Super-Cannes

by J. G. Ballard

  ‘No …’ Doggedly, I said: ‘The furs were there. I touched them with my hands. I saw the robbery take place. Alain Delage and another guest were watching a video taken at the scene.’

  Penrose leaned back in his chair, bare left foot almost touching my knee in a curiously intimate gesture. ‘They filmed their own crime? Isn’t that a little strange?’

  ‘I thought so. But the Cardin robbery was really a kind of sporting event. The film was a record of a successful hunting party. In fact, all the crimes are somehow … recreational.’

  ‘That’s rather good news.’ Penrose chuckled over this. ‘I didn’t know there were any recreations at Eden-Olympia. And the racial crimes?’

  ‘Raiding parties, usually against Arabs and blacks – ratissages, Halder calls them. Action groups drive into La Bocca and Mandelieu. They like to run Maghrebians off the road. Several victims have died, but the Cannes police hush it up.’

  ‘Paul …’ Penrose tried to calm me. ‘Think about it a little. People drive more aggressively through immigrant areas. They’re frightened of being stopped and robbed. Genuine accidents happen, though hating the Arabs doesn’t help. Still, you’ve put together quite a dossier. Have you talked to anyone else?’

  ‘No one. Not even Jane.’

  ‘And Halder? I hear he fainted on the roof of the Siemens car park.’

  ‘He claims he shot Greenwood. He probably did – there are bullet holes in the parapet and a drainpipe caked with blood. Halder can’t cope with the idea that he killed Greenwood.’

  ‘So he wants revenge – it’s a way of shifting the blame.’ Penrose roused himself, his powerful arms straining the leather straps of his chair. ‘All this crime – why do you think it’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t say. It amazes me that people here have the time and energy. They work all hours of the day, and must be exhausted when they get home. Somehow they pull themselves together and organize an armed robbery or beat up some Arabs.’

  ‘Just for kicks?’

  ‘No. That’s the curious thing. None of them look as if they’re having any fun. There’s only one explanation.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘They’re temporarily insane. Something about Eden-Olympia is driving them into brief fits of madness. You’re the psychiatrist. You must know what’s going on.’

  ‘I do.’ Penrose stood up, speaking briskly as he tightened his snakeskin belt. ‘As it happens, I understand exactly.’

  ‘Then come with me to the French authorities. We’ll ask to see the Prefect.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not? There’ll be other violent crimes – you’ll find a murder on your hands.’

  ‘Very likely. But I have to think of the people here. Most of them are my patients.’

  ‘Then why protect them?’

  ‘That’s not the point, Paul.’

  ‘What is the point? Wilder, you can tell me.’

  ‘It’s been under your nose for months.’ Penrose walked around my chair and placed his hands on my shoulders, like a headmaster with a promising but earnest pupil. ‘You’ve come a long way. We’re all very impressed.’

  ‘Wilder … !’ I shrugged off his hands. ‘If I have to, I’ll see the Prefect alone.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be wise.’ He moved towards the door on his bare feet. ‘I’ll explain everything in a moment. There’s an advanced therapy programme you’ll find interesting. You might even want to join us …’

  ‘Wilder, I mean it.’

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t want you to worry.’ He stood by the Alice mirror, smiling with genuine warmth, as if he had just emerged from Carroll’s paradoxical world. ‘The people at Eden-Olympia aren’t mad. Their problem is that they’re too sane …’

  29

  The Therapy Programme

  ELABORATELY WRAPPED IN rice paper, the parcel lay across my lap, emitting the softest breath of rustling fur.

  ‘Is it alive?’ I touched the chrysanthemum-patterned paper. ‘Wilder …?’

  ‘It’s a present for Jane. A token of our thanks to you both. Open it, Paul. It won’t bite.’

  I unfolded the envelope and exposed a lustrous pelt, the fur of some drowsing creature in a Dutch genre painting, every hair as vibrant as an electron track in a cloud chamber.

  ‘It’s a stole, Paul. The best ranch mink, so they say. We thought Jane would like it.’

