The Wisdom of Crocodiles

by Paul Hoffman

  Looking again in the mirror at the face in young middle age, but still attractive, it struck her again, and the more she thought about it the more extraordinary it seemed, that it was, more or less, the same as the faces of the women in the album.

  Over the next few days she tried to persuade herself to forget it. She was, after all, a grown woman. It was hardly a surprise to her that men were voyeurs, that they liked pornography. Geoff had once said as much in passing: ‘I like it. I don’t really approve of it, but sometimes I quite like it. Not that I see a lot, I hasten to add.’

  The subject had been of little interest to her one way or the other, and she had let the moment pass. She wished now that she had questioned him further. But what would she have asked? She would never have thought about discussing the pictures in the album because she had never imagined their existence. Would she have been as affected by a collection of the magazines she saw on the top shelf in every newsagent?

  She bought two in London, horribly embarrassed, and took them home as a comparison. One, Penthouse, was full of beautiful women. Occasionally very slim, most were curvaceous, big-breasted but with narrow waists and long legs without a blemish, a wrinkle or disproportionate ripple of subcutaneous fat. Hair immaculate, bodies made up and fed through soft lenses and softer lighting, they seemed not to belong to the same species as the women in the album. It wasn’t just a question of the make-up, good looks, clever light and skilled photographers, because, as a prize of some kind, the women in several pictures in the album had been given the same glossy treatment as the models in Penthouse. Despite this, beneath the fake pouts and sexy smirks which the photographer had clearly told them to adopt, the original woman unmistakably shone through. But the Penthouse models were entirely reduced to the status of an abstraction. Jane was reminded of the sculpted heads on Easter Island: some large, some small, the same look, the same position, staring out to sea, their blank expressions given shape by a culture obsessed with an idea that they could only, endlessly, repeat.

  The second magazine was something else again. The girls were pretty rather than beautiful, although many were certainly that. The lighting, however, was designed for detail – like pictures in a textbook showing the aetiology of a disease – not harsh or unflattering but meant to put you in the room. The poses were entirely different: very pretty girls of twenty-two, with legs up in the air and fingers pulling themselves apart showing every detail of lip and sphincter. Partly horrified, partly amazed, Jane realised she had never seen a woman’s genitalia in such obsessive clarity before. She assumed that, unlike noses, lips or breasts, women down there were pretty much alike. Here were an astonishing variety of shapes and hues and hair. Otherwise, like Penthouse, they were all the same, the vision more lewd but just as repetitive. She wrapped them both carefully in a plastic bag, sealed it with Sellotape and put it in the bin.

  In the end she decided that she would still have been shocked if she had found these instead of the album, but it would have been easier to fathom. They were young and perfect. This was an adolescent weakness. But what she’d found was not so easy to dismiss, not least because of the care he’d taken, the sense of someone pursuing not just a tawdry desire but a tawdry obsession, a longing. That this revealed itself in something she could so strikingly have fulfilled herself began to bother her more and more. If she had been indifferent to his desire it might have made more sense, but she had taken great pleasure in the fact that he had never seemed to tire of making love to her.

  She tried to divert her attention through work or reading, or a few too many drinks at night, but it was like some persistent thief always probing for the weak lock or the window left ajar. In a taxi the next day returning to work from a meeting, and without anything to distract her attention, she had the chance to brood. Every morning when she woke she felt exactly the same as the morning before and the morning before that. It was just like that film about the sleazy cynic forced to live the same day over and over again until he learnt his lesson. She found herself wishing for some deep fault she could correct. Anything would be better than this, whatever it was – this failure to add up, this catastrophe to her life story, this senselessness. That’s what the deserted spouse must feel after the wife or husband who’d popped out for a loaf of bread disappeared and was never seen again. Not knowing the story behind the vanishing kept you stuck in time.

  Given the more or less permanent traffic jam that afflicted London during working hours and that the porn shop from which she’d accidentally stolen the books was close to a major road works, it wasn’t surprising that she should be trapped for a few seconds directly outside it. Long enough to see an advert in the window:

  WANTED: PART-TIME BOOKKEEPER Good rates. Apply within.

  The taxi took off and Jane sat in the back feeling deeply shocked by the speed with which she had decided to take the job.

  George Winnicott was lying asleep on the floor of his office when there was a knock on the door: ‘Sorry to interrupt . . . My God!’

  Winnicott woke instantly and looked up to find McCarthy staring down at him. He got to his feet.

  ‘I was just doing my back exercises.’

  ‘I thought you’d . . . fainted.’

  ‘No. It was just my exercises. I must have fallen asleep.’

  McCarthy looked puzzled. ‘I could’ve sworn I heard Lucy Bradd in here,’ he said. There was a silence. ‘Hearing voices, the first sign of madness.’ He shook his head and did not notice the alarm on Winnicott’s face. ‘Your back, does it give you much trouble?’

