Pilgrim

  “Aeroplane?”

  “Aeroplane. And he said it again and again. Aeroplane. Aeroplane. And then he escaped from me and went and broke up all those things.”

  Jung shook his head. “Well,” he said. “Aeroplane. That’s a new one.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve never seen one myself,” said Kessler.

  “Neither have I,” said Jung. And then, without knowing he would say it, he added in a whisper: “but I suspect we shall.”

  “Yes, sir. I suspect we shall.”

  BOOK FIVE

  1

  Pilgrim was placed in a padded cell where he could do himself no harm. He now had two new orderlies, or “keepers.” This is what they were called on the violent wards. Kessler was told he was free to go home for a week, which he agreed to do only with the proviso that if Mister Pilgrim should call for him, he would return.

  One of the keepers was a blond and seemingly harmless giant whose name was Wolf. He had been hired exclusively for his strength. Nothing in him indicated the presence of any particular attitude to his patients other than his willingness to subdue them if, as and when he must. The otherwise harmless aspect of his character was enhanced by his benign expression. Wide-eyed and gently smiling, he might have been an innocent child who thought that every day was Christmas.

  The other keeper, Schwarzkopf, was in all ways the antithesis of Wolf—distinctly and all too clearly sadistic. He would stare at Pilgrim and crack his knuckles as if he imagined every patient was an opponent in a wrestling match. When he did this, he squinted at his victim, with his tongue between his teeth. He too was large—not tall, but round and solid.

  For the first two days after Pilgrim’s rampage, he was completely sedated and had to be tended as a child. He wet the bed and messed his pyjamas and had to be force-fed liquids so that he would not dehydrate.

  On the third day, he awoke.

  He said only two things: where are my doves and pigeons? And: why is everything white?

  He seemed benign enough and on the fourth day, on Doctor Jung’s orders, his restraints were removed.

  Schwarzkopf said: “he is tall—his legs will be dangerous.”

  Wolf was assigned the task of undoing the straps by which Pilgrim’s arms had been fastened to the bed. Schwarzkopf sat on Pilgrim’s feet and placed his hands on Pilgrim’s knees.

  The room had a relatively low ceiling and no window. Air was circulated by means of a vent in the wall that went through a series of metal screens to the outside. Schwarzkopf did not wash. He smelled. It was one of his weapons of intimidation. Pilgrim watched him through half-closed eyes.

  The straps were difficult. The undoing took some time. Wolf, in his gentle way, was attempting to avoid any injury to Pilgrim’s wrists and ankles.

  At last it was done and Pilgrim began to feel the return of blood flow.

  He said nothing. He did nothing.

  He did not move his limbs or close his eyes.

  Schwarzkopf stood up.

  “You was rise now,” he said in his imperfect English.

  Pilgrim’s eyes slid to Wolf.

  Wolf leaned down and supported Pilgrim’s shoulders, pulling him to a sitting position.

  “Legs,” Pilgrim said.

  Schwarzkopf lifted Pilgrim’s calves and threw his feet towards the floor, where they landed with a jarring of bones and the sound, in Pilgrim’s mind, of a slamming door.

  Wolf stood to one side.

  Watching, Schwarzkopf touched his own chin with his thumb, stroking his skin as if he wished to stimulate an absent beard. Then he stepped backwards and said to Pilgrim: “speak.”

  Pilgrim said: “I want my doves and my pigeons.”

  Schwarzkopf smiled and said: “you like doves and pigeons?”

  “Yes.”

  Schwarzkopf then said: “I will find and bring tomorrow.”

  Pilgrim nodded. “I would like some soup,” he said.

  In the morning, Wolf was attending to Pilgrim’s toilet needs when Schwarzkopf arrived with something wrapped in a towel. Though his tongue was between his teeth, he smiled.

  “You were wanting,” he said, and set the towel on the foot of the bed.

  “I want nothing, now,” Pilgrim replied.

  “No,” Schwarzkopf said. “You were wanting and I have brought.”

