The Tragic Fate of Moritz Toth

by Dana Todorovic

  These words had a therapeutic effect on Ezekiel. His heartbeat slowed down, and he joined the man in black in reciting the text.

  ‘Nine is the number of spiritual gifts and the number of months that Jesus spent in the womb …’

  Through a synchronized whisper they repeated the text several times until Ezekiel entered a state similar to the one he was in when he was circling around those same numbers in the street a few weeks previously. His healthy eye rolled back in its socket, and his jaw hung open.

  The behaviour that had once seemed so appalling to me I was now, suddenly, seeing in a completely different light. A wave of soothing warmth penetrated my every cell, and our indivisible entity became as light as a petal floating on water. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the sound of waves melodiously crashing against the shore.

  ‘Ezekiel is your name … I know it …’ I uttered.

  ‘If you’d just allow me to explain, you would see that I have nothing but good intentions,’ said the man in black. ‘But first I would kindly like to ask you to let him go. The poor man is unwell, and all this could cause great harm to his nervous system. Allow me to handle him. You may even keep me at gunpoint the entire time if you so desire. Just allow me to help the man.’

  When he said ‘gunpoint’ I suddenly remembered the crucial role the gun was supposed to play in this encounter. I looked down and noticed that my left hand was still tightly clutching Ezekiel, while my right hand was hanging by my side, as my steel companion – asleep like a hibernating beast – was unintentionally pulling it downwards.

  Although I was in no mood to think about defeats, the prospect of victory was no longer bringing me consolation. I asked myself what kind of colossal force I was battling against. Was it against a force whose destructive power was concealed in a feeble shell of an old man? Was it against this other man who was speaking words of compassion while secretly flicking his tongue like a snake? I was no longer sure. I loosened the noose around Ezekiel and remained motionless.

  The man in black took hold of Ezekiel and led him towards the bed, leaving me with a sad sense of emptiness. He instructed him to sit down.

  ‘I would like to soak the kitchen rag in cold water,’ he said politely. I saw no reason left for me to refuse his request. He walked over to the sink, soaked the rag in water and placed it on Ezekiel’s forehead. He then sat beside him and began to speak.

  ‘It’s over, Szilveszter. Don’t be afraid. Just take a few deep breaths, lean your head on the pillow and try to conjure up in your mind that beautiful hiding place where only you and Tibor are allowed to set foot. If you feel like dozing off, go ahead and do so. Don’t fight it. Just go ahead and doze off, Szilveszter …’

  My understanding of their relationship underwent a radical transformation as I watched this moving scene. With each word from the man in black, Ezekiel – whose bony ankles dangled from the edge of the bed – seemed closer in his mind to his idyllic refuge. When his head finally dropped to the side, the man in black turned towards me and released a long, exasperated sigh. He spoke through a whisper, considerate of Ezekiel who, in a semi-conscious state, was exploring his idyllic setting. The man in black was careful not to disrupt his peace.

  ‘I was afraid that a misunderstanding such as this would arise. I had an inkling, and I had every intention of introducing myself to you and clearing things up. However, certain unexpected events imposed themselves on me, and it was as though all the forces of the universe had united to prevent it from happening.’

  I could feel my mouth curl into an ironic sneer, for this was a feeling with which I was very familiar.

  Following a lengthy pause, the man in black continued to address me in a particularly disarming tone, making him seem smaller in stature.

  ‘My name is József Varga. I am Head of the Unit for Psychosomatic Disorders at the Ladislas Meduna Psychiatric Institute, and Szilveszter Szabó is my patient of many years.’ The doctor’s words were coloured by sentiments of inclination towards his patient. As much as he tried to mask these emotions by putting on a collected front, he simply was unable to appear convincing. ‘Szilveszter suffers from a type of obsessive-compulsive disorder. In fact, it can be safely said that most people experience mild symptoms of this disorder through minor compulsive rituals induced by superstition, like knocking on wood to prevent bad luck or habitually checking the stove before leaving the house … ’ The doctor smiled as he attempted to introduce a degree of lightheartedness into the conversation, but he quickly reassumed a professional demeanour.