  A faint scent rose from the fur, the body odours of Japanese models chilled by the Riviera night. I laid the parcel on the coffee table. ‘Thanks, but it’s the last thing she’d wear. Still, you’ve made your point.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘The raid at the Cardin Foundation – the stole was part of the booty. It’s your sly way of telling me you knew about the robbery.’

  Penrose sat facing me, elbows on his heavy knees. He raised his hands, as if to ward off a blow. ‘Paul? You’re trembling. Not with rage, I hope?’

  ‘Just for a moment. I’m tempted to punch you in the face.’

  ‘I understand. I’m not sure how I’d react. You must feel you’ve been …’

  ‘Used? A little.’ The parcel lay against my knee, and I kicked it onto the floor. ‘You knew the Cardin robbery was going to take place.’

  ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘And the other robberies and special actions I’ve spent months tracking down – they’re not exactly a surprise to you?’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘The ratissage in the Rue Valentin? The road-rage attacks in La Bocca? The drug-dealing business run by Professor Berthoud and Olga Carlotti’s teenage vice ring? You knew all about them?’

  ‘Paul, it’s my job. I have to know everything about the people here. How else can I care for them?’

  ‘Does that include David Greenwood? As a matter of interest, why did he go berserk?’

  ‘No …’ Penrose reached out and gripped my shaking hands, releasing them when I sat back. ‘That I can’t explain. We hoped you might tell us.’

  ‘You’ve known everything about Eden-Olympia and done nothing?’ I gestured at the antique mirror. ‘It’s another Alice world – corporate profits are higher than anywhere else in Europe and the people earning them are going mad together.’

  ‘Only in a way …’ Penrose raised his voice, placing a professional distance between us. For the first time I knew that he had always seen me as a patient. ‘Mad, no. Though one or two of them are a little odd.’

  ‘Odd? Their idea of fun is beating some Arab pimp half to death.’

  ‘But there’s nothing vicious in it. You have to understand that these attacks are set tasks, assigned to them as part of a continuing programme of psychotherapy.’

  ‘Assigned by whom?’

  ‘Their case officer. As it happens, myself.’

  ‘You planned the Cardin robbery? The road-rage attacks, the ratissages – they’re all your idea?’

  ‘I plan nothing. I’m merely the doctor in charge.’ Penrose’s eyes had almost closed as he contemplated his responsibilities. ‘The patients decide what form their therapy projects will take. Luckily, they show a high degree of creative flair. It’s a sign we’re on the right course. You don’t realize it, Paul, but the health of Eden-Olympia is under constant threat.’

  ‘And you prescribe the treatment?’

  ‘Exactly. So far it’s been remarkably effective.’

  ‘What is the treatment?’

  ‘In a word? Psychopathy.’

  ‘You’re a psychiatrist, and you’re prescribing madness as a form of therapy?’

  ‘Not in the sense you mean.’ Penrose studied his reflection in the mirror. ‘I mean a controlled and supervised madness. Psychopathy is its own most potent cure, and has been throughout history. At times it grips entire nations in a vast therapeutic spasm. No drug has ever been more potent.’

  ‘In homoeopathic doses? How can they help what’s going on here?’

  ‘Paul, you miss the point. At Eden-Olympia, madness
is the cure, not the cause of the malaise. Our problem is not that too many people are insane, but too few.’

  ‘And you fill the gap – with robberies, rapes and child sex?’

  ‘To a limited extent. The cure sounds drastic, but the malaise is far more crippling. An inability to rest the mind, to find time for reflection and recreation. Small doses of insanity are the only solution. Their own psychopathy is all that can rescue these people.’

  I listened to Penrose’s dreamy voice, addressed as much to the mirror as to myself. Controlling myself, I said: ‘There’s a problem, though. It’s wholly criminal. Who else knows about this?’

  ‘No one. It’s not the sort of breakthrough you can write about in the psychiatric journals. It may seem a rather extreme form of therapy, but it does work. Levels of overall health, resistance to infections … all have markedly improved, at the cost of a few abrasions and the odd case of VD.’