  With which he unrolled the towel, displaying the bodies of one pink dove and one green pigeon.

  “They can be breakfast,” he said, “if so you wish.”

  For another week, Pilgrim had again to be forcibly restrained. Kessler returned and at Jung’s command, Schwarzkopf was dismissed.

  There was no more talk of doves and pigeons. Kessler took it upon himself to bury the dead birds beneath a tree in the garden. Laying them in the earth, he smoothed their wings and whispered a single word. Forgive. The ruby eyes were closed and the earth, as it fell on them, smelled of pine cones, mushrooms and rain.

  2

  On Saturday, the 8th of June, Emma rose from her bed for the first time since the miscarriage—and on the same day Wolf removed the restraints from Pilgrim’s wrists and ankles for the last time.

  Emma went to sit in the window, where Lotte brought her breakfast tray together with the morning paper. Emma had asked for the latter, thinking: the world is still happening out there and I’d best rejoin it.

  Pilgrim sat on the edge of his bed, where Kessler fed him a cut orange, toast and marmalade and tea. The birds were not mentioned. Wolf had retired to the staff kitchen, where he drank coffee and stared at the stoves and ovens as if he expected them to speak. He himself remained silent.

  Emma unfolded the paper. Die Neue Zürcher Zeitung, known fondly as die N.Z.Z. The Italian-Ottoman war continued—the Italians seeming the most likely victors. The Balkans were in their usual turmoil—bombs, assassinations, riots and anarchy. Greece was threatening to join in the melee…On and on and on it went.

  Serbs, Macedonians, Bulgars, Turks, Italians, Greeks—who gives a damn? Emma thought and let the paper fall to the floor. Five hundred years of invading armies and shifting borders and nothing had been resolved. All the way back to Alexander the Great. All the way back to Troy—and nothing, nothing, nothing had changed. For centuries, whole lives, from infant cradle to ancient grave, had been lived without a moment’s peace, without a second’s existence beyond the reach of fear. Just as well not to be born. Just as well to perish.

  At eleven o’clock that morning, Jung appeared in the violent ward, checked on the condition of a few others and, at eleven thirty-five, was admitted to Pilgrim’s cell.

  Wolf by this time had been sitting in the corridor, allowing Kessler to deal with Pilgrim’s private needs. Fresh pyjamas and a newly laundered robe had been provided, and for the first time in almost two weeks, Pilgrim had been shaved and allowed to brush his teeth.

  Jung told Kessler he could retire and return perhaps in half an hour.

  When Kessler had left the room, taking with him last week’s soiled pyjamas and the breakfast tray, Jung took the only chair in the room and placed it with its back to the door.

  Sitting, he drew a sheet of paper from the music bag and faced his patient. He had not slept, his conscience still suffering the facts of his child’s death and of his wife’s discovery of the other woman.

  As for the first of these troubling episodes, he felt both remorse and guilt. His suspicion that Emma had quite deliberately thrown herself down the stairs had all but been confirmed. I did not trip, she told him. I fell. As for the other woman, he felt no remorse at all—only regret that her presence in his life had to be terminated for the time being. He would miss not only the sexual release she had provided, but also her intellectual company. Her name was Antonia Wolff and she had some time ago—like Sabine Spielrein—been a patient at the Bürgholzli. On her recovery, she consequently became a qualified intern of astonishing talent and insight.

  This was the young woman Jung had seen in the corridor some weeks before in the company of Furt-w?
?ngler. It had helped—and not helped—that physically, she was an almost perfect match for Emma, but that her hair fell forward, whereas Emma’s was pulled back away from her face. She had the voluptuous look of a woman whose body was practised in delight and she…Antonia…Toni…she was…

  Forget all this. You are here in pursuit of Pilgrim.

  “Good morning,” Jung said. “What a bright, sunny, lovely day,” he lied. It was, in fact, pouring rain and his child was dead.

  Pilgrim said nothing and looked away.

  “Is there something you would like to say?” Jung asked.

  “Only that you have confined me in the dark with maniacs.”