  ‘In the majority of patients, the disorder manifests itself through mild symptoms which, for the most part, cognitive behavioural therapy can keep under control. Nevertheless, we occasionally encounter a more complicated form of this condition accompanied by a complex set of symptoms, as is the case with Szilveszter.’

  For a brief moment I turned my attention to Ezekiel, whose trance-like gaze was still wandering around the room.

  ‘Szilveszter, being a highly sensitive individual, falls into the anxious-personality category, and as far as I was able to conclude based on his medical history, his life has always been burdened with mild psychological issues of one sort or another. However … ’ here the doctor took another short pause to choose his words with care ‘… Szilveszter’s condition began to deteriorate when he suffered a tragic loss – the loss of his son.’

  Although my need to look at Ezekiel had grown even more intense, by this point I did not dare.

  ‘As you may have already concluded,’ said the doctor, motioning with his head towards the metal plate on the wall, ‘his obsession is a numeric one. His conviction, rooted in the religious symbolism of numbers, is that certain numbers bring good luck and others bad, and he feels a compelling need to focus his attention on the so-called favourable numbers in order to keep his anxiety at bay. As bizarre as it may sound to us as observers, this numerical fascination is one of the most frequent obsessions associated with this disorder.

  ‘Other than a chemical imbalance in the brain, any stress-provoking situation may trigger the disorder, such as a career change, divorce or, in certain cases, a serious tragedy such as the loss of a loved one. It is somewhat more difficult, however, to establish the reasons why a patient harbours one type of obsession rather than another as well as the factors – whether genetic or environmental – that determine this. Psychoanalysis is still a fairly novel method, discovered at the end of the nineteenth century, and, given that the human psyche is a complex phenomenon, experts still have a long way to go before they discover all of its secrets.

  ‘My psychiatric team, consisting of five doctors, has been struggling for a number of years to understand Szilveszter’s case. Keep in mind that psychiatry is hardly an exact science. Finding the appropriate therapy for each patient requires a degree of experimentation and a considerable amount of patience.

  ‘The severity of Szilveszter’s illness would vary in a way that was impossible to predict. The winter months went by without major episodes, giving us reason to believe that his condition was finally stabilizing … until one morning construction work had caused him to walk through the small street where you live, at which time he noticed something that has been causing havoc in his mind ever since.

  ‘It happened very early, as the first blush of morning rose over the town – so he explained. As part of his morning routine, Szilveszter would visit the local bakery to pick up a loaf of freshly baked bread. However, since construction work had begun on that day or perhaps the day before – he couldn’t be quite sure – when he arrived at the main intersection he was greeted by a state of absolute chaos. Workers were arriving from all directions, and some were already setting up restricted-access signs and building-work warnings. When he realized that the street leading to the bakery was also closed off, he decided to take an alternate route and continued through your narrow street, which was still relatively unobstructed.

  ‘No more than a minute or so into his walk,
Szilveszter caught sight of Imre the postman approaching from the opposite direction on his bicycle making his morning rounds. Just as they had nodded their heads to greet each other, the postman abruptly veered off his path in an attempt to circumvent a rather large egg-shaped pebble and, having lost control of the bicycle, darted towards the hydraulic digger that was passing by number fourteen. This caused the driver of the hydraulic digger also to veer off his route in order to prevent a tragic outcome of events and to drive the digger bucket into the adjacent building at number sixteen – the building in which you live – knocking down the plate with the street number. While contemplating the sequence of events later that day, Szilveszter considered it peculiar that he himself had walked on that same path only a few moments earlier without having noticed the large, perfectly shaped, egg-like pebble similar to those that can be found near the sea, which was why he could have sworn that the pebble had miraculously appeared there for no other reason than to steer the postman in the wrong direction.

