Story of a Sociopath

  —

  But let’s rewind a bit. I settled into my routine once again.

  Paul called me on several occasions. The first time was to find out how my macabre comedy had turned out, and if my wife and my lover had forgiven me. He was upset with me because Esther had scolded him for refusing to tell her that I was alive.

  “You know what, Thomas? I think you actually are going crazy. Dr. Taylor and Dr. Austen think you ought to get some treatment.”

  “I’m not crazy, Paul. You might find it hard to believe, but they want to poison me.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. It’s not that you don’t deserve it from both of them, given how you treat them, but they aren’t murderers.”

  “I think you don’t know women as well as you think you do,” I said.

  “You’re sick in the head, Thomas, that’s it. Dr. Taylor told me that your heart works well enough and that it will continue working, if you take care of yourself.”

  “Doctors don’t know shit.”

  “Thomas, get a divorce. Accept that Esther loves Jaime, and that Olivia has the right to think about her future; it was a stroke of luck for her to meet Jerry. You win some, you lose some, but I don’t think it’ll be a tragedy if you give both of them up. The world is full of women, and you’re still young enough to meet one who’s worth the trouble. Ah, and get it straight: your wife and your lover are good people.”

  I know that Paul is a good friend and that he wishes me well, but he refuses to accept the evidence. He thinks too highly of Esther and feels sorry for Olivia, so he can’t see their true nature.

  They’re a pair of desperate women whose only chance of being free is to make me disappear. If I stepped aside voluntarily, I’m sure they would let me live. But things have come to a head, and now it’s either their lives or mine. My clarity scares me.

  Six months have gone by since I got back from Miami, and during this time I’ve suffered another “serious episode,” as my cardiologist says. General poor health, headaches, nausea; my hands and my feet have turned purple. I bleed from my gums, and there’s blood in my urine again. Dr. Douglas says it’s just because I don’t follow his advice, and that the way I carry on, the medicine won’t be enough to take the burden off my heart.

  “You have to accept, once and for all, that you cannot have four or five whiskeys every day. And I think that’s a low estimate of your consumption. As for food…To be frank, Thomas, you’re a glutton. You don’t exercise either. You have to walk, at least an hour a day. It’s not much. I’m telling you, you’re killing yourself.”

  He’s wrong. It was to be expected that something would happen to me again, given that Esther is still solicitous, and is careful to give me the anticoagulants in the morning, along with the pills for high cholesterol and high blood pressure. Oh, and for my glucose levels as well. Also, knowing that I can’t resist her cooking, Olivia has devoted herself to making food so appetizing that even though I know it contains poison I eat it happily. Why do I let this happen? Why can’t I take my medicine without letting my wife intercept it? Why do I accept Olivia’s food?

  The two of them keep asking for their freedom, but I don’t want to give it to them.

  I wonder why I insist on this fatal struggle. Why do I do it? Do I want to die? Am I punishing myself? Paul says I’m a son of a bitch. I know that Esther and Olivia call him to let off steam, and that at his age their tears have softened his heart.

  “Let them live, Thomas,” he keeps saying. “Just stop messing with their lives. If you had any dignity you wouldn’t want to be with women who don’t love you.”

  I still have Doris. I can buy the company of hundreds of girls like Doris while there are dollars left in my bank account. In that case, why? Why? Why?

  I don’t have an answer to that. All I know is that I don’t want to let them be happy. I don’t want them to have what I will never have. Why should I give them the gift of happiness? They knew who I was and what I was like when they decided to tie their fortunes to mine. Neither of them was ever disgusted by my money. They enjoyed what they got. I gave them a position in society. They owe me, yes—everything they have, they have thanks to me. They can’t have been so stupid as to think that I would give them what they got for free, or that they could pay for it with a few sessions between the sheets. There are things that can’t be bought, not even with that.

  I went to see Professor Johnson again. I sent a check for another twenty thousand dollars to his department before I went. I knew that it was the key that would open his door to me at once.

  Johnson received me with an air of resignation. I knew that he thought that I was an eccentric, or a madman, or paranoid.

  “Thank you for supporting the department. Your help is inestimable,” he said as we shook hands.

  “I think it’s you who’s doing the inestimable work,” I answered, just to say something.

  “Well, Mr. Spencer, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I’d like to ask some questions. I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

  “If they are questions I can answer…” he said cautiously.

  “I want to know if there’s any type of chemical analysis, any test that can tell if a man is being killed, and if it is with medicine or with some of those plants you told me about.”

  He sighed as he gave me a sidelong glance and tried to gather his thoughts. If I hadn’t been a generous donor, he would have asked me to leave his office.

  “I’ve already explained to you that various drugs can complicate a patient’s situation with their side effects. All drugs have side effects, although there are people who are more susceptible than others, and doctors always weigh the cost-benefit ratio. For example, statins have adverse effects on a lot of people. But allow me to ask you a question. What medications are you on?”

  I could see that this conversation was making him uncomfortable, and the question he had dared to ask me had only made things worse.

