Murder Duet: A Musical Case

by Batya Gur

  Elroi nodded quickly, as if to stop her from saying anything else. But she went on, as if determined to have her say: “And he was one of the people mainly responsible for formulating the Hypnosis Law. It was he who was responsible for banning hypnosis for entertainment purposes.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Elroi, and he looked at Michael. “But if you intend to use the material afterward as evidence—”

  “I don’t know yet what I intend to do. It depends on what comes up,” said Michael.

  “It can only be done if the right to medical confidentiality is waived,” warned Elroi. “Only if the court obliges the therapist, the hypnotist, to give evidence.”

  “Okay, we’ll see,” said Michael impatiently. “First we have to talk to this Doctor Schumer.”

  “And also to Miss van Gelden herself,” Elroi reminded him.

  “Of course,” said Ruth Mashiah. “It would be impossible without her agreement.”

  Shortly afterward, when he saw the bedroom door in Nita’s apartment closing behind Ruth Mashiah, Michael was filled with unfocused dread. He was afraid that Nita would break down. He was afraid of what Ruth Mashiah would discover, and he was afraid that they would even take her child away from her. Only when she came out and firmly shut the door behind her, giving him an encouraging nod, was he slightly reassured. But then, while Ruth Mashiah was setting it up with the doctor, he imagined Shorer saying to him, quietly but filled with disgust: How could you? Breaking every law in the book and not even bringing it up at the meeting! Not only are you involved with Nita, you don’t know anything about Ruth Mashiah either. She’s a suspect herself! He recalled these unspoken words an hour later, as he turned his face toward Nita, who was standing at the French windows and staring at her son, who gurgled to himself as he made strenuous efforts to remain on all fours in the middle of the carpet. “Nita!” cried Michael. “Did you see? He crawled!”

  She turned to the window and nodded. “I saw it, wonderful,” she said indifferently, shivered, and looked again at Ido. She muttered, as she had been doing for the past hour: “What’s going to happen? What’s going to happen?”

  The sound of running water came from the kitchen. When he peeped inside he saw Sara’s thin, dark arms circling above the sink. In his own arms the baby girl writhed with what had been diagnosed as a stomach ache. He held her with her belly pressed against his shoulder, feeling her spasms, patting her bottom, breathing in the fragrance of her neck. But he was distracted. Ruth Mashiah emerged from the bedroom. “He’ll see her at a quarter past one,” she said with relief. “He understands the urgency of the situation. Will you take her there?” And without waiting for a reply: “I’ll meet you there. I’ve written down the address.” Then she disappeared.

  “Where’s Dalit?” Michael asked Sara, who smiled the same forced white-toothed smile whenever he addressed her.

  “She went with the gentleman,” she said.

  “Where’s your brother?” he asked Nita, who turned slowly toward him, grimaced, and with an effort, as if she’d lost her voice, said: “I suppose I shouldn’t say Am I my brother’s keeper?’ Or maybe I should?”

  “What gentleman did she leave with? Theo?” he asked Sara, and she nodded fervently. “Where did they go?” he asked Nita, who weakly spread out her arms and then dropped them heavily to her sides.

  “I didn’t hear anything. I don’t know anything,” she mumbled.

  He pressed the baby girl to his shoulder. For a moment he was acutely aware of the absurdity of this cozy domestic scene with the two babies, as if all were right with the world. Ruth Mashiah’s words of warning rang in his ears: Don’t say “my baby.” She’s not yours! Now he stood close to Nita, leaned over her, and touched her shoulder: “I’m sure you heard something. Where did they go?”

  “To look for Herzl,” said Nita sleepily. “They left me here with Sara.”

  “Does Balilty know that they’re looking for Herzl?” She didn’t answer.

  In the time left before the appointment with the psychiatrist, he tried to contact Shorer at the hospital.

  “Who are you?” demanded the maternity nurse. “What’s your relationship to the patient?” He gave up and replaced the receiver.