  ‘The incident caused a commotion at the building site. A young man of no more than eighteen was operating the hydraulic digger, and the older construction workers – evidently superior to him in authority – kept waving their arms melodramatically and shouting at the poor fellow as he blushed in shame. However, the awkwardness of the moment brought on by a superficial disagreement was, in actual fact, incomparable to the awkwardness and discomfort that Szilveszter was experiencing internally. Although the workers quickly reattached the metal plate to the façade, what had caught Szilveszter’s eye the instant the plate fell to the ground was something he could not easily forget.

  ‘To his horror, when the plate with the number sixteen fell off, it revealed the old number that had stood in its place since heaven knows when: the number sixty-six. Given that the building in question was a block of flats rather than a private residence, Szilveszter was well aware that where there were two sixes, there had to be a third one lurking in close proximity, so he took on the task of discovering the identity of the cursed tenant in flat number six, and it was then that this entire nightmare actually began.’

  On hearing the word ‘cursed’, I recalled the ominous message about the curse which the Birdman held up for me the time I saw him standing at the window, and once again I felt a cold chill run down my spine.

  ‘But what about the name, Ezekiel?’ I was crouching by now, and the cold wall on which I was leaning was cooling the remains of the sweat that poured down my back.

  ‘As I already mentioned, Szilveszter suffers from a complex form of this disorder, characterized by what psychiatrists sometimes refer to as hyper-scrupulosity. Hyper-scrupulous patients fear that a failure to satisfy their compulsions would lead to a tragic outcome, most typically to the detriment of other people rather than the patients themselves. They tend to assign themselves too profound a role in the fate of others, assuming an unrealistic – or should I say saintly? – responsibility. As unbelievable as it may sound, Szilveszter was trying to protect you from what is considered the mark of the Devil with numbers he sees as bearers of good luck. As for the name, the prophet Ezekiel was often labelled as having a psychotic personality due to his unconventional behaviour and bizarre rituals – a man of God with strange habits. Ezekiel is the nickname I once jokingly gave him.’

  Dr Varga’s facial expression seemed to soften as he glanced over at his patient, after which he continued in an academic tone. ‘Now that we have covered the behavioural manifestations of the disease, the question that imposes itself upon us is the unavoidable question of cause – where does it all come from? This question has always been a source of great interest to interns at our Institute, although eventually a man of my profession can grow quite tired of it. It seems like with each discovery I make, new ambiguities begin to emerge, reminding me time and again of the complexity of the human psyche and reconfirming my fear that I am unfit to provide a satisfactory answer to this question. Regardless of what is hiding behind Szilveszter’s obsession – be it an attempt to redeem himself for a past event which he believes to be his fault or the desire to prevent a similar event from reoccurring – the perception of control unquestionably plays a major role.

  ‘Obsessive-compulsive deeds and rituals often provide the patient with a false sense of control, which is why one type of obsession – particularly if not addressed on time – may also provoke other types. They range from the most benign forms, such as compulsive cleaning or washing of the hands, to those that are far more complex, like compulsions around religious symbolism.’

  The doctor surrendered to a lengthy pause. The silence between us granted me enough time to make a connection between the obsessive cleaning he mentioned and the peroxide, turning the unknown into a known factor in an equation that only a few minutes earlier I foolishly thought I had long solved.

  He then stooped beside me and continued to speak in a subdued, conspiratorial voice, as if letting me in on a big secret. ‘Szilveszter’s son was born on 1 September 1973,’ he said, indicating with his gaze the metal plate with the same numbers. ‘I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I can’t help but wonder why he holds those specific numbers in such high regard. Could it be that by repeating them he is commemorating his son?’

  The doctor turned towards his patient, and, seeing that he was awake and aware, he started towards him.

