The Silent Patient

by Alex Michaelides

  I did as he said and took a few paces back. Then I turned and looked. The moment I saw the painting, I let out an involuntary laugh.

  The subject was Alicia’s aunt, Lydia Rose. It was obvious why she had been so upset by it. Lydia was nude, reclining on a tiny bed. The bed was buckling under her weight. She was enormously, monstrously fat—an explosion of flesh spilling over the bed and hitting the floor and spreading across the room, rippling and folding like waves of gray custard.

  “Jesus. That’s cruel.”

  “I think it’s quite lovely.” Jean-Felix looked at me with interest. “You know Lydia?”

  “Yes, I went to visit her.”

  “I see.” He smiled. “You have been doing your homework. I never met Lydia. Alicia hated her, you know.”

  “Yes.” I stared at the painting. “Yes, I can see that.”

  Jean-Felix began carefully wrapping up the pictures again.

  “And the Alcestis?” I said. “Can I see it?”

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  Jean-Felix led me along the narrow passage to the end of the gallery. There the Alcestis occupied a wall to itself. It was just as beautiful and mysterious as I remembered it. Alicia naked in the studio, in front of a blank canvas, painting with a bloodred paintbrush. I studied Alicia’s expression. Again it defied interpretation. I frowned.

  “She’s impossible to read.”

  “That’s the point—it is a refusal to comment. It’s a painting about silence.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “Well, at the heart of all art lies a mystery. Alicia’s silence is her secret—her mystery, in the religious sense. That’s why she named it Alcestis. Have you read it? By Euripides.” He gave me a curious look. “Read it. Then you’ll understand.”

  I nodded—and then I noticed something in the painting I hadn’t before. I leaned forward to look closely. A bowl of fruit sat on the table in the background of the picture—a collection of apples and pears. On the red apples were some small white blobs—slippery white blobs creeping in and around the fruit.

  I pointed at them. “Are they…?”

  “Maggots?” Jean-Felix nodded. “Yes.”

  “Fascinating. I wonder what that means.”

  “It’s wonderful. A masterpiece. It really is.” Jean-Felix sighed and glanced at me across the portrait. He lowered his voice as if Alicia were able to hear us. “It’s a shame you didn’t know her then. She was the most interesting person I’ve ever met. Most people aren’t alive, you know, not really—sleepwalking their way through life. But Alicia was so intensely alive.… It was hard to take your eyes off her.” Jean-Felix turned his head back to the painting and gazed at Alicia’s naked body. “So beautiful.”

  I looked back at Alicia’s body. But where Jean-Felix saw beauty, I saw only pain; I saw self-inflicted wounds, and scars of self-harm.

  “Did she ever talk to you about her suicide attempt?”

  I was fishing, but Jean-Felix took the bait. “Oh, you know about that? Yes, of course.”

  “After her father died?”

  “She went to pieces.” Jean-Felix nodded. “The truth is Alicia was hugely fucked-up. Not as an artist, but as a person she was extremely vulnerable. When her father hanged himself, it was too much. She couldn’t cope.”

  “She must have loved him a great deal.”

  Jean-Felix gave a kind of strangled laugh. He looked at me as if I were mad. “What are you talking about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Alicia didn’t love him. She hated her father. She despised him.”

  I was taken aback by this. “Alicia told you that?”

  “Of course she did. She hated him ever since she was a kid—ever since her mother died.”

  “But—then why try to commit suicide after his death? If it wasn’t grief, what was it?”

  Jean-Felix shrugged. “Guilt, perhaps? Who knows?”

  There was something he wasn’t telling me, I thought. Something didn’t fit. Something was wrong.

  His phone rang. “Excuse me a moment.” He turned away from me to answer it. A woman’s voice was on the other end. They talked for a moment, arranging a time to meet. “I’ll call you back, baby,” he said, and hung up.

  Jean-Felix turned back to me. “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s all right. Your girlfriend?”

  He smiled. “Just a friend … I have a lot of friends.”

