albis Pass to the west of the Zürichsee, on a winding road that seemed to make its way directly to the sun, an avalanche had occurred—and Sybil Quartermaine, her chauffeur Otto Mohr and the silver Daimler had been swept away into oblivion.
On the writing desk from which she had dispatched her final message to Doctor Jung were seven envelopes—blue and grey and hotel beige—and a folded note.
The note was addressed to Miss Phoebe Peebles, and concluded with be a good girl and do as Mister Forster advises. All will be well, as you will see. In the meantime, thank you, my dear. Goodbye.
It was the first warm day of the year. All around the lake, as Jung had promised, the daffodils and crocuses crested what remained of the snow, and doves from the cathedral flew down into the square and walked amongst the people on the ground.
13
Late on the evening of Tuesday, the 14th of May, Jung had not long returned to Küsnacht from his duties at the Clinic when Lotte came to his study and informed him that a messenger had arrived who would not depart until he had spoken to Jung himself.
“How troublesome. Where has he come from?”
“From Lady Quartermaine at the Hôtel Baur au Lac, Herr Doktor. He says that she told him he must deliver what he has brought into your own hands and to none other.”
“Very well—show him through.”
When the messenger entered, he placed six brown paper parcels on the library table and handed Jung an envelope.
“My instructions were to see that you understood the contents before I could take my leave, Herr Doktor.”
“I see.” Jung, cutting the envelope with a pair of scissors, removed and read the letter it contained, while the messenger stood to one side and scratched his thigh.
My dear Doctor Jung,
How pleasant and how reassuring it has been to make your acquaintance. Since I must now leave my dear old friend in your hands, I feel that I can do so with confidence. I suspect that no one is better qualified to guide him through this present crisis than yourself.
Be patient. He will respond. I have no doubts of this and trust you to persevere in behalf of his sanity. What a pity I am unable to continue as your confidante in this matter, but circumstances beyond my control compel me to take my leave.
As a consequence, I am having Mister Pilgrim’s six remaining journals delivered to you by the present messenger, each of them under separate cover. There is good reason for this, which I must trust you to take into account. The order in which they are to be read is of the utmost importance. If it was within my power to command your obedience in this matter, I should do so, and had indeed expected to be dealing them to you one by one. Alas, this is not to be. Please believe me, the order is vital. Without it, there can be no comprehension of Mister Pilgrim’s dilemma. In certain matters that govern all our lives, there are decisions we must make alone—and some of these demand complete secrecy. This is the position I find myself in at the moment. There is nothing I am at liberty to tell you that would explain my present actions. Time may tell all, as is its wont. We shall see.
I said early on, whether to you or to Doctor Furtwängler, that aspects of Mister Pilgrim’s present condition cannot be clarified by rational means. I urge you to invest your trust in my friend’s apparent fabrications, if only because of his desperate need to be believed. In seeming to lie, he struggles to deliver truths. I hope this explanation will help. He longs to be released from what he calls the dread necessity of self—an identity whose burden he can no longer bear. I can tell you nothing more profound than that about my friend.
In one of our early encounters, I asked you if you believed in God. Your answer, as I think I may have said at the time, was droll. You remarked that you could not believe in God before nine o’clock in the morning. Taking that at face value, I can only assume that the subject of the Almighty is somewhat alarming to you and that mere chat cannot encompass Him. I would agree with this, though I remain somewhat sorry that we did not pursue the subject. I should like to have known your views before I depart. You will speak of God with Mister Pilgrim, of that I can assure you. Tell him, when you do, that my final thought on the matter of belief was this: In the wilderness, I found an altar with this inscription: TO THE UNKNOWN GOD…And I have made my sacrifice accordingly.
I thank you for all you have done and for all you have yet to do in Mister Pilgrim’s behalf.
I remain most sincerely,
Sybil Quartermaine
P.S. The enclosed cheque should cover the expenses for some time to come.
S.Q.
This cheque was for a great deal of money, made out not to Jung, but to the Burghölzli Clinic. Still, he was leery of accepting it.
He turned to the messenger, who by now was reading the titles of the books on Jung’s shelves and had reached the works of Goethe.
br />
“If you will wait one moment, I shall give you a letter to Lady Quartermaine…”
It was his intention to return the cheque.