  ‘Not as long as I do the exercises twice a day. These meetings all the time don’t help. The chairs in these places never seem to give any support.’

  ‘Talking of meetings, we’d better be on our way. It’s quicker to walk – it’s only in Cripplegate.’

  It was hot outside and lunchtime. The piazzas were full of office workers in shirtsleeves or summer dresses enjoying the early spring sun. The sweet smell of Ambre Solaire hung in the gentle breeze. They walked through Warwick Lane, still devastated after the explosion, the buildings draped in acres of blue plastic sheeting like a badly executed piece of conceptual art. As they turned into Newgate Street, Winnicott felt an intense alertness. Something in him beyond intelligence, beyond even intuition, was awakening a powerful and primitive instinct.

  He was being watched. And whoever was watching him felt only one thing:

  I hate you.

  I hate you.

  I hate you.

  Psychotherapy

  In Greek drama it is often awareness which destroys kings. For Shakespeare the opposite is sometimes true: they are saved by ignorance. There are two kings who you know will die in their beds at a ripe old age with a loving family around them and be deeply mourned by their subjects: Theseus in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, who thinks that the imagination is for children; and Fortinbras in Hamlet, who does not think at all. Caught between the two possibilities of death by knowing too much and death by knowing nothing, the English have decided that the safest option is to be numb.

  Louis Bris, The Wisdom of Crocodiles

  ‘I would be less than honest with you if I implied that psychoanalysis is a field I’ve ever had much time for. I understand that you’re reluctant normally to take a patient who isn’t whole-hearted.’

  David Hendrix looked at George Winnicott, pale and ill at ease, sitting upright in the comfortable leather chair.

  ‘Actually, unreservedly whole-hearted patients can be a bit of a nuisance. This isn’t an easy process, but you’re right, of course. A patient who’s unwilling to go through that process . . . it hardly seems worth it for patient or analyst.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask why I had to be assessed by another analyst before I came to see you?’

  Hendrix smiled. ‘Essentially we believe in the notion of getting a second opinion first. It helps make one more objective.’

  There was a short silence, broken suddenly by Winnicott. ‘Look, I hope you�
�re not going to be asking me endless questions about my sex life. I really don’t think I could bear going through my dreams, turning every little thing into some . . . I don’t know . . . thing about my repressed homosexuality or my desire to murder my father and marry my mother.’ He stopped as if able now to dam his burst of irritation.

  Hendrix considered what he had said. ‘Did you want to murder your father and marry your mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hendrix expansively, ‘that’s got that one out of the way.’

  Winnicott looked at him, intrigued.

  ‘What about my repressed homosexuality?’

  ‘Are you a repressed homosexual?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Goodness,’ mocked Hendrix, ‘we are doing well. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?’

  Winnicott looked at the man behind his desk. He was over six feet tall and beautifully dressed in a blue suit of expensive cut. He was almost off-puttingly elegant; the sign of a man who was vain of appearance. At first the thin face seemed almost severe, ascetic in its sharpness, but he had a pleasant smile and an easy manner. The handsome face, though, was marred incongruously with a long scar on his left cheek. Winnicott’s expression softened. Hendrix sat upright in his chair. ‘I’m an analytical psychologist, basically a Jungian. Psychoanalysts are followers of Freud. Jungians are rather less interested in the sexual origin of psychological distress, so you needn’t worry too much on that score. I’m afraid the differences between the two schools are rather extreme. You shouldn’t imagine that because we’re analysts we’re above squabbling. On the contrary, I think that collectively we could show the average Middle Eastern country a thing or two about factional in-fighting. Instead of bombs, we simply ignore one another to death.’

  Winnicott looked at him slyly. ‘It doesn’t sound as if the average shrink is any less childish than the rest of us.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ replied Hendrix. ‘But, then, as I keep telling my patients, nobody’s perfect, and it would be pretty unbearable telling your troubles to someone who was. Not very effective, either.’

  ‘So, what is the difference between you?’ asked Winnicott.

  ‘We could spend a long time on that one, but . . . you could say that Freudians are concerned with uncovering secrets, while Jungians believe in trying to reconcile conflicting personalities within individuals.’

  ‘And that’s what you think is wrong with me?’ Winnicott had moved from an almost relaxed mood into one of cold reserve.

  Hendrix spoke softly. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you. But it’s not as exotic as it sounds. Another way of looking at it is that we’ve all got different sides to our personalities and we have to show those different sides in the right way at the right time. My wife doesn’t much care for me talking to her like an analyst. It’s a habit I slip into from time to time. An analyst is what I am but it’s not all that I am. Sometimes what we call the persona – the face we present to the world – sometimes it takes over. The doctor is always a doctor; the accountant always an accountant; the novelist always a novelist. When that happens the other sides of ourselves will either die away and something of us dies with them – or they rebel. Sometimes violently. Civil wars are usually the most brutal conflicts.’

