Krysalis: Krysalis

by John Tranhaile

  She had borne with him listlessly while he went through the opening formalities, name, address, age—she was twenty-three, then—but after he fell silent, she offered nothing, waiting for him to point the way.

  “I want to talk about some myths,” he had said. “Myths surrounding psychoanalysis and psychotherapy, what they are and what they are not.”

  She said nothing, nor did she nod.

  “You are not mad. I’m not a psychiatrist. It’s important you understand that. Your postnatal depression, however severe, means only that you are functioning at less than your best.”

  He paused, but she continued to stare into space as if he were not present.

  “Our sessions together will occur at the same time each week and will last exactly one hour. This is because the patient after you wants me to be punctual and I must respect that wish, just as I respect your wish that I should always be on time for you. It is one way of saying that I can be relied upon.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  He noted “relied = trigger” on his pad and continued, “It is unlikely that you will still be in therapy six months from now. If, after that, you haven’t conquered the hostility you feel toward your child, if you’re not enjoying your life more, there will be little point in our continuing.”

  He had said something that mattered. Her eyes were wide open and she was looking at him properly. “I thought … I’m sorry, I thought it would take years. Always took years.”

  “No. Myth number one.”

  “How will we know when it’s over?”

  “Therapist and patient know when the time has come to part. Always. Next, myth number two: that therapy is pleasurable. Therapy is hard work. Unpalatable, unpleasant things will come out, things you would rather not know. It is grinding, painful labor and I have no magic to change that.”

  “I didn’t expect so much honesty.” She hesitated. “Am I allowed to ask questions?”

  “Anything.”

  “When it’s over … after six months, or whenever … is there a rule that says we can’t see each other again?”

  He hesitated. He had been married for three years then, long enough to know that his relationship with Clara wasn’t going to work. “No rule.”

  There followed a long silence, during which Anna’s eyes roamed around the cluttered room. “Only I would like one day to ask you about yourself. Where you live.”

  He was startled. She struck him as a quick study, already initiating the games people used to delay him on his via dolorosa toward Truth, but more awesomely she had used the phrase “where you live” as if she understood the central place it occupied in his world. For that, ultimately, was all of his work: showing people where they lived, instead of where they imagined they were camping.

  He had known in that instant that she was dangerous to him. There were well-established procedures for ridding oneself of patients who might be thought unsuitable. Gerhard ignored the signs.

  “Gerhard?”

  He came out of his reverie to find Anna in the garden below him with a towel around her shoulders, shivering. It was too early in the season for long baths. He thought about encouraging her to change, then decided not to. A day’s rest had restored most of the natural beauty to her face, and the plain black bikini did wonders for her lightly tanned body, still firm and devoid of stretch marks. Hard to believe she was thirty-nine.

  “You seemed miles away,” she said, as she climbed up the path to join him. “What were you thinking?”

  “I was remembering something.” He laughed and resumed his seat. “Unimportant.”

  She gave herself a few brisk rubs and sat down opposite him, keeping the towel in place for warmth. “Go on, tell me.”

  “Oh … there was a time when I used to dream about you. Often.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls. But I’m willing to be flattered, don’t stop.”

  “One night I woke up calling your name.”

  Gerhard had not meant to reveal himself, but Anna was always quick. “What did the woman with you say?”

  He laughed again, although this time with none of his usual assurance.

  Anna’s smile was arch. “I bet she was cross. Did you try to seduce all your female patients?”

  “I never slept with a patient. Never.” That was true; it would have been perilous in the extreme. “I always waited until after the therapy was over.”

  “Ah, I remember. Friends, you said. Once the therapy’s over, a therapist can be friends with his former patient. I loved the way you emphasized ‘former;’ you made me sound cured.” Her face darkened, as if all of a sudden she had lost a battle with cancerous pain. “Was I ever cured?”

  “You’re a successful barrister, married, quite rich, I should imagine.”

  “Yes, but was I cured?”

  He understood. She was testing him. Could he be trusted? No, it was worse than that, she needed to know if there had ever been a time when he was worthy of her trust. “What, in your book, is a cure, then?”

  “Not being on the run. Not hearing voices in my head. Not doing bad things I can’t remember doing.”

  “Such as?”

  “Treason. Taking the file.”

  He felt a surge of guilty rage. “So it’s back to betrayals, is it?”

  “Your theme, not mine.”

  “You know perfectly well that at the root of all your problems lay a deep sense of betrayal, first by your mother, then by others. And you felt guilty about what you regarded as your own betrayals, particularly of Juliet.”

  “So you told me.”

  “I got rid of the guilt, that’s all. I allowed you to see that having fun wasn’t always so terrible.”

  “I’m sure.” She waited, as if expecting him to speak again. When he remained silent she sighed, stood up and walked off the terrace.

  Some ten minutes passed without her reappearing, but Gerhard only slowly mastered his anxiety. Today she seemed detached, in reasonable health … and fey. There was something missing. He wanted to analyze it, but his mind kept straying to London. Would they do a deal? How much was Krysalis worth to them?

  How long before Barzel came?