  “I haven’t heard anything,” said Shorer’s secretary, who picked up the phone at the first ring, as if her hand was resting expectantly on the receiver. “Nothing since early this morning. I’ve been here at the phone all day. Please get off the line now, and leave me your number.” Michael looked at the damp spot his hand had left on the receiver. He was suddenly seized by a vague apprehension, bordering on anxiety, about Dalit and her freelance enterprises. He dialed again, trying to locate Balilty. He intended to complain about her disappearance, but nobody knew where to find Balilty. Eli Bahar answered him coolly, almost with hostility, responding vaguely to all his questions. His voice changed only when he asked: “Did you get in touch with Shorer?” Now it was Michael’s turn to answer vaguely. “It’s all been routine,” said Eli Bahar. “The orchestra musicians have been turning up, one after the other. Balilty went to see the pathologist. Then he has to follow up something about the painting. We won’t know more till tomorrow. Just Tzilla and me,” he replied when Michael asked him who was questioning the members of the orchestra.

  Nita’s eyes opened and closed as she sat in the deep armchair across from the swinging medallion. Her body was relaxed and quiet. The lines at the sides of her mouth seemed blurred, and her agonized expression had softened. The doctor warned her several times not to move or utter a sound. They had already been there for hours. When they first arrived, all three of them had been together. Then the doctor had taken Nita into the consulting room. Not a sound from there could be heard in the waiting room, where Michael sat next to Ruth Mashiah, chain smoking. He listened intently, with his head bowed, to her explanations. In her dry, clipped voice, she said: “Hypnosis is based on the principle that no one is ever prepared to give up the wonderful cosmic experience undergone by the mind in the fetal state.”

  “I didn’t know that the fetus had a mind,” muttered Michael, looking up.

  “Of course it has, that’s already been proved,” said Ruth Mashiah. “Now that we have ultrasound, there’s no problem in proving it. We know for certain that at three months the fetus has a mind.”

  “But the term ‘mind’ is problematic. It’s not clear what it means,” said Michael, stubbing out his cigarette, which left a charred black hole in the styrofoam cup.

  “At three months,” said Ruth Mashiah firmly. “Even the Talmudic sages knew this. That’s why they ruled that a dead fetus three months old and older has to be buried. And, for example, when music is played to a woman in the sixth month, the fetus can be seen dancing.”

  “You can see it?” asked Michael, astonished. Ruth Mashiah nodded and asked for a cigarette.

  “What kind of cosmic experience are you talking about?” he asked as he bent to light her cigarette.

  “What?” she asked absently as she inhaled, coughed, and looked at him with surprise.

  “You said that hypnosis was based on—”

  “Ah, yes, you want a detailed explanation. I thought it was obvious.”

  “Well, it’s not,” he said with some irritation, straining to hear what was going on in the other room. There wasn’t a sound to be heard.

  Ruth Mashiah crossed her legs and leaned back in the plastic armchair opposite him. She rubbed her forehead. “I can’t get rid of this headache,” she muttered. “I’ve had it all day. And I haven’t called to find out how Izzy is, either. Is he still at the Russian Compound? We have to think about the funeral arrangements, too. It’s terrible when you think about it. To die like that. For nothing. Do you people take care of the arrangements?” Michael looked at his watch, but she didn’t wait for a reply. “Okay, a cosmic experience is one in which a person has no doubt or question that he is utterly protected. All he has to do is adapt his reflexive reactions to the pressures of his surroundings.
The mature individual undergoing hypnosis receives a big bonus in exchange for being prepared to surrender his will to another. He obtains a pardon in advance for anything connected with conscience or morality—he does what he’s told, and he’s not guilty or responsible for anything.”

  Michael nodded.

  “A hypnotic trance is a state of consciousness in which the subject is not responsible for his actions. All the sensory nerve paths, including sensitivity to pain, that lead to the central nervous system in the brain switch off during hypnosis.”

  “Isn’t the connection between the senses and the center in the brain physiological?” asked Michael, interrupting the didactic stream of words and causing Ruth Mashiah to tilt her head sideways, put her little hand on her face, and press her fingers to her forehead again.

