The Bellwether Revivals

by Benjamin Wood

  ‘Wait, we’re back on free will again?’ Jane said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look over my notes from last time.’ She had a knack for diffusing the tension in a room. Oscar could see what the others liked about her: she was self-deprecating, constantly downplaying her intelligence and positioning herself as the slowest member of the group, when she might well have been the brightest of them all. She had a sense of humour that seemed naïve, but he recognised it as something more than that. It was her way of forging her own identity within the group: an endearing, calculated dumbness.

  They sipped their brandy as Eden walked across to the piano and set the article under a vase of orange lilies. He sat down at the keys and began to play the sober chords of the funeral march. Everybody laughed, apart from Theo, who just gave a restrained smile.

  ‘Why don’t you play something for us, dear?’ Mrs Bellwether called out.

  Eden seemed thrilled to be asked. ‘Yes. Sure. What would you like to hear?’

  ‘Anything you want to play is fine with me.’

  ‘Alright.’ Eden began to play a slow, melodious tune. The chords were soft and simple as a lullaby.

  ‘What is that? Chopin?’

  ‘It’s Schumann,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Did you know,’ Eden called out over the music, his fingers still working the keys, ‘that Schumann had Manic Depression?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was quite doolally with it near the end. Ended up throwing himself into the Rhine.’

  ‘This is one of his later works, isn’t it?’ Marcus said.

  Eden nodded slowly. The gentle tenor of the piano idled through the room. ‘The Geister Variations. When he wrote this, he thought he was being guided by the voices of dead composers. I’m sure Theo wouldn’t have any patience for old Schumann whatsoever.’

  ‘Sshh,’ Theo said. ‘It’s poor manners to talk while you’re playing.’

  Eden closed his eyes. The soft, sparse chords seemed to roll on forever.

  When he finished, there was a thin smattering of applause, led by his mother. ‘Oh, Edie, I do miss that sound. I remember a time when it was all anyone could hear in this house, morning, noon, and night. It was like living at Carnegie Hall. Now we come down for breakfast—don’t we, Theo?—and we say to each other, it’s so quiet.’

  ‘What about Iris?’ Oscar said.

  Mrs Bellwether cornered her eyes at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Didn’t you ever hear Iris playing her cello?’

  ‘Yes, of course we did.’ The skin on her chest became radishy; she fingered her locket. ‘I meant Iris too. You could always hear her out in the garden, playing something or other. She’s always played very nicely.’

  ‘Like a young Eva Janzer,’ Theo added. ‘I’ve always said that.’

  ‘But music’s never really been her passion, not like it is for Eden. Iris has more important things to focus on than the cello. She’s always wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps, haven’t you, darling?’

  Iris just nodded. When all eyes were turned away, she gave Oscar a small kiss on the temple, and squeezed his knee, as if to say, ‘Thanks for trying.’ He was glad to be that person for her, the voice who pleaded her case in runaway discussions.

  ‘So why don’t you come to the chapel any more?’ Eden asked his parents. ‘You haven’t been to a service all year.’

  His mother looked at Theo, then answered: ‘You know we try to get out there as much as we can, dear. But it’s always so busy on Sundays.’

  ‘Weekends are tricky for us,’ Theo said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Plus, there’s the parking in town midweek. Around King’s especially. So many tourists.’

  ‘Your mother prefers St Andrew’s these days. Much more convenient, and the new minister is quite entertaining. He has a way with a sermon.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Eden said. ‘It’s just that you said you’d come when you could.’

  ‘And we haven’t been able to, son. That’s all there is to it.’

  Mrs Bellwether sat up very straight. She looked at Oscar as if he were one of her abstract paintings that she was training her eyes to appreciate. ‘Will you be staying over, Oscar? There’s plenty of space for you boys in the organ house. Jane can stay with Iris in the rectory.’

  ‘No, Mum, we’re driving back,’ Iris told her. ‘I have to go to the library first thing.’

  ‘You can drive there in the morning, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but, I don’t think Oscar—’

  ‘Of course. He must have to be at work early.’

  ‘Actually, tomorrow is my day off,’ Oscar said. ‘I’d be happy to stay.’

