by Miriam Toews
Elf smiled. Curious, she said.
Hm, well, Claudio pressed on, I look down at the man who is just sitting there on the riverbank staring at the water, at the sky, at the things around him. He’s holding a can of beer. Then he gets up and picks up an empty bottle lying next to him and walks down one cement stair that goes right into the river, the bottom of his pants are getting wet, and he looks around as if he’s making sure nobody is watching. I thought he was going to jump in and drown himself, but he didn’t go any farther. He leaned over and filled the bottle with some of the river water. Then he went back and sat down again, where he was. I was so relieved. My heart was pounding while I was watching all this from the bridge. But then I thought, oh dear, he’s going to drink the river water—but he doesn’t. He simply sits there for a while, with his beer can and the bottle with the river water, and stares some more. Then slowly he takes the bottle and pours a little bit of it into his beer can. And then he drinks from the beer can. I was watching this and I thought, how awful, don’t drink it. Of course he did, and for whatever reason it upset me deeply and I wanted to get out of Budapest.
He drank the river water? said Elf.
Yes, he added the dirty river water to his beer to make it last longer, Claudio said.
And you thought that was pathetic? said Elf.
Yes, just terribly sad.
He could have drowned himself instead, I said. Do you think that would have been better?
Of course not, but I certainly didn’t want him to have to drink river water.
Well, said Elf, I guess he made—
Yeah, a choice, I said. I get it. I think that he shouldn’t have had to make that choice.
I don’t want to drink the river water, said Elf.
I’d rather drink the river water than drown in it, I said.
I understand that, said Elf.
So you’re saying you have pride and I don’t and that a person with deep character, integrity, all that, would absolutely throw himself in before he resorted to drinking river water? What about the courage you need to understand and accept that you need the beer and you have to make it last longer? What about the grace you require in order to accept the gift of life?
Claudio apologized and said he hadn’t meant to upset us, it was only something he saw.
Elf said she had let everyone down.
Not at all, said Claudio. All the musicians already have other, what do you say, gigs and everyone sends you their love … Antanas, and Otto and Ekko and Bridget and Friedrich.
How is Friedrich?
Oh, the same, trouble with women, money … Claudio laughed but looked stricken.
Is everybody very upset with me?
Of course not! I’m taking care of everything, Elfrieda. You needn’t give it another thought. We’ve got insurance for these things, as you know, it’s nothing more than a small inconvenience, and one that is of no real concern in the grand scheme of things. He made a gesture. Pfft. Non è niente. He offered a few more reassurances and then said he had better go. He had to get back to the airport. When he leant to kiss Elfrieda on two cheeks she grabbed him for a hug.
I’ll walk you out, I said.
Ciao, Claudio, Elf said, and it sounded like a sob. Ciao, ciao.
Claudio and I stood in the hallway next to a large canvas sack filled halfway with bloody sheets.
Let’s walk a bit? I said. He put his arm around my shoulder briefly and asked me how I was, really.
Oh, don’t ask, I said. I’ll cry. But thanks. How are you? Let’s go down to the main floor.
Well, considering … I’m so sorry, Yolandi, I’m just sick over this.
Yeah … She’ll probably be okay, I said. I mean not for the tour but—
No, I suppose not, said Claudio. What a shame. I mean for her, for everybody.
Yeah.
Anyway, Yolandi, you needn’t bother yourself with it. As you know, Elfrieda and I have been through many trials and it is to be expected. It’s nothing.
Sì. Va bene.
Ah, you would like to speak Italian?
No. I mean yes, but …
No, no, I understand, he said.
We walked slowly past doors with numbers on them. In one doorway an old woman in a nightgown stood clutching a large round clock. She had a green handbag wedged under one arm. What time is it? she asked us.
I’m sorry? said Claudio.
What time is it? she said. She showed us her clock.
It’s nearly half past four, said Claudio.
What? she said. What?
It’s four-thirty, I said.
It’s four-thirty? she said. It’s four-thirty!