  He was startled out of these dark speculations by the discovery that she had again come to stand in front of him. She was fully clothed. Her suitcase sat on the terrace beside her.

  “Gerhard, I’m going home.”

  No, no, no!

  The sky seemed to darken. The sun disappeared. But there were no clouds. He waited until he could again be sure of his voice, then—“I think that’s a very silly thing to say,” he said smoothly, coming out of his chair.

  “This isn’t right. The sooner I go back and face whatever’s coming to me, the better.”

  Don’t panic, don’t worry, just think, yes, that’s right, control… “I really don’t believe you’re in a fit physical or mental state to—”

  “Please, let’s not argue. I appreciate what you’ve done, but I can face things by myself.”

  He swallowed. There was an impediment in his throat that refused to go away. “What’s brought this on?”

  But he knew. His grip on her had weakened. God knows, the signs had been obvious enough. He’d programed Anna to open the safe, bring him the file, wait while he copied it, take it back, then forget everything. But she could remember a lot of what had happened. She recalled hearing “voices.” One voice in particular. And now this …

  He had to bring her back under control. But how?

  “David is going to be very surprised if you just turn up, after arranging for him to come out at the weekend.”

  “He’s missing me, Gerhard, he’s worried sick about me. Can’t you see that?”

  Despite her words, Kleist detected a hint of irresolution when he’d mentioned David. “He’s already been through rather a lot on your account.”

  She said nothing.

  “I don’t think he’s quite prepared for your arrest at Heathrow. The photographers. The
TV cameras and so on. It will all come as rather a shock to him.”

  “Maybe that won’t happen. Perhaps they’ll hush it up. I just know that he needs me and I love him and that what I’m doing is right. I have to go.”

  He studied her face. Her eyes were never still. Sometimes they lighted on him, but for the most part they seemed hardly to focus at all.

  “Anna. Are you sure?”

  “Sure.”

  He examined her a moment longer while he sorted through the alternatives, which turned out to be few. “Very well,” he said slowly.

  These words seemed to take her by surprise. “You’ll let me go?”

  He laughed. “Why, do you think you’re some kind of prisoner, or something?”

  Now a longer pause. “I know I’ve got no right to ask you this, but … will you come with me?”

  “All right. I didn’t bring a suitcase so I’ve nothing to pack. Do you mind walking to the village? It isn’t very far, and I’ll have to persuade Yorgos to drive us down to the port.”

  “I’d love a walk.”

  “Good. There’s only one ferry a day, it doesn’t leave until five, but if we go early at least you’ll be able to say you saw the sights of one Greek harbor. Now if you’ll excuse me …”

  Gerhard went to his room, shut the door behind him and leaned against it with his eyes closed. So this was how it felt between the devil and the deep blue sea; at last he knew.

  He swayed slightly, not quite in command of himself. Anna was preparing, all unwittingly, to put him in danger of death. To exterminate him. His breathing quickened, his stomach felt queasy. Death. That, suddenly, had become the reality. You’re going to die …

  Pull yourself together! Everyone’s going to die one day. But not you, not yet!

  He opened his eyes again and strode over to pull the bed away from the wall. The Luger lay in its usual place. He checked the magazine, then stood up, kneeing the bed back into place. He was shaking; his hand had become so weak it could scarcely hold the gun. He had never yet resorted to violence. Physical brutality sickened him. But he’d implanted the idea that Anna should stay on the island, and that wasn’t working, so he had no choice.

  If London played, he would win a fortune and a one-way ticket out of a life that had become impossible, thanks to Anna.

  If London played, HVA would want revenge, but they’d never find him in Peru or Paraguay, both places where Gerhard had friends and where life, for the rich, was congenial.

  If London played, his sister Ilsa would be destroyed … don’t think about that!

  If, on the other hand, London did not want to buy back Krysalis, he would contact Barzel, “admit” to having panicked, and simply allow the machine to take over, wafting him to safety in Berlin, together with Anna and the file. But everything depended on Anna’s not surfacing. Once she began to talk, he was finished.

  He gazed at the gun, trying to imagine how it would feel to point it at Anna, pull the trigger, see her stagger backwards, wet scarlet splashing on the walls, the floor. … no, no, no. He couldn’t. Couldn’t even contemplate it.

  Why?

  He laughed aloud, a scornful sound. Why …? Because after that first session of treatment, he and Anna had become lovers, his first adultery. He had never quite stopped loving her, even when HVA ordered him to end the affair because it was a threat to security and anyhow they wanted her to fall in love with David.

  Gerhard sank down on the bed, tossed the gun aside. Face it, he told himself, you still love her. Krysalis can buy a new life for both of you. You’ll persuade her to come away with you. Given time, she’ll love you again. It’s inevitable. By selling Krysalis, you’ll compromise her. In London, they’ll never believe she’s innocent after that. She’ll have to come with you. All you need is time to prepare her. Time!

  He put on a jacket, picked up the Luger, and dropped it into his pocket. There was one chance left. When earlier he’d mentioned David’s agony at her disgrace, her face had changed. Give her a few more moments …

  Anna had begun to wander around, wishing she could explore this beautiful island, and the house in its perfect setting. The insidious thought made her angry, because a moment ago she had known only a fierce desire to go home.