  “Which maniacs do you have in mind?”

  “Schwarzkopf killed two of my birds.”

  “You have birds?”

  “Doves. Pigeons. I feed them. You know this.”

  “You own birds? I was not aware. It is my impression that birds belong to themselves.”

  “Very clever, Doctor Jung. Of course…” Pilgrim lifted a hand and let it fall again to his knee “…you are right. Nonetheless, I have cared for them.”

  Jung said: “Mister Schwarzkopf has been let go. You have other complaints?”

  “Kessler is mad.”

  “Oh?”

  “He believes in angels.”

  “And you do not?”

  “Of course not. What good are angels?”

  “They appear to have been rather useful to Kessler. Do you know that he was once a patient here himself?”

  “No. And who cares. It merely proves my point. You call me mad and set me in the care of madmen. Perhaps there is something amiss in your own mind.”

  “This is possible.” Jung smiled. “This is entirely possible.”

  There was a pause.

  “How do you feel today, Mister Pilgrim? Rested? Relieved?”

  “Released.”

  Jung laughed.

  “Indeed,” he said. “And high time.” He waited a moment before he said: “would you have killed Mister Schwarzkopf, as you appeared to want to?”

  “I desired it, but I relented. I cannot kill—which is more than can be said for Schwarzkopf. I have seen him eating flies.”

  “Do flies matter?”

  “Everything matters. Wouldn’t you agree? Or does it not matter there might be none left over for you?”

  Jung sat back.

  “Well,” he said, “clearly we have a problem here. You do not like me—is this correct?”

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “Just remember, I am your doctor. Doctors cannot always be likeable.”

  “I’m perfectly aware of that.” Pilgrim fixed his gaze on Jung. “What do you want of me, Doctor Jung? Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes. You can answer some questions for me.”

  “I get the questions, you get the answers. This is not just.”

  “Would you rather we reversed our roles?”

  “I was not aware we were playing roles.”

  “Mister Pilgrim, obfuscation gets us nowhere—neither you nor me.”

  “For someone to whom English is a foreign language, you speak it very well. Obfuscation. Remarkable. Your vocabulary is exemplary and wide ranging. In fact, I should say you are—as in other matters—something of a flamboyant expert.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “Yes you do. Please do not hide behind false modesty. You have no modesty, false or otherwise. In other words, Doctor Jung, you are visible.”

  “I see.”

  “No, I see. You are, in schoolboy vernacular, what is known as a useless prick.”

  Jung set aside his list of questions. He would no longer need them. The encounter with Pilgrim had taken a turn in its own direction and, though not the turn he had hoped for, a turn nonetheless that might prove productive.

  “Prick?” he said. “A needle in the thumb?”

  “No, sir. Prick is an English schoolboy pejorative meaning penis. A nasty, smelly, incompetent penis, useless for anything other than widdling.”

  “Widdling?”

  “Pissing.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you.”

  “I think so.”

  “I doubt it. You see, the schoolboy spends his nights rubbing himself in the hopes that one day soon he will gain the full-blown pleasure of ejaculation and consequent orgasm. He has heard of these pleasures, and perhaps even witnessed them in his older fellows. But his own penis remains dormant because his testicles have not yet dropped. For all the erections he may achieve, nothing of gratification is forthcoming other than a vaguely pleasing distant relative called a blush. He is worse than a virgin. He is barren. And thus, a useless prick.”

  “So I am an unfulfilled orgasm.”

  “Yes, sir. Note that I call you sir, as a schoolboy should.”

  “You are not a schoolboy, Mister Pilgrim.”

  “Are you not my master?”

  Silence.

  “I hate this room. This cell. Must I stay here forever?”

  “No.”

  “Is it you who carries the key?”

  “One of them, yes.”

  “And the others?”

  “Kessler. Wolf. The doctor in charge of this ward. His name is Raddi.”

  “Ernst Raddi. Yes. I’ve met him. Or should I say, he has met me? In his presence I was always chained. Another prick.”

  “There were no chains, Mister Pilgrim. Never.”

