by Jesse Ball
As I stated before, in the case of this claimant, the dream burden of his treatment was severe. His every sleep period is marred with nightmares. He is still in the first period, prior to Mark 1, so he remembers little to nothing of this, but it is a cause for concern. If it continues this way, I may need to directly address it. He talks in his sleep, muttering about a person who has died, and speaking with a vocabulary that he does not possess during the day. It is my hope that reprocessing is not necessary. He is mid to high functioning and could do very well as things stand but would lose much after a second injection.
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She leaned back in her chair and her gaze ran along the wall. There was a stopped clock, an embroidered handkerchief in a glass case, and an antique map. The map showed the known world as of a time when nothing was known. How apt for the Process of Villages.
She wrote:
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The previous case that I worked on involved a woman prone to violence and anger. None of that struggle is evident with this current claimant. It appears that his difficulty may have been entirely situational. If that is so, there is a good chance that our process will bring him to balance, as there may be no flaw whatsoever in his psyche.
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—GARDENER IS THERE! He’s there!
She came to the window where the claimant was sitting.
—Is it the same one—or a different one?
—This one is wearing…
—Glasses.
—The other didn’t have them.
—Is that a good way to tell them apart? she asked.
—It is one way.
—What if I were to wear glasses?
She took a pair out of a drawer and put them on.
—Would I be a different person?
She did look like a different person with glasses on, but he didn’t want to say that, so he said nothing.
—It is usually safe to assume that a person is different if their physical characteristics are different, said the examiner. But even then sometimes people change—by accident or on purpose—and the same person can look different. Likewise, two people can look very alike.
—Or be exactly the same, he said.
—What do you mean?
—Twins are alike. They are the same.
—But even if the bodies are the same, the minds inside are different—their experiences are different. They are different people.
—Even if they can’t be told apart?
—Even then.
—I knew someone, I think, who was a twin.
She looked at him very seriously and said nothing.
—She had a twin, but the twin died.
—How do you know this? asked the examiner.
—I remember it.
—But not from life, she said. You remember it from a dream. When you sleep at night, your mind wreathes images and scenes, sounds, speech, tactile constellations—anything that is sensory—into dreams. One feels that one has lived these things, of course one does. But dreams are imagined. They are a work of the imagination.
—What is the imagination for?
—It is a tool for navigating life’s random presentation of phenomena. It enables us to guess.
—But I am sure that I knew her.
—Know her you did, but it was in a dream. You may dream of her again. That is the world where you can meet such a person. The actual world is different. For you, it is this house, and the street beyond. It is the lake at the center of the village, and the gazebo in the lake. It is the meal we take together at midday, and again at nightfall.
She sat for a moment quietly.
—Do you remember the book that I was reading to you from?
—About the poacher and his dog?
—Yes. You remember how real it seemed? Well, it is not real. It just seems to be real. And that is just a toy of words on a page—not anything close to the vibrant power of the mind’s complete summoning that you find in the night. Is it any wonder that you believe it to be real? That you confuse memory and sleep’s figment?
He shook his head.
She took off the glasses, and put them in the drawer.
—I still feel that you are different with glasses, he said.
She laughed.
—People do look quite different with glasses, I suppose. I suppose that must be true.
—Will you play for me on the piano? he asked.
She went to the piano and opened it.
—I can know that it is you because you play for me on the piano, he said. Someone else wouldn’t do that.
—So, she said—you believe an individual’s function and service are identical to their person?
She began to play.
He looked out the window again. It was open, and the air was moving now and then, sometimes in, sometimes out. Or, it must move out whenever it moves in. It couldn’t just move in, or it would all end up inside. But, he supposed, that wasn’t entirely impossible. After all, he was completely inside.
He put his arm out the window and felt the air on it.
Below, the neatly trimmed yard lay flat on its side. The street unrolled from left to right, and beyond the houses, other streets could be seen by the white chalk of their surface. The tops of houses could be seen downhill, the glint of light off the lake in the distance. In the long fields of the distance, and in the canopies of the trees, in waves at their edges, he felt a coy energy. It was as though the edges of things were where the greater part might be hidden—where he could find more.
But he need not go even so far as beyond the room to find more—for just then, the sound of the examiner’s playing was moving him. He sat still in the window, but he could feel himself moving. It was a peculiar sensation, to have things called up out of one’s depths. A person can travel when they hear music, just as much as by walking.
He said it to himself and it sounded good.
—A person can travel when they hear music, just as much as by walking.
The examiner looked up. She stopped playing.
—Some can. It is a matter of inner faculty.
—I don’t know…
—Can you feel what you think I am feeling when I play? Can you watch me and imagine how I am feeling? There are people who can. Some people go beyond that, and imagine that they can feel what inanimate objects feel, or what animals feel, or even attribute feelings to a landscape, or a distant house. When you go on a journey of empathy such as that, it rouses sensations that have long sat deep within. Thus you feel as you do now. It is even possible, she continued, to empathize with a person you hope to be, or a person you have been, long ago in a city or a town you may never see again.