Yes.
Is this your husband? she asked me. She pointed at Claudio.
No, I said.
Your father?
No.
Your brother?
No, I said. He’s my friend. Claudio introduced himself and held his hand out to shake hers but she was holding the clock tightly with both hands so couldn’t follow through.
You better not be thinking of stealing my purse, she said. She backed away from us into the shadows of her room.
No, no, of course not, said Claudio. I took his arm and pulled him gently away from the woman.
My house key is in this bag! we heard her yell. She had come back into the hallway. She was still holding the clock. Claudio and I turned around, nodded and smiled, and then kept walking. A nurse told her to hush, Milly, hush.
She’s never going back home, I told Claudio.
No? Why not? he said.
Because it’s been sold, I said. Her nephew told me. From here she’ll go to a nursing home.
But she keeps the key to her house, said Claudio.
It’s the only thing in her bag, I said. She never lets go of it, or the clock, even when she’s sleeping.
Yoli, said Claudio. We will find a replacement for those last concerts, there’s still time. Please tell Elfrieda, again, not to worry about anything. Nothing at all. Claudio stopped walking and put his hands on my shoulders and told me he was sorry. Yolandi, he said, your sister is a rare individual. She is like no other person I’ve ever known. You must keep her alive. You must try everything. Everything.
I … yeah, I will … we are … Claudio was wiping tears from his eyes. I patted his shoulder. It’s okay … she’ll be okay, I said. I really think she’ll be okay. I smiled hard.
Claudio hugged me. He said he had to run, he had a car waiting outside, but we’d meet again. His cellphone rang. Arrivederci, Claudio, I said. And thanks, thank you, grazie for the beautiful flowers.
When I came back into the room, Elf said, I know. Don’t be mad. And don’t preach, okay? Gift of life. You sounded like an old Mennonite, like what’s his name.
I’m not mad, I said. I am an old Mennonite. So are you. You’re so resentful of everything.
That’s true, said Elf. That’s very true.
Yeah, but of what exactly?
Elf said nothing.
Hey, I said. I had a dream that I was leaving everyone I knew, that everyone I knew and loved had gathered together on a sunny afternoon to wave goodbye to me. I didn’t want to go then, when I saw them all gathered and was reminded of their love, but I had to go.
Elf asked me, Did you see me in that dream? I said yes, of course, you were there too, smiling and waving. Elf asked me if I had ever read Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I said no. This is the first line, she said, and recited it: “Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.”
Okay, I said, interesting. And then how does it go?
Read it yourself, she said. I can’t believe you haven’t read it. Maybe instead of poring over the Hobo Museum newsletter you could revisit an old classic.
I told her that it seemed like we were having some kind of Karate Kid conversation here, was she trying to impart wisdom or something? You’re still lecturing me on what to read, I said. That’s good. Elf told me her throat was sore, she couldn
’t talk anymore. Yeah, okay, sure, I said.
You don’t believe me, she whispered.
Yeah, yeah, of course I do.
We were quiet. Elf drifted in and out of sleep or something resembling sleep. I sat on the chair next to her. I imagined running headlong through the glass walls and shattering them to smithereens. The day before my father died he dreamed that he had somersaulted boyishly through concrete walls. Over and over and over and over and out!
I had my manuscript with me, still in the plastic Safeway bag. I took it out of my bag and wrote A Life Time of Resentment on the cover. Then I crossed that out and wrote A Devotion to Sadness (which according to Chateaubriand in his The Genius of Christianity is “the noblest achievement of civilization” so take that Mennonite busybodies who tell me in sanctimonious singsong and with bland pat-a-cake faces that my father’s suicide was evil) then Smithereens, then Untitled. Then Entitled. Then I crossed it all out and sketched Elf in her bed.