  ‘Recently the situation started to get out of hand, so I decided to take radical therapeutic measures. I supplied him with several-days’-worth of food and other basic necessities, strictly forbade him to leave the house and warned him that as Head of the Unit I would make sure that he be denied further medical support from the Institute should he violate the prohibition. However, earlier this evening I received an alarming phone call from him. He was crying into the receiver, saying that he could no longer bear being in the house and threatening to end his misery by turning up the gas stove if he weren’t allowed to go outside and find you. I immediately rushed over here. Out of pure desperation – no longer knowing from which angle to approach the problem – on my way over here I removed from your building the plate with the street number so as to reveal the two sixes and brought it to him as proof that you were indeed left to the mercy of chance.’

  I don’t recall ever having felt like such a fool. Nevertheless, I gathered the courage to approach the bed where they were sitting. I withdrew the linen handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to Szilveszter. By this time I had enough experience with the man to know that he was looking at me, but instead of the expected polarity between his two eyes, his gaze revealed to me something that extended beyond this observation, a new quality that gave warmth and harmony to his expression. What I observed was, in fact, a growing curiosity towards me, as though a mask had been lifted from my face, allowing him to see me for the very first time. I imagined that I was now looking at him in the same way.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said as he took the handkerchief from me, and this was the first time that I had heard him speak. He hung his head and stared at the handkerchief, gliding his fingertips over the fine embroidery, which was when I seized the opportunity to withdraw quietly with my steel companion, leaving the door open behind me.

  The young trainee handed the Presiding Officer the sealed Penalty Decision on behalf of the Disciplinary Committee. When the trainee returned to his seat, the Presiding Officer waited for a formal silence to reign in every corner of Chamber C before he unsealed the Decision and addressed the defendant.

  ‘Are you ready to hear the sentence for the offence you committed, Mr Keller?’

  Tobias responded affirmatively, although he could not quite agree with the Presiding Officer’s choice of words, for it seemed to him that a state of readiness implied a degree of inner strength which he knew he lacked.

  ‘The Disciplinary Committee’, read the Presiding Officer, ‘has the honour of informing all persons here present that in the proceedings against Tobias Keller, held in Chamber C of the Second Wing, i
t has examined all the facts established over the past two days, has compared the particulars of the act committed with the elements of the offence with which the defendant is charged and, based on this comparison, it has reached a final decision on the sentence. After synchronizing the opinions of its individual members, the Disciplinary Committee also concluded that even though under different circumstances the defendant’s insistence on his principles and the transparency with which he committed the offence might be considered virtuous, the Regulations are there to be respected, which is why the Disciplinary Committee believes that it would be neglecting its duties if it were to reduce the penalty envisaged by the regulations for this offence. Thus, based on the irrefutable facts which clearly point to a violation of the Causal Authority Regulations and which are listed on the second page of this sentence, but also in view of the obscure relationship which has been proven to exist between the defendant and the Great Overseer, the Disciplinary Committee, comprised of its two distinguished members, has reached the conclusion that the defendant Tobias Keller does not satisfy the criteria for the position of adviser and thus imposes upon him the legal penalty of removal from his official position.’

  Tobias had waited like a cocked gun for the final part of the sentence, and it was not until a few moments later that he caught on to the fact that the Committee comprised only two members. In fact, it was a mere coincidence that he registered it at all, because had Tobias’s gaze not casually drifted to that supposed third member of the Committee – whose face was illuminated with sunlight filtered through the small high window – and had he not observed that the gentleman’s eyes were already peacefully resting upon him, Tobias would never have questioned his own sanity nor would he have wondered whether the curious appearance of the stranger – an appearance that was memorable yet difficult to describe – could explain the uncanny sense of familiarity Tobias had felt towards him from the very beginning. As he deliberated on this further, he came to realize that during the entire course of the proceedings he could not recall any form of communication or interaction between the man in question and the others involved, and it was then that the identity of the stranger suddenly dawned on him.