—A city?
—We live in a village. It is a place…
—A place of houses.
—That’s right. A city is like that, but larger. The houses are stacked upon each other, so that they rise up into the sky like mountains, only much steeper. The air is full of them—houses wherever you look. In some places you can’t see the sky at all unless you look straight up. Millions of people—a hundred times a hundred times a hundred—wander the streets in things called crowds, large groups of people who need have no common purpose.
The claimant laughed.
—You can’t expect me to believe such a lie. You think you can just tell me anything!
—Oh, I assure you it is true. Never fall into the mistake of believing, said the examiner, that things are everywhere the way they are here, wherever here is, wherever everywhere is.
—THERE IS A THING I want to tell you about, she said. It is called naming. Many things have names. You know that. The bottom post on the staircase is called the newel post. The staircase is called a staircase. The post is called a post. The bottom of the staircase is called the bottom. These are all names. People can have names, too, and naming is a privilege. In human history, names have been used as a form of power. Poor families, for instance, would sometimes have three or four sons, and those sons would simply be give
n numbers for names. First son, second son, third son. Some people would be named just for their position. Blacksmith, or Miller. In fact, that naming system was so strong that there remain people today who have as part of their names those old positions.
She paused.
—Can you think of someone you speak about in that way?
—The men who work outdoors.
—You call them gardener. And if you spoke to them that way, they would understand. This is why it is useful—because it is effective communication. You speak to them, and they understand. Now, let us imagine that such a person had a different name—a name that had nothing to do with what he or she did. What would you say to that?
—It wouldn’t make sense, he said. How would you get such a name? There would be no reason for you to have it instead of a different name.
—That’s true. What would you call me?
—I would call you, examiner.
—That’s right, and why am I an examiner?
—Because your work is to examine people and things and help to achieve balance.
—That’s what I told you, and I have shown it to be true through my actions. So, to you, a sound name for me is examiner. However, that is not my name. That is the name of my position. In the world, there are many examiners, but there is only one person with my particular allotment of cells who stands in my geographical and temporal position. That person is myself, and so I have a name to help differentiate me from other people who are similar to me.
—But, if you are the only one in your circumstance, why do you need a different name? Shouldn’t your circumstance alone be the name itself? If it is specific to you?
The examiner laughed.
—Very good, very good. But it isn’t necessarily so, because not everyone has perfect information. So, if they saw me on one day at the lake, and then a week later, by that distant field, they might not know that I was the same person, unless I had told them my name. If I had, they could speak to me and use my name, and thereby confirm that it was me.
—But what if there were two of you with the same name?
—That is a problem. It is—and it comes up. In any case, I have a name. That gardener has a name. Everyone has a name. Everyone but you.
—Why don’t I have a name?
—You don’t have a name because you are starting over. You are beginning from the beginning. You are allowed to make mistakes and to fail. You don’t need to do that under a real name, a name that will stay with you. We give you the freedom to make every conceivable mistake and have them all be forgotten. So, for now you will have a conditional name. You will have a name while you are here in this first village. Here your name is Anders.
—Anders. Anders.
He said it quietly to himself.
—Can you say it again?
—Anders, she said.
—Anders. Anders. What shall I call you?
—You can call me Teresa. That is not my real name either. It is the name for the examiner that orbits you. Teresa and Anders. Names always function this way, though people don’t think about it. They only exist in reference to each other.
—I’m not any more Anders to that gardener than I was a moment ago.
—You aren’t. And his name is hidden from you. Perhaps forever.
—Where did my name come from? What does Anders mean?
She thought for a minute.
—I believe it is a Scandinavian name, or perhaps it is German. Let me say completely how it was for me in the moment I named you Anders. That is as close to the meaning of this use of Anders as we can get.
She stood up and went to the window.
—When I was young, there was a girl who lived on the same street as me. Her name was Matilda Colone. She was very pretty and she wore beautiful clothes. She was the envy of everyone at my school, and she was blind. How can that be? Of course, it isn’t silly for grown people with circumspection and wisdom to envy a blind person who happens to be extraordinary. However, for children to do so—when the world is so bright and good to look at…you may imagine that it is surprising.
He nodded.
—She was elegant and calm. She learned her lessons perfectly. She had a seat in the classroom by a window, and the breeze would ruffle her hair or the scarf she wore, and we would all look at her and look at her and look at her. Matilda Colone, we would say under our breath. The teachers adored her, and everyone wanted to be her friend. But, she needed no friends, and would have none. Of all the things she had, and she had many, the best thing was that she had a brother, named Anders, and he sat beside her in class. He walked beside her to school. He brought her her lunch. He held her coat; he held it up, and then she would put it on. He was very smart, smarter than anyone in the class, except perhaps Matilda, but it was hard to say, because they would never cross each other. It was a school for the smartest children in the region. We all loved her so much that we could almost weep.