I watched Elf sleep and I watched the nurses scurry around and laugh with each other behind their desk. I knew they couldn’t stand having Elf there, a failed suicide. A nutcase. They were terse with her and no doctor ever came to talk to us. I went to the counter and asked if I could speak to Elf’s psychiatrist. They told me that he had been called away to an emergency. I left the room and went downstairs to find my mother and my aunt and to text Nora in Toronto. I couldn’t find them in the cafeteria and Nora wasn’t texting back. I went back up to Intensive Care and there was Elf’s doctor. He was standing at the nurses’ desk. He was wearing a visor, like a jeweller. He was wearing ankle socks. He was the psychiatrist. I walked over to him and introduced myself and asked him if he had talked with Elfrieda lately.
I tried to, he said, but she wouldn’t speak.
Sometimes she doesn’t, that’s true. But she’s willing to write things down on paper.
I don’t have time for reading while I’m on the job, he said. He smiled and two of the nurses giggled like they were standing next to Elvis in Girls! Girls! Girls!
Yeah, I said. Ha. But I mean—
Look, he said. I’m not interested in passing a notebook back and forth between us and waiting while she scribbles things down. It’s ridiculous.
I know, I said. I understand. It can be laborious but I’m just, I mean, you’re a shrink, right, so you must have seen this sort of thing before?
Of course I understand it, he said, I just don’t have time for it.
No? I ask.
Look, he says, if she wants to get better she’ll have to make an attempt to communicate normally. That’s all I’m saying.
I know, I said, that’s … But she’s a psych patient, right? I mean isn’t she supposed to have some eccentricities? I mean doesn’t she—isn’t it challenging for you? I mean, like, in the field of psychotherapy. Wouldn’t you welcome this opportunity to really apply all of your studies to—
Excuse me, you’re who again? he said.
I told you. I’m her sister. My name’s Yolandi. I honestly believe that her silence is a way of her unfitting herself for the real world, do you know what I mean? You can’t take it personally. It’s her way—
Of course I know what you mean, he said. I’m not sure that I agree with you but of course I understand you. I’m telling you that I don’t have time for a silly game that—
Silly game? I said. Sorry, I said, but did you just call it a silly game?
He was walking away from me. Wait! I said. Wait. Wait, wait. A silly game? The shrink stopped and turned to look at me.
After just one visit with her you’re refusing to help? I said. You’re some kind of esteemed psychiatrist. You’re just fucking dismissing her out of hand right in front of her? My sister is vulnerable. She’s tortured. She’s your patient! She’s begging for help but wants to assert one small vestige of individual power over her life. Surely even a first-year psych student would understand the significance of that stance. Are you not … do you not have any professional curiosity, even? Are you alive or what the fuck?
I’ll have to ask you to keep your voice down, said one of his nurses from behind her bunker. She aimed a semi-automatic machine gun at my head. The shrink spread his legs and folded his arms and stared at me while I ranted. He smiled at the nurse and shrugged and appeared to be enjoying himself, like I was a giant wave he was really looking forward to surfing later in the day after pounding back a pitcher of margaritas with his buddies.
Are you so hostile and impatient and complacent that you won’t even let her communicate with you with words written down on a piece of paper? I said. Why can’t you just do your job? I don’t want to argue but I mean are you honestly telling me that you won’t listen to her?
Listen, said the shrink. You’re not the first family member to take out your frustration on me. Okay? Are you finished? I’m sorry. He walked away, down the hallway and into a room.
Because, I shouted after him, if you won’t help her then who will?
I apologized to the nurses for causing a scene. I’m so angry, I said. I’m so desperate. I’m so terrified. I’m so angry. I don’t know what to do. I repeated these phrases. The nurses nodded and one of them said yes, that’s understandable. Your sister isn’t co-operating and—
I cut her off. I said no, please. Please don’t blame it on my sister. I just can’t bear to hear that right now. She’s not evil. I was whispering. I willed myself not to raise my voice. I can’t take that right now, I said. I didn’t say she was evil, said the nurse, I said she wasn’t— I put my hands up around my head like I was trying on a new pair of headphones. I had lost my mind. I thanked them for their something or other and left Intensive Care.