  I’ll bet you do, I thought. I felt a flicker of dislike; I wasn’t sure why.

  As he showed me out, I asked a final question. “Just one more thing. Did Alicia ever mention a doctor to you?”

  “A doctor?”

  “Apparently she saw a doctor, around the time of her suicide attempt. I’m trying to locate him.”

  “Hmm.” Jean-Felix frowned. “Possibly—there was someone…”

  “Can you remember his name?”

  He thought for a second and shook his head. “I’m sorry. No, I honestly can’t.”

  “Well, if it comes to you, perhaps you can let me know?”

  “Sure. But I doubt it.” He glanced at me and hesitated. “You want some advice?”

  “I’d welcome some.”

  “If you really want to get Alicia to talk … give her some paint and brushes. Let her paint. That’s the only way she’ll talk to you. Through her art.”

  “That’s an interesting idea.… You’ve been very helpful. Thank you, Mr. Martin.”

  “Call me Jean-Felix. And when you see Alicia, tell her I love her.”

  He smiled, and again I felt a slight repulsion: I found something about Jean-Felix hard to stomach. I could tell he had been genuinely close to Alicia; they had known each other a long time, and he was obviously attracted to her. Was he in love with her? I wasn’t so sure. I thought of Jean-Felix’s face when he was looking at the Alcestis. Yes, love was in his eyes—but love for the painting, not necessarily the painter. Jean-Felix coveted the art. Otherwise he would have visited Alicia at the Grove. He would have stuck by her—I knew that for a fact. A man never abandons a woman like that.

  Not if he loves her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I WENT INTO WATERSTONES on my way to work and bought a copy of Alcestis. The introduction said it was Euripides’s earliest extant tragedy, and one of his least- performed works.

  I started reading it on the tube. Not exactly a page-turner. An odd play. The hero, Admetus, is condemned to death by the Fates. But thanks to Apollo’s negotiating, he is offered a loophole—Admetus can escape death if he can persuade someone else to die for him. He asks his mother and father to die in his place, and they refuse in no uncertain terms. It’s hard to know what to make of Admetus. Not exactly heroic behavior, and the ancient Greeks must have thought him a bit of a twit. Alcestis is made of stronger stuff—she steps forward and volunteers to die for her husband. Perhaps she doesn’t expect Admetus to accept her offer—but he does, and Alcestis dies and departs for Hades.

  It doesn’t end there, though. There is a happy ending, of sorts, a deus ex machina. Heracles seizes Alcestis from Hades and brings her triumphantly back to the land of the living. She comes alive again. Admetus is moved to tears by the reunion with his wife. Alcestis’s emotions are harder to read—she remains silent. She doesn’t speak.

  I sat up with a jolt as I read this. I couldn’t believe it.

  I read the final page of the play again slowly, carefully:

  Alcestis returns from death, alive again. And she remains silent—unable or unwilling to speak of her experience. Admetus appeals to Heracles in desperation:

  “But why is my wife standing here, and does not speak?”

  No answer is forthcoming. The tragedy ends with Alcestis being led back into the house by Admetus—in silence.

  Why? Why does she not speak?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Alicia Berenson’s Diary

  AUGUST 2

  It’s even hotter today. It�

�s hotter in London than in Athens, apparently. But at least Athens has a beach.

  Paul called me today from Cambridge. I was surprised to hear his voice. We’ve not spoken in months. My first thought was Auntie Lydia must be dead—I’m not ashamed to say I felt a flicker of relief.

  But that’s not why Paul was calling. In fact I’m still not sure why he did call me. He was pretty evasive. I kept waiting for him to get to the point, but he didn’t. He kept asking if I was okay, if Gabriel was okay, and muttered something about Lydia being the same as always.

  “I’ll come for a visit,” I said. “I haven’t been for ages, I’ve been meaning to.”

  The truth is, I have many complicated feelings around going home, and being at the house, with Lydia and Paul. So I avoid going back—and I end up feeling guilty, so I can’t win either way.