  “Don’t you recognize the unity of mind and body yet?” she asked without mockery. “Don’t you know that the unconscious controls biology? It’s the mind that governs the biological functions. How do you think Indian fakirs lie down on beds of nails? Why don’t they feel pain? The principle is identical with hypnosis. What closes down is the place where the brain receives reports. Hypnosis can enable one to undergo an operation without pain. The nerves respond, but the receiver in the brain is shut off. Do you really not know these things?” she asked with surprise. “I thought that it was obvious to any well-informed person, especially one in your line of work.”

  “I know something about it, but not so clearly,” Michael said, confused. “I didn’t connect the fakirs in India with hypnosis.”

  “That’s why it’s so powerful,” said Ruth Mashiah. “And that’s why it’s impossible to hypnotize anyone, as you sometimes see in the movies, without his express consent. Otherwise the most that happens is that the subject falls asleep. Haven’t you ever tried it?”

  “I don’t think I could,” reflected Michael. “The abandonment . . . the loss of control. I seem to lack the wish for that cosmic experience you talked about,” he said with a conciliatory smile. “I can’t give up my control over what happens to me, not even for the sake of a fetal experience. I prefer responsibility,” he said almost apologetically.

  “It’s not only the surrender of control,” said Ruth Mashiah, looking at him closely. Her slanting eyes narrowed to slits. “Because we’re not talking about mere consent. The subject has to agree, but he also has to be able to trust the hypnotist in order to empower him.”

  Michael was overcome by panic. “She won’t place her trust in him,” he said, looking at the door. “She can’t trust anyone anymore,” he said despairingly.

  “I’m not so sure. She’s got more strength than you think. You shouldn’t think in absolute, romantic terms,” Ruth Mashiah said reassuringly. “Don’t forget that she wants to know, too. We’re dealing with a wish, with a need. An adult doesn’t lose faith in humanity just because of one person. Even if he wanted never to trust anyone again, he would find it difficult to maintain a decision of that kind.” She dragged on her cigarette and emitted a little white puff of smoke, looked at the cigarette, and muttered: “Why am I smoking?” She threw the cigarette into the empty styrofoam cup Michael was holding. Then she took it from his hand, stood up quickly, and filled it with water from the cooler standing in the corner of the waiting room. Her body was youthful and boyish in the loose trouser suit she was wearing, and her movements were light. Suddenly he saw himself holding this body and burying his face in the frizzy little curls. She sat down again opposite him. “The hypnotist must see when the subject’s eyes begin to droop. Then he must pounce.”

  “Pounce,” repeated Michael. He imagined a snake swallowing a rabbit.

  “To seize the moment, to say at the precise time: ‘Your eyes want to close, you want to sleep.’ That’s how the hypnosis begins! Haven’t you ever seen it happen?”

  “I’ve seen it,” said Michael. “I’ve seen it in the movies, and once at the police station. But I never really understood it.”

  At that moment the door opened and Dr. Schumer beckoned to Michael to enter. Ruth Mashiah stood up quickly.

  “Only him,” said the psychiatrist.

  For what seemed like a long time he sat in front of the desk, next to Nita, who looked less tense, as if she were already reassured by the mere possibility of abandoning herself to sure hands that would protect her against herself. Dr. Schumer reported the essence of their conversation to him. In a reserved tone he repeated the facts Nita had given him—and her wish to know the truth. It seemed to Michael that he added the last phrase unwillingly. But there was no explicit sign of this on his expressionless face. Then he mentioned her request that Michael be present during the process. He spoke of what was customary and what was not, mentioned medical confidentiality, and made a remark about the blurring of the boundaries between Michael’s professional involvement and his relationship with Nita.

  “This is very irregular,” he pronounced, and he pressed his lips together. He looked at Nita, who seemed to shrink in her seat. “Why don’t you join Ruth outside for a few minutes, Miss van Gelden?” Michael followed her jerky movements as she stood up and walked toward the door, twisting her fingers around the fabric of her wide, flowered skirt. She slammed the heavy door as if she was not in full control of her movements. Left alone with the doctor, Michael tensed his body as if to repel any attempt to reopen the discussion of ethics, but Dr. Schumer did not press him. Once he said: “I understand that you’re also very close.” Michael repressed the urge to ask what he meant by the “also.” For the most part the psychiatrist spoke about Nita’s fixation on the idea of hypnosis as a kind of redemption.