  ‘I can’t believe it…’ I watched Penrose smiling his most benign smile, clearly glad to lay out the truth for me. He ran his fingertips across his teeth, tasting his nail-quicks, a mix of arrogance and insecurity. I thought of David Greenwood, the idealist with the children’s refuge, and at last understood why he wanted to kill Penrose. I asked: ‘Did Greenwood know about this?’

  ‘In general terms. He often sat in that chair while I held forth over our chess games.’

  ‘And he approved?’

  ‘I hope so. Poor man, he had problems of his own.’ Penrose leaned forward and touched my hand, trying to steady my resolve. ‘Paul? You’ve made a decision?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see the British consul in Nice and take his advice. The French authorities need to be told about this.’

  ‘I understand …’ Penrose seemed disappointed in me. ‘But let me fill in the background. If that doesn’t change your mind I won’t stand in your way. Fair enough?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘First, I’m sorry you were so close to the exercise at the Cardin Foundation. Frances Baring has always been a law unto herself.’ Penrose spoke soothingly, and the warring elements in his face, the lax mouth and alert eyes, at last seemed to be synchronized. ‘These robberies and outbreaks of violence – you might think the senior managers at Eden-Olympia are in a state of deep mental deterioration.’

  ‘I do. There’s no doubt about it.’

  ‘In fact, that isn’t the case. By any objective yardsticks, compared with the health of executives in Manhattan, Zurich and Tokyo, the physical and mental well-being of the five hundred most senior people at Eden-Olympia is extremely high. Visit the clinic – it’s virtually empty. Almost no one ever falls ill, though they spend hundreds of hours a year in under-ventilated passenger jets, exposed to God only knows what infections. It’s a great tribute to the architects of Eden-Olympia.’

  ‘I’ve read the brochures.’

  ‘Everything they say is true. However, it wasn’t always so. When I came to Eden-Olympia four years ago it was approaching a crisis. On the surface, all looked well. These huge companies had successfully relocated themselves, and everyone was delighted with the housing and leisure facilities. But below the surface there were some very serious problems. Almost all the senior people were constantly ill with respiratory complaints. They were plagued by bladder infections and abscessed gums. A healthy executive would fly to New York and back, and spend the next week in bed with some opportunist fever. We carried out careful tests of resistance levels and were amazed by how low they were. Yet everyone said they liked Eden-Olympia and enjoyed living here.’

  ‘Were they sincere?’

  ‘Absolutely. There was no malingering, no secret disaffection. Yet chief executives and main-board directors stumbled into work with persistent viral complaints. Worse than that, they all reported a loss of mental energy. Decision-making took longer, and they felt distracted by anxieties they couldn’t identify. Chronic fatigue syndrome haunted the place. We checked the ventilation systems and water supply, we looked into radon emissions from the deep-site work. Nothing.’

  ‘The malaise wasn’t physical – it was all in their minds?’

  ‘Yes … though to be exact, the two had fused.’

  Penrose lay back, his large body relaxed in its leather sling. I could see that he was keen to be frank with me, and confident that he could convert me to his cause. For the first time, a strain of idealism lit his unwavering eyes, a commitment to his patients that went far beyond professional concern. Watching his little smirks and ingratiating grimaces, I knew that nothing would be gained by challenging him. The more freely he spoke, the more he would incriminate himself.

  He smiled at the sun, talking in an almost rueful tone. ‘When I came here, Paul, I thought Eden-Olympia was the anteroom to paradise. A beautiful garden city, everything town-planners have been working towards for centuries. All the old urban nightmares had been dispelled at a stroke.’

  ‘Street crime, traffic congestion …?’

  ‘Minor irritations. The real problems had simply been left out of the blueprint. And that’s a little worrying. Whether we like it or not, Eden-Olympia is the face of the future. Already there are hundreds of business and science parks around the world. Most of us – or at least, most professional people – are going to spend our entire working lives in them. But they all suffer from the same defect.’

  ‘Too much leisure?’