  “It would be nice to catch up,” I said. “I’ll come see you soon. I’m just about to go out, so—”

  Then Paul spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear him.

  “Sorry? Can you repeat that?”

  “I said I’m in trouble, Alicia. I need your help.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone. I need to see you.”

  “It’s just—I’m not sure I can make it up to Cambridge at the minute.”

  “I’ll come to you. This afternoon. Okay?”

  Something in Paul’s voice made me agree without thinking about it. He sounded desperate.

  “Okay. Are you sure you can’t tell me about it now?”

  “I’ll see you later.” Paul hung up.

  I kept thinking about it for the rest of the morning. What could be serious enough that Paul would turn to me, of all people? Was it about Lydia? Or the house, perhaps? It didn’t make sense.

  I wasn’t able to get any work done after lunch. I blamed the heat, but in truth my mind was elsewhere. I hung around in the kitchen, glancing out the windows, until I saw Paul on the street.

  He waved at me. “Alicia, hi.”

  The first thing that struck me was how terrible he looked. He’d lost a lot of weight, particularly around his face, the temples and jaw. He looked skeletal, unwell. Exhausted. Scared.

  We sat in the kitchen with the portable fan on. I offered him a beer but he said he’d rather have something stronger, which surprised me because I don’t remember him being much of a drinker. I poured him a whiskey—a small one—and he topped it up when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  He didn’t say anything at first. We sat there in silence for a moment. Then he repeated what he had said on the phone. The same words:

  “I’m in trouble.”

  I asked him what he meant. Was it about the house?

  Paul looked at me blankly. No, it wasn’t the house.

  “Then what?”

  “It’s me.” He hesitated, then came out with it. “I’ve been gambling. And losing a lot, I’m afraid.”

  He’d been gambling regularly for years. He said it started as a way of getting out of the house—somewhere to go, something to do, a bit of fun—and I can’t say I blame him. Living with Lydia, fun must be in short supply. But he’s been losing more and more, and now it had gotten out of hand. He’s been dipping into the savings account. And not much was there to start with.

  “How much do you need?”

  “Twenty grand.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “You lost twenty grand?”

  “Not all at once. And I borrowed from some people—and now they want it back.”

  “What people?”

  “If I don’t pay them back, I’m going to be in trouble.”

  “Have you told your mother?” I already knew the answer. Paul may be a mess but he’s not stupid.

  “Of course not. Mum would kill me. I need your help, Alicia. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I haven’t got that kind of money, Paul.”

  “I’ll pay it back. I don’t need it all at once. Just something.”

  I didn’t say anything and he kept pleading. They wanted something tonight. He didn’t dare go back empty-handed. Whatever I could give him, anything. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help him, but I suspected giving him money wasn’t the way to deal with this. I also knew his debts were going to be a tough secret to keep from Auntie Lydia. I didn’t know what I’d do if I were Paul. Facing up to Lydia was probably scarier than the loan sharks.

  “I’ll write you a check,” I said finally.

  Paul seemed pathetically grateful and kept muttering, “Thank you, thank you.”

  I wrote him a check for two thousand pounds, payable to cash. I know that’s not what he wanted, but the whole thing was uncharted territory for me. And I’m not sure I believed everything he said. Something about it didn’t ring true.

  “Maybe I can give you more once I’ve talked to Gabriel,” I said. “But it’s better if we work out another way to handle this. You know, Gabriel’s brother is a lawyer. Maybe he could—”

  Paul jumped up, terrified, shaking his head. “No, no, no. Don’t tell Gabriel. Don’t involve him. Please. I’ll work out how to handle it. I’ll work it out.”

  “What about Lydia? I think maybe you should—”

  Paul shook his head fiercely and took the check. He looked disappointed at the amount but didn’t say anything. He left soon after afterward.

  I have the feeling I let him down. It’s a feeling I’ve always had about Paul, since we were kids. I’ve always failed to live up to his expectations of me—that I should be a mothering figure to him. He should know me better than that. I’m not the mothering type.