  ‘I’ve read a bit of Freud,’ said Winnicott. ‘I found the obsession with sex tiresome, as I said – but some of the things about repression struck me as convincing. He understood that it’s what makes life possible. My job over the last twenty years – well, I wouldn’t have had one if people were better at repressing their emotions. Repressing how you feel is what stops you from rape and murder and theft and everything else. I’d say my experience pretty much supports the view that getting in touch with your inner child usually means someone else is going to get it in the neck somehow or other. Emotional incontinence is what pays the wages of the police.’

  Hendrix nodded, acknowledging the point was well taken. ‘Nevertheless, I’m quite sure you’re going through a crisis of a fairly serious kind. And so are you, otherwise, as you’ve made pretty clear, I don’t think you’d be here.’ He paused for a moment. Winnicott looked unhappy but did not reply.

  ‘I’ve read your account of the dream about the financial collapse. I have to say that such a degree of detail is rare in a patient, indeed in anyone. In my experience it’s unprecedented.’

  ‘I have an eidetic memory,’ said Winnicott.

  ‘Really?’ said Hendrix. ‘How interesting. I’ve never had a patient with total recall before.’

  ‘Total recall would be an exaggeration. When I was younger I used to be able to keep details in my head for a considerable period of time. Now I have to write them down within a week or so or they just go.’

  ‘Still,’ said Hendrix, ‘a useful talent.’

  ‘Not as much as you’d think. Forgetting has its uses.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask why you chose to come to me?’

  ‘My goddaughter was a patient of yours and she spoke very highly of you. Maria Vaughan. I don’t know if I should say that . . . you know, patient confidentiality.’

  Hendrix looked troubled. ‘Obviously I can’t discuss her case but there’s no reason not to talk about her in any other context. In fact I had a call about Maria yesterday, from the police. They want to talk to me about her.’ He paused. ‘No sign?’

  ‘No,’ replied Winnicott, ‘nothing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s breaking patient confidentiality to say that I’m surprised by her disappearance. She’d been doing well. I was about to persuade her to stop seeing me, though I don’t think she would have needed much. It’s very odd, to be honest.’

  ‘I think she’ll turn up eventually. She’s vanished before.’

  Hendrix could see that Winnicott did not want to discuss the girl’s disappearance further. He changed the subject. ‘Given your scepticism, I’m wondering what made you decide to come to me for help.’

  Hendrix noticed the brief look of evasive unease that passed over Winnicott’s face.

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious. I’d collapsed three times in less than ten days. Although I’d had a bad bang on the head, the hospital tests said there was nothing physically wrong with me. I had to do something.’ Winnicott looked up defiantly. ‘Though I have to say it’s not entirely unknown for hospitals to fail to identify a physical ailment, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Hendrix reasonably. ‘Did anything else happen to change your mind?’

  Winnicott looked at him, thought Hendrix, rather in the way a young child looks at an adult on being accused of taking a chocolate biscuit without asking. Sounding tired and afraid Winnicott said, ‘When I go out in the street . . . I think someone is watching me . . . following me.’

  Hendrix was taken aback by this. Winnicott stared at the carpet, miserable with shame.

  ‘Have you seen this person following you?’

  Winnicott’s eyes narrowed with irritation. ‘If I’d seen them there wouldn’t be a problem. Someone would be following me.’

  Hendrix was confused briefly, then remembered. ‘Oh, yes, I was forgetting about your past life. Why couldn’t it be the IRA, or a criminal from the past?’

  ‘It could be. But I’ve seen nothing. I can just sense it . . . very strongly but not all the time, only now and again.’

  ‘Tell me what you feel on these occasions.’

  Winnicott seemed to sag into the chair. ‘This person . . . this person hates me.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not being followed?’

  Winnicott sighed. ‘When I was head of the Anti-Terrorist Squad I was sometimes trailed by people from various undercover services. It was an exercise . . . making us aware of the possibility . . . what to look for. During three years I was followed for twenty-four hours on several occasions. I never saw a thing. I never felt a thing.’

  Hendrix waited, but Winnicott stayed silent.

  ‘Tell me about what you feel when
you’re being watched.’

  There was a long pause. ‘This . . . person . . . I feel hatred and anger. It sweeps over me . . . strong.’

  ‘Is it someone you think you might know?’

  ‘No.’

  Again there was a silence.

  ‘I have the feeling you’re not being entirely open, Mr Winnicott, and I think you know you must. What do you know about the person watching you?’

  There was a long silence. For almost a minute neither of the men said anything: Hendrix looked at Winnicott, Winnicott looked at the floor. Eventually he gave in and told the truth. But not the whole truth. Far from it.

  ‘It’s a woman.’

  INITIAL PSYCHIATRIC ASSESSMENT. SUBJECT GEORGE WINNICOTT. Pg 4 of 4