But the messenger said: “I have been instructed by Her Ladyship not to accept a reply.”
“How very odd.”
“She was ad’mint, sir. That was her word for it: ad’mint.”
“I see. Well. Thank you.”
Jung gave the young man a modest tip for his trouble and sent him on his way.
There were six packets, each presumably containing a single volume of Pilgrim’s journal. Each was numbered. Jung spread them out in order on the library table and looked at them in much the same way one might regard a windfall of Christmas gifts from strangers. What could be inside…?
“One at a time,” he said out loud. “Only one.”
Of course, who would know the difference if he were to open them all at once?
I would know—that’s who would know.
Yes. I thought it wouldn’t be long before you chimed in.
It’s my job.
What—to drive me mad?
Possibly.
Jung made a stack of the journals and carried them over to his desk, where he locked them—all but Number One—in the bottom drawer and pocketed the key.
He then went to the window and gazed out at his garden.
The first daffodil—the one he had photographed—was fading now, and turning dry and crisp. A wind in the night might carry it away. But others—a host of others—were pushing into the light.
His mind drifted back to Lady Quartermaine’s letter. How sad it was—and odd.
In the wilderness I found an altar with this inscription: TO THE UNKNOWN GOD…And I have made my sacrifice accordingly.
He decided she must be unwell. After all, more than a week ago he had thought how poorly she looked. Distressed. Sleepless, perhaps. Certainly anguished. If only he had kept his appointment with her for tea on the previous afternoon. But fate, in its lunar manifestation, had intervened in the form of an episode with Countess Blavinskeya, and the meeting with Lady Quartermaine had completely slipped his mind.
Well.
He would not think about it now. There was wine to be drunk and dinner to be had and all of Emma’s research regarding Savonarola to discuss. And the children—and the dogs—and what to do with the garden furniture now that spring was here.
In the morning, he would read.
In the morning. In the morning.
And then, the sun went down.
BOOK THREE
1
On the morning of Tuesday, the 14th of May, at about the time Otto Mohr was assisting Sybil Quartermaine into the rear of the silver Daimler, Kessler was assisting Pilgrim into the lift on the third floor of the Burghölzli Clinic.
Sybil’s blue-and-violet cashmere afghan, received from Otto Mohr’s arm, was spread across her knees—while over Kessler’s arm hung two large sheets in which to wrap his patient once the baths were achieved. Envelopes.
While Sybil sat back and admired the view of various bridges, cobbled streets and water, Pilgrim sat rigid in front of Kessler and counted the floors as they fell away above him. One. Two. Three. Four.
Otto Mohr turned left and shifted gears.
When they arrived at the basement, the operator—dead-eyed as ever, unfolded the gate.
“You see?” said Kessler. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Sybil, in the Daimler, reached for the hand-bar, noting it was made of wine-coloured marble. Against it, her grey kid glove had the look of a water-coloured hand, its fingers drawn in black-ink stitches. I am insubstantial as a blot on someone’s page, she thought. And then: how curious, to feel so intangible and yet so alive…
Pilgrim’s chair rolled free of the cage and stopped on the carpet laid along the marble floor. We are in a mausoleum, he thought. Someone has died. The air was filled with salted mist. He could taste it.
As they began to gain the heights, Sybil turned to see the Zürichsee. How beautiful it is, she thought, with all its trees along the shore and all its flowers on show. Just as Doctor Jung said it would be.
“This way, please.”
Kessler nodded at the Duty Nurse, who sat unsmiling at her desk. With his back, he pushed against the heavy glass door which was hers to defend against invaders. And escapees. Judging from her expression, the latter would be lucky to survive.
Kessler turned the Bath chair and began to push it forward.
Doors, doors and more doors. Cubicles—curtains—lounges—the dead laid out in bathrobes, or so it seemed. Steam and the sound of falling water everywhere.
Blavinskeya’s mezzo was singing at a distance.
The water is wide,
I cannot cross o’er
And neither have I wings
To fly…
Sybil leaned forward. There was a dog on the road.
He has come to greet me, she thought. Someone somewhere is kind and has unchained him…
“Where are we now?” she asked.