  ‘No. Too much work.’ Penrose flexed his arms, and then allowed them to settle themselves. ‘Work dominates life in Eden-Olympia, and drives out everything else. The dream of a leisure society was the great twentieth-century delusion. Work is the new leisure. Talented and ambitious people work harder than they have ever done, and for longer hours. They find their only fulfilment through work. The men and women running successful companies need to focus their energies on the task in front of them, and for every minute of the day. The last thing they want is recreation.’

  ‘The active mind never needs to rest? That’s hard to accept.’

  ‘It needn’t be. Creative work is its own recreation. If you’re drafting the patent on a new gene or designing a cathedral in São Paulo, why waste time hitting a rubber ball over a net?’

  ‘Your children can do that for you …?’

  ‘Assuming you have any children. Alas, today’s corporate city is superbly talented, adult and virtually childless. Look around you at Eden-Olympia. No leisure activities, no community life or social gatherings. How many parties have you been invited to in the last four months?’

  ‘Hard to remember. Very few.’

  ‘Practically none, if you think back. People at Eden-Olympia have no time for getting drunk together, for infidelities or rows with the girlfriend, no time for adulterous affairs or coveting their neighbours’ wives, no time even for friends. There are no energies to spare for anger, jealousy, racial prejudice and the more mature reflections that follow. There are none of the social tensions that force us to recognize other people’s strengths and weaknesses, our obligations to them or feelings of dependence. At Eden-Olympia there’s no interplay of any kind, none of the emotional trade-offs that give us our sense of who we are.’

  ‘But you like it here.’ I tried to speak jokingly. ‘After all, it is the new paradise. Does it matter?’

  ‘I hope it does.’ Accepting my raillery, Penrose bared his teeth. ‘The social order must hold, especially where elites are involved. Eden-Olympia’s great defect is that there’s no need for personal morality. Thousands of people live and work here without making a single decision about right and wrong. The moral order is engineered into their lives along with the speed limits and the security systems.’

  ‘You sound like Pascal Zander. That’s a police chief’s lament.’

  ‘Paul …’ Penrose raised his hands towards the ceiling, trying to defuse his impatience with me. ‘I take the point – a sense of morality can be a convenient escape route. If the worst comes to the worst, we tell ourselves how guilty we feel and that excuses everything. The m
ore civilized we are, the fewer moral choices we have to make.’

  ‘Exactly. The airline pilot doesn’t wrestle with his conscience over the right landing speed. He follows the manufacturer’s instructions.’

  ‘But part of the mind atrophies. A moral calculus that took thousands of years to develop starts to wither from neglect. Once you dispense with morality the important decisions become a matter of aesthetics. You’ve entered an adolescent world where you define yourself by the kind of trainers you wear. Societies that dispense with the challenged conscience are more vulnerable than they realize. They have no defences against the psychotic who gets into the system and starts working away like a virus, using the sluggish moral machinery against itself.’

  ‘You’re thinking of David Greenwood?’

  ‘He’s a good example.’ Penrose sat up and rubbed at a coffee stain on his white shirt, irritated by the dark smudge. ‘The security people here won’t admit it, but on May 28 they took at least an hour to react coherently, even when they actually heard gunshots. They couldn’t believe that a madman with a rifle was walking into offices and shooting people dead. Their moral perception of evil was so eroded that it failed to warn them of danger. Places like Eden-Olympia are fertile ground for any messiah with a grudge. The Adolf Hitlers and Pol Pots of the future won’t walk out of the desert. They’ll emerge from shopping malls and corporate business parks.’

  ‘Aren’t they the same thing? Eden-Olympia as an air-conditioned Sinai …?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Penrose pointed approvingly at me, the alert student in the front row of the lecture hall. ‘We’re on the same side, Paul. I want people to come together, not divide themselves into separate enclaves. The ultimate gated community is a human being with a closed mind. We’re breeding a new race of deracinated people, internal exiles without human ties but with enormous power. It’s this new class that runs our planet. To be successful enough to work at Eden-Olympia calls for rare qualities of self-restraint and intelligence. These are people who won’t admit to any weakness and won’t allow themselves to fail. When they arrive their health is at a peak, they rarely touch drugs and the glass of wine they have with dinner is a social fossil, like the christening mug and the family silver.’