  ‘Well, that settles it.’

  ‘Are we calling it an evening already?’ Theo said, looking at his watch. ‘I suppose it is quite late.’ He downed the last of his brandy with a murmur.

  Marcus and Yin both declined the offer to stay over. There was unfinished work that couldn’t wait another day. ‘We’ve got a gruelling all-nighter planned,’ Yin said. ‘Too many distractions here.’ They bantered playfully with Mrs Bellwether for a while, until she agreed it would be better to let them leave. In the atrium, they said their goodbyes, donned jackets and scarves, and headed for Yin’s BMW.

  ‘Will you show Oscar to the guesthouse, Eden?’ Mrs Bellwether said, stepping tiredly upstairs. ‘Your father’s just about ready to fall asleep. And I have early appointments tomorrow.’

  The Bellwethers said goodnight. After they retired to bed, the house seemed quiet and cavernous, and Oscar was starting to feel flushed with the afterglow of brandy.

  ‘Suivez-moi,’ Eden said, and led the way through the empty kitchen. The caterers had left the dishwasher whirring and the leftovers foiled up on the counter. Eden flicked a switch on the wall, dousing the back garden with a gentle blue haze. The lawn stretched out, long and shapeless, disappearing into ivy-coated trees and rampant hedges. Oscar could just make out the quiet bend of the river, where tall grass and thistles swayed; a wooden punt lay upturned on the bank, sleek in the moonlight. Just before the water, set off amid a tiny patch of woodland, there was a limestone building. It was a peculiar shape: oblong but with a glass roof that rose acutely from one side. Another, simpler building was connected to it, with a sheltered porch made of polished wooden beams.

  They went along a brick path, between flowerbeds and cherry trees. Iris breathed in the night air contentedly, holding Oscar’s arm. Jane and Eden walked ahead of them, muttering to each other, keeping their hands by their sides.

  When they reached the doorway of the first building, Eden stopped. ‘Look, I think we need to get one thing straight here. I don’t see any reason why Oscar and I have to bunk together, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Iris said.

  ‘Right then. I’ll stay with Jane in the organ house, and you both have the rectory.’

  ‘Won’t your parents mind?’ Oscar said.

  ‘Of course they’ll mind,’ Eden said. ‘But there’s no reason they should find out. Besides, it’s about time they woke up and smelled the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Fine by us. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before,’ Iris said. She drew Oscar closer and kissed him on the lips.

  Eden rolled his eyes. He unlocked the door to the smaller building—the rectory—reaching in to turn on the lights. Then he spun round and handed the key to Oscar. ‘Do be gentle with her. She lost her virginity in that bed, you know.’

  ‘Eden,’ Jane said. ‘That’s no way to talk about your sister.’

  ‘I was kidding. She knows I was kidding.’

  ‘Lucky for him,’ Iris said, giving Jane an uncomfortable smile.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ Oscar said.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Eden replied. ‘Remember, the walls are thin.’

  ‘Shut up, Edie.’ Jane dragged him away. They walked around to the other side of the building, vanishing into darkness.

  It was cold inside the re
ctory. Iris went to turn on every radiator she could find, then sat down at the foot of the queen-sized bed, pulling the woollen quilt around her shoulders. The room was open plan: a simple bedroom encroached on the lounge; a small kitchenette with breakfast stools was set against the far wall, and the French windows opened out onto the porch decking. It had the feel of a country bed and breakfast, and bore that same impersonal fragrance: potpourri, carpet cleaner, laundered towels.

  ‘I thought you handled it very well tonight,’ Iris said. ‘My parents can be difficult when they want to be. I was proud of you, standing up for yourself like that.’

  The truth was, Oscar wasn’t sure if he liked her parents at all. They had that impossible confidence that comes from wealth, the self-righteousness that comes from piety. How many times had he spoken to Ruth Bellwether, only to have her blinking back at him silently, showing no sign that she’d even been listening? And when Theo had been lecturing Yin on American foreign policy over dessert, Oscar had noticed that his views were borrowed from the talking heads on current affairs shows: ‘We’ve not been winning many hearts and minds lately, I can assure you,’ Theo had said, spooning pannacotta. ‘We’re losing the propaganda battle—that’s where the real war on terror lies. It’s in the media, not in the caves of Kabul.’ Oscar was sure he’d heard someone make the same point on Newsnight a while ago. But he told Iris: ‘I thought they were nice. A bit different, maybe.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, that was their best behaviour you saw tonight.’