—What happened to her?
—This was in the old days. Her father shot himself, and she and Anders were separated and put into homes. Some years after that she died of pneumonia.
—Anders, he said to himself.
—Yes, she said. Its meaning is: a brilliant and trustworthy companion who exceeds all expectation.
—But you did not name yourself Matilda.
The examiner smiled. She did a half turn and her dress swirled lightly. To the door she went, and looking back, she said,
—That is a matter of taste. My respect for Matilda and Anders is such that I am not trying to supplant them. I am just invoking them. The tragedy of Matilda’s life is too great for us to speak of it without seriousness. Would I use her name for a purpose? Perhaps I might. Would I name a child Matilda? Certainly. But, it is a name ill suited to a costume. As I plan to retire this name, just as you will retire Anders, it is better to choose a less severe name.
The claimant looked after her in the doorway where she stood. The wooden door frame was worked with pastoral scenes—harvests and crop-sowing and landscapes covered in snow. Beneath it and between it, she seemed almost to kneel, although she stood.
—Teresa, he said. I want to know more about your life.
—It is a part of the help I bring you, she said. One day, you will have heard so much that you tire of it!
EACH NIGHT, the examiner would say to the claimant something like this (not this, but something like it):
Tomorrow we are going to wake up early. I am going to wake early and you are going to wake early. This will happen because I am sure to do so, and I will come and see to it that you are woken up. Then, I shall dress and you shall dress, and we will go downstairs to the kitchen. In the kitchen, we shall have our breakfast and we will enjoy the morning light. We will talk about the furnishings in the room. We will talk about the paintings and the photographs that we talk about each morning. You will have things to say about them and I will listen. I will have things to say to you about the things you have said. In this way, we shall speak. After breakfast, we will wash the dishes we have used and we will put them away. We will stand for a moment in the kitchen, which we will have cleaned, and we will feel a small rise of pleasure at having set things right. It is an enduring satisfaction for our species to make little systems and tend to them.
Yes, she would continue, we shall go on a walk to the lake, and perhaps this time we will walk around it to the small wood at the back. There we will find the trees that we like. Do you remember them? Do you remember that I like the thin birch that stands by the stream, and that you prefer the huge maple with the roots that block the path? Do you remember when you first saw it, and you ran to it? We shall go there tomorrow, and spend as much time as we want to sitting with those trees, in that quiet place. And when we have done that, we shall come home, walking fast or slow, and we shall…
And in this way she would go through the day and give him a sense that there was something to look forward to, and nothing to fear.
ON T
HE ELEVENTH DAY, the examiner brought a sheet of paper to the dining room table. She asked the claimant to sit opposite her. In her hand, she had also a thick object made of paper.
—This, she said, is a book. It is one of our ways of codifying and keeping human knowledge. When it cannot be kept in a person’s head, this is one method of keeping it safe. It is a good way of moving ideas from one head to another, as it only requires one person’s time to do it, and not two.
She opened the book and showed him the letters. She wrote them out on the paper.
—I think, he said. I think I can do it.
—Can you, she said.
He took the pen and wrote on the paper:
A room and a table and a pen. I am writing this.
He wrote it perfectly. The examiner took a deep breath.
—Very good, she said. That means that I will not need to teach you how to write. What a good thing. Our use of writing will be the following: I want you to take some time in the morning to write down the dreams that you can remember from the night before.
His face became downcast.
—I know that you have dreams, she said. I have watched you toss and turn. You even cry out now and then. Let us attend to them, and perhaps we can settle your sleep.
—I will try.
—It is difficult for a person to write down dreams when anyone is nearby, so I am going to go out on the porch and read for a little while. You can come and join me when you are done.
She placed a notebook on the table.
—You can write your dreams into this. It is nicer than the loose sheets.
—Do you have any questions about writing?
—How is it that I can remember to write—but you had to show me how to button a shirt?
—Time is passing, she said. You are coming back into yourself. Perhaps other good things, other helpful things will appear.
—Is writing the same as thinking? he asked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t forget it.
—It is not the same, although it can almost be. We shall see what your writing is like. I am eager to know. Some trace the origin of writing to the origins of granaries, thousands of years ago. Before that, man wandered as a hunter, but once he began to till the land, there was more food than could be eaten in a day. What was there to do but put it in a building and save it? Then, one suddenly feels the need to write down how much grain has been put in the building. And, that’s when writing begins—or so some say. The other thing, she confided, that starts with granaries, is the keeping of cats. They came to the granaries to hunt mice and rats, and they have stayed ever since. Cats and writing, perhaps they share a little of the same nature, then? That is a joke, she said.