  “Whatever they were, they felt like chains.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “I’d like to know why you think of me as a prick.”

  “The description bothers you?”

  “To know could be beneficial. If I am to help you, I must know who you think I am.”

  “Why do you think I need help?”

  Jung almost laughed, but contained himself.

  “The key is in my pocket, Mister Pilgrim. Only I can set you free.”

  “You said there were other keys in other pockets.”

  “Yes—but only mine can set you free. Besides which, it is all too clear you are troubled. You yourself know this. And so…your answer?”

  “Why do I think of you as a prick? Because you are too pleased with who you are and the few minor achievements you have made in your field…”

  Jung closed his eyes, but said nothing.

  “And because you are an arrogant, opinionated wielder of unlimited powers. And because you have no notion of your own ignorance and the damage this ignorance inflicts. And because you are unrepentant. And because you abuse the intellects of others in order to protect the reputation of your own. And because you are Swiss!”

  Jung stood up—turned away—removed his glasses and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief.

  “That’s quite a list,” he said.

  “It’s just a beginning,” said Pilgrim.

  Jung shifted his weight and thought of turning again, but did not.

  “Would you like another doctor to take you on?” he asked.

  “Take me on? Am I a wrestler? A rugby team? An army of insurgents?”

  “MISTER PILGRIM!” Jung now did turn and, blazing with visible fury, confronted his patient. “Enough is enough!”

  “What a pity. I was enjoying myself.”

  “No doubt. But you are in trouble, sir. Not with me—but with yourself. I have a job to do here, and I intend to do it. I am not alone in my arrogance and I am not alone in my ignorance and I am not alone in my opinionated wielding of power…”

  “Unlimited power!”

  “You, sir, are a past master in all these fields, and if I may say so, you are something of a prick yourself!”

  Pilgrim blinked. He was genuinely surprised. He turned towards the wall and said: “I want a window.”

  “You cannot have a window! There will be no windows until I have my answers.”

  Pilgrim sat down.

  “Is that u
nderstood?” said Jung.

  “Yes.”

  “Now…” Jung himself sat down. “We have cleared the air. Let us proceed.”

  Pilgrim gazed at his knees. The white of his pyjamas seemed to mesmerize him. “Where are we going?” he said, all but whispering.

  “We are going to discover who we are,” said Jung. “Both you and I. We have no maps, but we must find our way. And we will.”

  3

  Not quite a week later, on Thursday the 13th of June, a man in a bowler hat and a tailored grey coat was seen on the terraces of the Lindenhof, which rise above the Limmat on its west bank. At the top of this wooded park, there was a magnificent esplanade with benches, tables, a café, a fountain and a view of Zürich that was unmatched in its splendour.

  To the right, the Grossmünster—to the left, the Prediger-Kirche—and beyond it the University of Zürich, dominated by the Burghölzli Clinic riding on its hillside and rising up from its skirt of protective trees.

  Trees. They were everywhere. The linden trees that gave the park its name and the oak, the chestnut, the ash and the aspen crowded amongst the shops and houses across the river, making a froth of green lace on which the roofs and steeples seemed to float.

  The man in the bowler hat wore a pair of binoculars which hung from a leather strap around his neck. In his hand, he carried a small leather-bound notebook. From another leather strap, this one hanging from his shoulder, there was a Kodak camera in a cloth case which he pressed against his side with his elbow. The perfect—or seemingly perfect—tourist.

  He moved along the balconade entirely engrossed in the view before him. Occasionally he would stop, raise the binoculars, stare at something and afterwards make an annotation in his book. He had been doing this now for more than an hour, while unbeknownst to him, he was himself being observed by a woman seated beneath the trees on one of the benches behind him.

  The woman appeared to be in her late twenties—perhaps her early thirties. She was trim and neat and dressed in navy blue, wearing a light spring coat with tortoiseshell buttons and a blue straw hat with a wide mauve ribbon. Its shape was not unlike the bowler worn by the man, although it lacked a turned-up brim.