  “I’ve had two heart attacks, and several other ‘episodes.’ I take anticoagulants. And I don’t respond well to them. I’ve had to switch to different brands on a couple of occasions.”

  I told him the names of the medicine I was taking—the statins to lower my cholesterol, the glucose pills, and the medication for hypertension. He listened to me carefully, without moving a muscle, concentrating on what I was saying.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Spencer. I think I’ve already hinted as much in our previous conversation. Medicines are invaluable, they represent a great step forward in human history, they fight disease and save lives, but sometimes they can provoke reactions that…Well, there are accidents along the way. They’re giving you the correct treatment. The most common anticoagulant in the United States is the one you take, warfarin, which is the main active ingredient in Coumadin and Jantoven. In Europe, the most common anticoagulants are acenocoumarol and sintrom. In both cases, the effects are the same and have been demonstrated. They do have secondary effects and they can interact with other medicines and even with some foods. But I’m sure that your cardiologist has told you what to do to prevent that from happening. With rigorous control, there shouldn’t be any problems. As far as the glucose pills go, from what you told me they prescribed repaglinide first, and then later changed it to metformin. Both of them react with alcohol and can have a harmful effect on the patient.”

  He looked at me, trying to see if this was a reason they had changed my prescription. I confirmed nothing. I remained silent while he continued his explanation.

  “The pills you take for your blood pressure are angiotensin receptor blockers. They’re commonly prescribed. You’re on Januvia and Altace as well. And as for the statins, it’s like I said: there are a lot of people who can’t cope with them, but cardiologists are reluctant to stop prescribing them. Cost-benefit, that’s what it’s about.”

  “And the plants?” I asked him.

  “The plants? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

>   “What if someone were to adulterate a person’s food with plants that are harmful to a person’s health and might even cause death?”

  “We’ve already had this conversation, and what you’re suggesting is absurd,” he complained, and sighed again. “It’s true that some plants may cause harm if ingested. But people don’t eat these plants. I insist, they are not in the food chain.”

  “Is poison something that an analysis of a person’s blood might be able to establish?”

  “Well, Mr. Spencer, there is proof that can only be established afterward.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes it’s only with the autopsy that the truth comes out, but for that to be the case you’d have…well, you’d have to die first,” he said, trying to avoid making his words sound too somber.

  “So, someone could be poisoning you and you wouldn’t know until you were dead. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes, that’s possible. You could take your anticoagulant and feel terrible, have a hemorrhage even. You have a weak heart…No one would think, if you died, that they were…that they were…Well, it’s something that happens every day, Mr. Spencer.”

  “But the autopsy…”

  “Yes, that would be the only conclusive proof.”

  I left Professor Johnson’s office dumbstruck. So, they could be killing me, and unless they really did something wrong, there would be no way to find out until I was dead, and even then, only if someone decided that it was worthwhile to carry out an autopsy.

  —

  I followed Esther a few days ago. It wasn’t anything premeditated, but I caught the tail end of a conversation. It was in the morning, during breakfast.

  Her cell phone rang and she looked distractedly at the screen, but when she saw what number was calling she answered it immediately, although what surprised me was that she got up at once and went down the hallway to speak with whoever had called.

  “Yes, yes…of course. The best thing would be for us to see each other. I can’t cope anymore either…Yes, we have to do something definitive…It’s useless to try to reason, you know that…All right, let’s see each other in fifteen minutes.”

  That was what I managed to overhear. My wife came into the kitchen to tell me that she had an unexpected appointment with a client and that she had to leave right away.

  “Of course, dear, work is work. Go to your meeting.”

  I followed her out. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t realize it.

  She walked toward a café near our house. There weren’t usually many people early in the morning. And then I saw her. Yes, Olivia was walking rapidly toward the very same café. I hid, worried that they might see me. I was lucky. So it was Olivia who had called Esther, and the call and the meeting were not innocent, or else my wife would have told me about them.

  I looked for a place where I could keep an eye on the entrance to the café without being seen. They took a long time to come out. From where I was sitting, I saw them hugging each other goodbye. They seemed to be cheering each other up. I was surprised to see that Olivia was crying. Then each went off in a different direction, and I slipped into a bookstore to avoid being seen.

  I took longer than usual to get to the agency. I went straight to Esther’s office.

  “How was your meeting?” I asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

  Esther’s eyes showed worry, and as she looked at me I noticed her hesitating for a few seconds.

  “All right, nothing important. I have to have lunch with a client today. And then I’ve got things to do. I’ll be home late.”

  “That’s not news, darling,” I said as I walked out of her office.

  I went to mine and closed the door as I called Olivia’s cell phone. She sounded listless.

  “Why don’t you make me some nice barbecue chops for lunch?” I said, without even saying hello.

  I heard her sigh, long and desperate, over the telephone.

  “I’m very tired, Thomas, and I haven’t slept well.”

  “Oh, and a nice bottle of red to go with the chops,” I said.