  ‘Do you think they liked me?’

  ‘Hard to tell. My father gave you his cognac. And they invited you to sleep over. That’s something. But then again, you’re not the first boy they’ve let stay overnight.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t let them all in my room.’

  ‘Was that true what Eden said?’ he asked.

  Her body straightened. ‘About me losing my virginity in here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Well then. It’s not true.’ She smiled, then fell back on the bed. ‘Oh, I’d give anything for a cigarette.’

  He went to sit beside her. ‘Does Eden usually take on your father like that?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You know, first they were at odds about Descartes and everything. And then that thing with the article. It seemed like your father was used to it.’

  ‘Yes, they’re always jabbing at each other lately. It’s been getting worse. I think my brother’s finally figured out which buttons to push, and Dad keeps rising to it. Not that it makes any difference.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’ll always be the golden boy, no matter what he does. They let him get away with anything.’ The quilt dropped from her shoulders and she stood up. ‘Notice they didn’t ask him any questions about his lectures or exams. They just assume he’s on top of it all. But I get the grand interrogation: What did you get for that virology paper, Iris? Who’s supervising you now? It’s ridiculous. And that whole fuss he made about them not coming to the chapel—if I’d said anything like that I’d have been yelled at.’ She paused, remembering something. Her expression brightened. ‘Oh, yes, yes, I almost forgot.’ She twisted around, retrieved her clutch bag from where it had landed by the pillows, and rummaged inside it, pulling out two pieces of paper. ‘I’ve been evidence gathering.’

  The first piece of paper he recognised immediately—it was the printout of Eden’s email. ‘Exhibit A,’ Iris said, dropping it back in the bag. Then she held up the second piece of paper: ‘Exhibit B.’ She placed it between them on the bed. ‘I swiped it from the piano as Marcus and Yin were leaving.’

  He looked down at the article. ‘You’ve read it already?’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ She kissed him softly on the forehead. ‘I’ll get myself ready for bed while you read. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say.’

  Hypnosis by Handel in Downtown Manhattan

  The New York Times February 4, 1992

  Dr. Marcelo Fernandez escorts his final patient of the day into his office and asks her to lie down on the couch. ‘Close your eyes. Try to relax,’ he tells the woman. ‘Let me know if it’s too loud for you.’ He clicks a remote control, turning on a stereo at the far end of the room. Classical music begins to stream from three round speakers embedded in the ceiling.

  ‘Now, I want you to take deep breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth,’ Dr. Fernandez says, with his soothing Latino voice. ‘Try to ignore the world outside. Forget about your subway ride, all those people. Just focus on the air coming into your lungs, and listen to what I’m saying. Soon, you’re going to be floating off with the music, and you’ll start to feel very calm and relaxed.’

  I am here as an observer. Dr. Fernandez has been working with criminal investigators in the NYPD for several years and, upon hearing of the book I am researching (about non-scientific methods of forensic investigation), he has invited me to his office in Lower Manhattan. He has promised to demonstrate his advanced hypnotherapy practices, which include today’s musical technique.

  ‘They’ve been using music to hypnotize people since forever,’ Dr. Fernandez tells me after the session with the female patient. ‘Baroque music is particularly efficacious because it stays around 60 beats per minute, which is the same as the human heart rate.’

  Dr. Fernandez is a 58-year-old former vacuum cleaner salesman from Chicago. Since he began working as a professional hypnotherapist twenty years ago, he claims to have hypnotized ‘at least thirty people a week,’ including high-profile trial witnesses and sports stars. Chronic pain sufferers and cancer patients are some of Dr. Fernandez’s most regular clients, as well as those seeking to overcome minor phobias, drug addictions, or alcohol dependency. Some people want to lose weight fast. Some are curious about their past lives and ask to be regressed. ‘You wouldn’t believe the crazy requests I get,’ Dr. Fernandez informs me. ‘My job is never boring.’