  Her headache was back with a vengeance; she felt nauseated. The attack had come on at about the time she’d made up her mind to leave. Don’t fuss, she told herself. Find something to do.

  Beside the fireplace stood a bookshelf. She leafed through the few quartos of sheet music lying on top, then her attention was snared by something on the next shelf down. It contained a dozen paperbacks. One of them looked unaccountably familiar. She picked it up and to her surprise realized that it belonged to her.

  The first grown-up novel Anna could remember having read was O’Hara’s From the Terrace. To that day she could close her eyes and visualize one scene, just one, and it came at the end of the book when Alfred Eaton, the principal character, had been very ill. While he convalesced he would sit in the California sun on the terrace of the title, and look back over a life that had promised at every turn to be successful, yet never quite delivered. And he did not know why.

  Anna had once lent this book to Gerhard, who forgot to return it. And here it was, a little the worse for suntan oil and salt water, but still intact.

  Gerhard showed no signs of emerging from his bedroom. Anna carried the book out to the terrace, her own terrace, and sat down facing the sea. The sun made the water look like freshly applied sapphire-blue paint, glossy and fierce. She closed her eyes, trying, like Alfred Eaton, to pinpoint the moment when she had known the promises would never be fulfilled.

  Yes. That dinner party. Barristers. All talking law. Poor David.

  Robyn, her best friend, had just gone back to the States, leaving her angry and desolate. Everyone at the table was talking, talking, talking, laughing, laughing, laughing, drinking, drinking, drinking, talking, drinking, laughing, and nobody in the room (apart from David) loved Anna at all.

  The food was rotten.

  She’d been busy, it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t be everywhere at once. Only because she was a woman, that’s exactly what she had to be: omnipresent, able to cope with everyone and everything. But her cook for the evening, recommended by a friend, turned out to be a disaster. The duck was dry and the mousse separated. Fortunately, David had chosen some marvelous wines, so while the others forced themselves to eat, she’d planted both elbows on the table and held a glass close to her face, concealing the tears.

  They were so sleek, so self-satisfied, all these guests. They talked easily and well, scarcely even aware of their power to enthrall. She had devoted a lifetime of mind-bending hard work to the task of joining their ranks, but as she looked along the lines of Hogarthian features, the sharp, pointed noses, fat bellies, pudgy hands, greasy foreheads, now she realized that they were parasites and she indeed was one of them. How David must have hated it all.

  How she hated it, she suddenly realized.

  Next day they had dropped by her room at work to thank her for the evening, which almost to a man they characterized as “wonderful.” So mundane an adjective, she thought. Only Guy Samuelson, one of her roommates, smiled the rather secret smile that was his specialty, as if to say, “Yes, the food did taste ghastly, didn’t it?” And to him she felt she perhaps ought to apologize (her specialty?), but instead she heard herself say aggressively, “You should be bloody grateful for a meal your wife didn’t have to cook and wash up for a change,” enjoying the way Guy’s smile slipped, as if he’d unexpectedly found himself dealing with someone quite outrée.

  But she was going to need them when she got back. These were the people who would help her fight the massive negligence claim she so dreaded. They would defend her at the Old Bailey against a charge of treason.

  One more day without them wouldn’t make a scrap of difference.

  Think of David.

  And prison … think of that.

  “
Are you ready?”

  Gerhard’s voice brought her back to reality. She stood up, mechanically stuffing the book into her handbag.

  “Yes.”

  He picked up her case and held the front door open for her. When she did not pass through it at once, he went ahead, striding down the white, dusty path, almost as if glad that he would shortly be rid of this tiresome houseguest.

  “Anna?”

  Gerhard reached the gate. He laid a hand on the signboard, the one in the photograph of Robyn that Anna loathed so much, and turned. From the doorway she watched him, so tall and powerful and fine, so untypical of everything left behind in England.

  Of everything waiting to devour her.

  Suddenly she heard herself say, “I think I would like to stay a bit longer. Perhaps a day or two.”

  Gerhard fumbled over closing the gate; the latch seemed to be giving him trouble. When he started to walk back to the house, Anna noticed that his face was pale and running with sweat. She could not think why.

  CHAPTER

  14

  As David walked through the Temple on his way to Anna’s chambers the last of the sun provoked angry amber glints in numerous windows. They made him feel as though he were being watched; but then of course he was. Albert had known about his appointment with Broadway this Tuesday evening. How? There could be only one answer. They were tapping his phone. The knowledge made him angry. He also felt a little sick.

  Never mind Albert, he told himself sourly. You’ve got a long list of questions to ask; concentrate on them.

  Anna worked in a four-story Georgian building, strangely isolated from the other eighteenth-and nineteenth-century sets of chambers at this hub of London’s legal universe. Yet the accouterments of a more modern age were not lacking. The first thing to meet his eyes as he entered the clerks’ room was a fax machine humming away. There was a photocopier, one of the larger models that could collate as well as reproduce, a Telex terminal, a laser printer. If the hull was Dickensian, the engine room was twenty-first century.