  “It’s not a solution to real problems,” he warned. “I told her this, and I also explained to her what it’s important for you to know too, that repression is a defense mechanism, and sometimes desirable and necessary. Very difficult things can sometimes surface. I must tell you, too,” he said, clearing his throat, “that I don’t get the impression that she’s suffering from a split personality. Even though she explained to me things she’d seen in an American film I don’t exactly recall. But I do understand very well her fear because of the special, the terrible, circumstances. In any event, it’s important for you to take account. . . .” His voice grew stern and authoritative, his strange, narrow face hard and resolute. Dr. Schumer’s pale eyes were very close together, and his forehead was unusually low, so that his thick hair seemed to be growing right out of it. “If for a single moment her emotional well-being is in the balance against your wish to know, her well-being will come first. The police aspect of the process doesn’t interest me at all, and I refuse to cooperate for that purpose. I want this clearly understood. All right?”

  Michael nodded.

  “You’ll see for yourself if anything too problematic comes up. If such material was initially registered by Nita’s consciousness as forbidden to remember, she could react with signs of distress, because hypnosis can lead to strong inner conflict. It can lead to severe hysteria or even psychosis. I’m telling you in advance: In that case I’ll break off immediately. I’m not prepared to put her at risk. Or myself. It’s a very dangerous business, suddenly to bring up repressed material. Do you understand?”

  Michael nodded.

  “She asked for you to be present while I hypnotize her. It might not be a bad idea, because you can help me with the questions. After all, I know very little about the circumstances or about her.”

  Michael nodded.

  “And most important, at least until she goes into a deep trance, is that you remain absolutely silent,” he said when he stood, holding the door handle. “Your presence must not give rise to any stimuli at all. Surely you understand that.” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and asked Nita to come back in.

  Now she sat in the deep armchair, her eyes closed. The room was absolutely quiet. Michael watched the arm in the white sleeve putting the medallion down on the corner of the heavy desk. He saw the expression of relaxation spreading
over Nita’s face. Her mouth was slightly parted, and the lines of anguish slowly melted from her features. Even though he was taut as a bow, even though he had deliberately avoided following the movement of the gleaming medallion, the thought crossed his mind, and after it the wish, that the doctor’s instructions had worked on him, too. Maybe he too was hypnotized, put under a spell without knowing it. Dr. Schumer sat down in the chair in front of Nita and told her to open her eyes. Michael remained standing, leaning against the wall and looking at her open eyes. Now their color was dark gray. They looked like deep lakes. She seemed so completely awake, he found it difficult to believe that she was sleeping. The doctor repeated a few times: “You feel comfortable, safe.” Her arms lay limply on the wooden arms of the heavy armchair.

  “You’re at the rehearsal for the concert,” said the hypnotist. “The beginning of the Brahms Double Concerto. You’re about to start playing.”

  Nita smiled. A big, radiant smile, blurring the dark borders around her gray eyes. Suddenly they shone. She parted her legs, and a few seconds passed before Michael realized that she was holding an imaginary cello between them.

  “Theo stops you for the first time,” said the psychiatrist after glancing at the sheet on which he had noted the course of events, according to Michael’s reconstruction.

  She removed her hand from the imaginary cello and held it as if she were holding the bow. “How many times does he stop you?” asked Dr. Schumer.

  “Lots.” She giggled. “He’s arguing with everybody. With Gabi too. About the tempo. As always.” She smiled.

  “Do you like it when they argue?” asked the doctor.

  “No.” She shuddered. “I hate it!”

  “But there’s something enjoyable about it, too.”

  “We’re working together. All three of us. As we used to. We’re making music,” said Nita, and again her face glowed. “We’re playing. As we used to. The arguments aren’t important. They’re part of our work.” Suddenly her lips twisted, and tears flooded her eyes. “Father’s dead,” she said and uttered a tearful sob. She wiped her eyes with her fists and sniffled.