  “Thomas, can’t it be tomorrow? Today…”

  “At midday, Olivia, and you know I don’t like waiting.”

  She hung up the phone in resignation. She knew that nothing she did would make me change my mind.

  I told my secretary not to put any calls through to my office and not to let anyone in to see me. I needed to think. What had Esther and Olivia been talking about? They had not been behaving like acquaintances, but rather like people who had a great deal in common. Above all, I couldn’t get out of my head Olivia’s gesture of despair and the determination in Esther’s eyes.

  But that wasn’t the only surprise. A few days later, Esther told me that she was planning to use Doris in a perfume ad.

  “But she’s completely talentless,” I said sincerely.

  “She comes across well on-camera and I want to help her, since she’s a friend of yours,” she said without apparent irony.

  “How considerate!” I retorted.

  I thought that my wife was making fun of me. How long had she known that I was sleeping with Doris?

  “And I’m going to use Olivia as well.”

  “Olivia? For a perfume ad? Do you want it to be a failure? The pair of them are worthless.”

  She shrugged and looked me straight in the eye, holding back a smile.

  “Leave it to me…I’m the creative. You’ll see. We’ll come up with something great between the three of us.”

  “You’ve never liked doing perfume ads, for all the imagination you have. Olivia’s ass is getting bigger and Doris…Well, Doris is only ambitious. It’s not a good mix of people.” I was annoyed at the thought that Esther was laughing at me.

  “Don’t worry, Thomas. We’ll figure it out,” she said.

  I don’t know why, but I felt that some kind of judgment had been passed on me, even though nothing special happened over the next few days. Esther kept giving me my heart medicine. Olivia seemed resigned to being my cook and didn’t complain when I turned up at her apartment, and Doris had been extremely demonstrative of her gratitude that my wife had hired her.

  What I really hated was seeing the three of them together. Esther called Doris and Olivia into the agency to sign the contract and discuss how the perfume commercial was going to be shot.

  They spent a long time locked away and then said goodbye to me frostily, mentioning that they were going to have lunch together.

  For a week Esther kept my two lovers busy with the shoot. According to the other creatives at the agency, the result couldn’t have been better.

  Olivia appears on the screen holding a bottle of the perfume in her hands, the same perfume she used as a teenager, and puts it in her daughter’s, Doris’s, room. Esther’s idea was that the viewers would understand that these are little daily inheritances that pass from mother to daughter.

  It was straightforward, but I didn’t say anything because Esther had never made a mistake. She’s very good at her job.

  Esther’s decision to choose Olivia and Doris was intentional. It had the benefit of annoying me as well as allowing her to spend time with them.

  I saw a change in the behavior of stupid little Doris. It was subtle, but noticeable, and made clear to me that there was something going on apart from the commercial.

  Doris would not stop singing Esther’s praises.

  “I’m not surprised you married her; your wife is wonderful. So intelligent, so affectionate, so convincing,” the little bitch said, and not to flatter me, but because she sincerely admired Esther.

  I couldn’t get a word out of her beyond these accolades. It seemed to me that she was getting progressively dumber.

  I tried to pressure her by asking if she talked about anything special after work with Esther and Olivia, and she opened her eyes wide, smiled, and put her arms around my neck.

  “Yes, of course…Esther’s giving me goo
d advice on how to get into the ad world. She says I have a future and that a good model can make a lot of money. And Olivia is so friendly! She’s always cracking jokes. She told me where I could buy some cheap vintage clothes, and promised to introduce me to her hairstylist. She says a good haircut is key.”

  “And you don’t talk about anything else? Don’t they say anything about me?”

  “About you? No. Esther doesn’t mention you, and Olivia…well, she doesn’t talk about you either. Should they talk about you?” she asked in her most innocent voice.

  “Well, if Esther chose you it’s because I’ve talked about you,” I said.

  “Of course, of course, darling…If it weren’t for you…” she said, but there was a tinge of irony in her words that shocked me.

  —

  I couldn’t get anything out of Olivia. Well, she did say one thing that worried me.

  “It’s always great to work with Esther, she brings out the best in you,” she said sincerely.

  “And Doris? She’s a disaster, right?”

  “She’s got a great future ahead of her.”

  “Doris? What are you saying?”

  “She knows what she wants and knows how to get it.”

  “And what does she want? Right, to make it in Manhattan and then make the leap into Hollywood, just like you wanted to do. New York is full of girls like you, untalented and condemned to failure. You need more than a good body to succeed.”

  “I don’t think Doris wants to be an artist, but rather to…”

  She fell silent. I looked at her and she knew that if she didn’t say anything, then I would try to force her to. She sighed.

  “Doris’s vocation is to be rich. To live well. She left Buffalo to make it, and she knows that her strongest weapon is her beauty, a weapon she only has for the time being, but she also knows that she has to hurry because if she doesn’t make it now, then the years will pass and it’ll get difficult…”

  “So you’re the example that she shouldn’t follow.”