I walked down six flights of stairs but on the second one my cell rang and I said hello. Hey Yolandi, said the voice on the other end. It’s Joanna. (Somebody from the orchestra.) I just wanted to tell you how very sorry we are about Elfrieda and I’m wondering if there’s anything we can do. I’d like to send something. I just don’t know what. Flowers?
Imagine a psychiatrist sitting down with a broken human being saying, I am here for you, I am committed to your care, I want to make you feel better, I want to return your joy to you, I don’t know how I will do it but I will find out and then I will apply one hundred percent of my abilities, my training, my compassion and my curiosity to your health—to your well-being, to your joy. I am here for you and I will work very hard to help you. I promise. If I fail it will be my failure, not yours. I am the professional. I am the expert. You are experiencing great pain right now and it is my job and my mission to cure you from your pain. I am absolutely committed to your care. (At this point I could hear Joanna saying Yolandi? Yolandi?) I know you are suffering. I know you are afraid. I love you. I want to cure you and I won’t stop trying to help you. You are my patient. I am your doctor. You are my patient. Imagine a doctor phoning you at all hours of the day and night to tell you that he or she had been reading some new stuff on the subject of whatever and was really excited about how it might help you. Imagine a doctor calling you in an important meeting and saying listen, I’m so sorry to bother you but I’ve been thinking really hard about your problems and I’d like to try something completely new. I need to see you immediately! I’m absolutely committed to your care! I think this might help you. I won’t give up on you.
Yolandi? said Joanna. Are you okay?
Sorry, I said, hi. I’m sorry. Sorry.
Are you—
Yeah, flowers. Good, thank you.
ELEVEN
I PHONED MY MOTHER ON HER CELL but there was no answer. I saw an orderly who had once been the lead singer of a local punk band. He was stacking trays and whistling next to a poster that listed the symptoms of Flesh Eating Disease.
I went outside into the sunshine and walked all the way back, along the river, to my mother’s apartment. Well, I tried to walk along the river the whole way but was stopped by a group of young people piling sandbags around an apartment block. The river’s flo
oding again, they said. It was a bit of a party for them. A day off school.
My mother and Aunt Tina weren’t at the apartment but there was a note saying they had gone to East Village to visit Signora Bertolucci, whose real name was Agata Warkentine but who was always referred to, by everyone other than Elf, as Mrs. Ernst Warkentine. Even funeral announcements in East Village omitted the given first name of a woman to ensure she’d forever and ever (and ever and ever) be known only as her husband’s wife. They had taken my aunt’s van. Then I remembered that I had left the car in the underground parking lot and so I walked back, this time not along the river but through the dusty city streets, to the hospital.
I went up to the sixth floor to check on Elf again but Nic was there and they were staring deeply into each other’s eyes and the curtain was half closed and the nurses all pretended not to notice me or were busy calling 911 to get me the hell out of there so I left again and this time went all the way down to the underground parking lot to get the car and drive it back to my mother’s apartment. A part of me had been hoping that maybe the woman I screamed at would have written in the dust on my back windshield that she forgave me but she hadn’t.
My mother and my aunt were still not back from visiting Signora Bertolucci. I googled things on my mom’s laptop. I was trying to find out more about these drugs, Seconal and Nembutal. I scrolled down the various subject headings that Google had for helping people to die. I was worried about cops taking me in for questioning and tracking my history on this computer. I kept googling. I paused for a second when I read: Is it possible to help someone die with magic? And I felt good about myself, proud, when I didn’t click on it. Elf would congratulate me too. Let’s be rational, Yolandi! The phone rang. It was my mother. She was at the hospital. I asked her how Elf was doing. She told me that Elf was having her blood tested. For what? She wasn’t sure. But there was something else. My aunt had fainted.
At the hospital? I asked.
Well, no, she fainted in East Village first, at Mrs. Ernst Warkentine’s, but she came to quickly and I got her to lie down for a while and then she had something to eat and after that she seemed fine again. But now …