  I told Gabriel about it when he got back. He was annoyed with me. He said I shouldn’t have given Paul any money, that I don’t owe him anything, he’s not my responsibility.

  I know Gabriel is right, but I can’t help feeling guilty. I escaped from that house, and from Lydia—Paul didn’t. He’s still trapped there. He’s still eight years old. I want to help him.

  But I don’t know how.

  AUGUST 6

  I spent all day painting, experimenting with the background of the Jesus picture. I’ve been making sketches from the photos we took in Mexico—red, cracked earth, dark, spiny shrubs—thinking about how to capture that heat, that intense dryness—and then I heard Jean-Felix calling my name.

  I thought for a second about ignoring him, pretending I wasn’t there. But then I heard the clink of the gate, and it was too late. I stuck my head outside and he was walking across the garden.

  He waved at me. “Hey, babes. Am I disturbing you? Are you working?”

  “I am, actually.”

  “Good, good. Keep at it. Only six weeks until the exhibition, you know. You’re horribly behind.” He laughed that annoying laugh of his. My expression must have given me away because he added quickly, “Only joking. I’m not here to check up on you.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just went back into the studio, and he followed. He pulled up a chair in front of the fan. He lit a cigarette, and the smoke whirled about him in the breeze. I went back to the easel and picked up my brush. Jean-Felix talked as I worked. He complained about the heat, saying London wasn’t designed to cope with this kind of weather. He compared it unfavorably with Paris and other cities. I stopped listening after a while. He went on complaining, self-justifying, self-pitying, boring me to death. He never asks me anything. He doesn’t have any actual interest in me. Even after all these years, I’m just a means to an end—an audience of the Jean-Felix Show.

  Maybe that’s unkind. He’s an old friend—and he’s always been there for me. He’s lonely, that’s all. So am I. Well, I’d rather be lonely than be with the wrong person. That’s why I never had any serious relationships before Gabriel. I was waiting for Gabriel, for someone real, as solid and true as the others were false. Jean-Felix was always jealous of our relationship. He tried to hide it—and still does—but it’s obvious to me he hates Gabriel. He’s always bitching about him, implying Gabriel’s not as talented as I am, that he’s vain and egocentric. I think Jean-Felix believes that one day he will win me over to his side, and I’ll fall at his feet. But what he doesn’t realize is that with every snide comment and bitchy remark, he drives me further into Gabriel’s arms.

  Jean-Felix is always alluding to our long, long friendship—it’s the hold he has on me—the intensity of those early years, when it was just “us against the world.” But I don’t think Jean-Felix realizes he’s holding on to a part of my life when I wasn’t happy. And any affection I have for Jean-Felix is for that time. We’re like a married couple who have fallen out of love. Today I realized just how much I dislike him.

  “I’m working,” I said. “I need to get on with this, so if you don’t mind…”

  Jean-Felix pulled a face. “Are you asking me to leave? I’ve been watching you paint since you first picked up a brush. If I’ve been a distraction all these years, you might have said something sooner.”

  “I’m saying something now.”

  My face was feeling hot and I was getting angry. I couldn’t control it. I tried to paint but my hand was shaking. I could feel Jean-Felix watching me—I could practically hear his mind working—ticking, whirring, spinning. “I’ve upset you,” he said at last. “Why?”

  “I just told you. You can’t keep popping over like this. You need to text me or call first.”

  “I didn’t realize I needed a written invitation to see my best friend.”

  There was a pause. He’d taken it badly. I guess there was no other way to take it. I hadn’t planned on telling him like this—I’d intended to break it to him more gently. But somehow I was unable to stop myself. And the funny thing is, I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to be brutal.

  “Jean-Felix, listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There’s no easy way to say this. But after the show, it’s time for a change.”

  “Change of what?”

  “Change of gallery. For me.”

  Jean-Felix looked at me, astonished. He looked like a little boy, I thought, about to burst into tears, and I found myself feeling nothing but irritation.

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