“On the other side of the lake, my Lady, you will see the village of Küsnacht. Soon, we will come to the forest.”
“Is that dog all right?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Please blow your horn to warn him. He doesn’t seem to be going to move.”
“He will move, Madam. I assure you,” said Otto.
It was perhaps a Saint Bernard. Sybil had never seen a dog so large. And, sure enough, it padded aside as the Daimler passed. Sybil turned to watch it staring after them, its tail a flag, its head atilt as if to catch their departing scent.
Something prompted her to raise her hand in greeting—and farewell—and as she did, the dog raised its head and barked.
How curious and felicitous. How thoughtful of someone, to set him free and in our path.
Looking back again, she saw that the dog had disappeared. And, turning forward, she saw that they were entering a wood of varied trees—of aspen and poplars, of shadow pines with candelabrum arms and the tannenbaum of childhood. There were asphodel in bloom. It had to be impossible—yet there they were. And a nightingale, it seemed, was singing.
Build me a boat
That will carry two
And both shall row,
My love and I.
What on earth could have made her think of that?
I must be drifting again, she thought. And settled back to enjoy the view of slanted light and latticed trees whose branches reached out on either side. Barely stirring, she lifted her hand as if to welcome them.
The water is wide,
I cannot cross o’er…
And I forget the rest.
She almost slept.
In the baths, Kessler removed Pilgrim’s robe and watched him rise and approach the waters.
His attenuated body might have been a cadaver, activated by clockwork. Each step was laid before the last as if some childhood game was being recalled. Did we play it thus—or did we play it so?
Thus and so. Thus and so.
Pilgrim raised his arms.
Walking the tightrope, Kessler decided. That’s what he’s up to. Up on the high wire miles above us all.
“You want some help, Mister Pilgrim?”
The arms descended.
His skin was almost blue, it was so pale. The colour of mother of pearl. And where it was stretched across his ribs, it was translucent. He might have pulled on stockings and sleeves and gloves of skin, with seams of violet veins and pure white toe- and fingernails like buttons. And yet his muscles were trim and his buttocks firm, for all their lack of flesh.
Between his shoulder blades, the butterfly had stretched its wings and the rope burns on his neck and throat were turning to scabs that one would soon be able to peel away like a chrysalis.
“You want me to help you, Mister Pilgrim? Mind you don’t slip.”
Pilgrim was poised now on the marble rim of the bath, his toes curled down to grip the edge.
&n
bsp; “Nice hot water. You’ll like it. Very relaxing. Soothing, you might say, just like a warm massage.”
Sister Dora drifted past with Countess Blavinskeya on her arm. A proper twosome, Kessler thought—and smiled. In the steam, they looked as though their feet had left the ground—and the way the Countess danced along, they might have.
Pilgrim, watching them pass, made a gesture of modesty to cover his genitals, even though neither woman had looked in his direction.
At last, he descended into the water. All around him, the ghosts of beings who must have been human once went to and fro, some lost and others merely distracted. All were wrapped in winding sheets.
Pilgrim closed his eyes and spread his arms and legs. Sitting upon the sunken step, he let the water envelop him, exploring every plane and crevice—the prairie of his belly and the foothills of his breasts, the mountains of his shoulders. I am a continent of possibilities, he thought, waisted by the Equator, divided by the Tropics, drawn and quartered by longitudes and latitudes, floating my islands—fingers, penis, toes and testicles—and if I draw myself into a ball, I am the very model of the earth itself…
He smiled. What a pity, he thought, that I have sunk so low. Waisted by the Equator, indeed! Divided by the Tropics. Drawn and quartered by longitudes and latitudes…Am I Dante Gabriel Rossetti? I pray not! Have I also lilies in my hand and stars in my hair?
“Mister Pilgrim?”
Kessler came and stooped beside him, reaching out and holding him more or less upright by placing his hands on Pilgrim’s shoulders.
“You mustn’t put your head underwater, Mister Pilgrim. That’s a rule. You’re here to relax, not play at being a fish.”
Pilgrim sat again on the submerged step and laid his arms along the rim of the tub.
“That’s better,” Kessler smiled. “We don’t want you drowned.”
At the crest of the Albis Pass, there is a brief plateau from which a spectacular view of the world above and below may be had.