  The woman I observe being hypnotized is a dog-walker from Long Island City. She has acute tendonitis in her knees and has come to Dr. Fernandez to help her manage the pain. At the end of the session, she tells me: ‘He has such a kind way about him. I’d trust him with my life. And he sure makes my knees feel better.’

  Cynicism & Negativity

  Over the years, Dr. Fernandez has spent a great deal of time and energy trying to educate the public—and fellow doctors—about hypnosis. Having earned his M.D. at the Pritzker School of Medicine at the University of Chicago, he now chairs the Professional Hypnotherapy Association of America. ‘I meet with a lot of cynicism and negativity from the medical profession,’ he explains. ‘Some doctors still call what I do “mesmerism” or “animal magnetism”—these are the terms doctors used back when we thought the Earth was flat! It’s incredible that even today, when the benefits of hypnosis have been proven by countless scientific studies, there are still those who want to decry it.’

  Dr. Fernandez cites television shows which ‘greatly trivialize’ hypnosis as the major culprit. ‘It’s damaging, yes. Every time I see a guy hypnotized into clucking like a chicken with his pants down, I can’t help but feel undermined.’

  Regardless of the skepticism from the medical fraternity, Dr. Fernandez’s practice is thriving. His office is located in a picturesque neighborhood close to 14th Street. The décor is not unlike a typical family doctor’s office, à la Norman Rockwell: high white ceilings, oak furniture, and tasteful green wallpaper. Pinned to a noticeboard in his office, there is a letter from a former New Jersey Senator, which thanks Dr. Fernandez for ‘helping [him] get past the pain of [his] amputation—both physically and mentally.’

  The speaker system in Dr. Fernandez’s office has been designed to meet his precise sonic specifications, accentuating certain bass frequencies. He owns a vast collection of classical music but mostly relies on the work of Baroque composers. ‘Bach or Handel get th
e best results in my experience,’ he says, ‘but it depends on the patient. There are those who respond more to Vivaldi, or even Johann Mattheson.’

  Positive Suggestion

  My previous experiences of observing hypnotherapists in action have taught me that first-time clients are often anxious about what the process entails. Dr. Fernandez agrees that most newcomers fear that the effects of hypnosis will not wear off.

  ‘I always reassure them that they’ll remain in complete control of their faculties. They should always be able to remember everything afterwards—sometimes they may not remember it all right away, but it comes back to them after a day or so, maybe a week.’

  In Counting Down from Ten, his most recent book, Dr. Fernandez explains that his musical approach to hypnosis has proven effective because it makes the unconscious mind even more susceptible to suggestion. Melodic refrains encoded in the Baroque music, he states, are reinforced by his vocal repetition of key phrases. These are absorbed into the unconscious mind of patients during hypnosis and remain in the conscious mind when they awake.

  Many cancer sufferers approach Dr. Fernandez prior to starting chemotherapy. ‘People can get pretty frightened about what lies ahead, and I try to help them with that as much as I can,’ he says. Dr. Fernandez has discovered that recounting positive stories about chemotherapy while the patient is in a hypnotized state has enabled many of his clients to endure extensive treatment regimes without incurring hair loss. Furthermore, he has found that clients scheduled to go under the knife require little or no anesthesia and recover more quickly from surgery, after only a few sessions with him.

  On Dr. Fernandez’s desk there is a framed photograph of him standing beside Dr. Kenneth Jensen, founder of the New York Cancer Patients Forum. For several years, he has worked with the organization and many of his referrals come via Dr. Jensen himself.

  Martha Velinski was one such referral. Diagnosed with lung cancer in 1986, she turned to Dr. Fernandez for help. In a recent interview printed in the Cancer Patients Forum newsletter, Mrs. Velinski reveals that three years of hypnotherapy sessions with Dr. Fernandez made her feel more confident about her recovery, enabling her to endure chemotherapy with a positive outlook. In subsequent surgeries, she needed only a quarter of the dose of anesthesia she had previously required and bled less during each operation.