A Cure for Suicide

by Jesse Ball

  The examiner looked deeply into his eyes, squeezed his arm, and nodded.

  —Come into the house, she said.

  They sat at the dining room table and the examiner made tea for them. She toasted bread and brought it out on a plate and they sat there. When they had been sitting awhile, there was a scream from outside.

  —They have found her, said the examiner quietly. Don’t worry, she will be all right. She is young and strong. But she is very sick.

  She said this especially quietly.

  —Hilda is very sick, and needs our help, she repeated.

  She was holding the papers he had given her, the sheets from the book. He didn’t remember having given them to her, and then suddenly he knew that he had. It hurt him to think of it. He had handed the pages to the examiner. He had pointed out where Hilda was hiding. He started to cry.

  —You were right to get help for Hilda, said the examiner. Don’t grieve over it. It was reasonable. It was the right thing to do. Now, let’s get some sleep. Would you like something to help you sleep?

  —Yes, said the claimant, I would.

  They went upstairs. She gave him some medicine to drink; he lay down in his bed and slept long into the morning, and it was the examiner who woke him, saying,

  —It is almost noon! Time to get up, time to get up.

  And already then, the episode with Hilda felt far away. Had he ever known her? Had he?

  AND THIS WAS how it was for him. Mostly, he was never worried about it—he felt that it was something that had happened to someone else, and he was untouched. Yet, sometimes, as when one looks in a mirror, when one hasn’t seen oneself in a long time, and one catches sight of this face, one’s own in a mirror, and feels—recognition, sometimes he was moved to a great sadness and he would almost cry. His face would twist and he would hold his head in his hands and think to himself: what have I done, and he would feel that he had betrayed the one person who was his.

  At such times, the examiner would watch him with concern. When it happened twice in one day, a week after the incident, she came to a resolve.

  I believe, she thought to herself, we have stayed here too long.

  THE EXAMINER was standing at the bottom of the stairs when the claimant went to come down in the morning.

  —When you come down the stairs, she said, you will not go up them again, not in this house, so come down slowly and purposefully and with full intent.

  —What’s that? he said.

  —We are moving to a new village. This business with Hilda. It was not your fault. But, it is a failure of sorts. I am taking your name from you. Worry not—you will have another. You are not Martin anymore. I am not Emma. Do not refer to me as such.

  —I should get my…

  —You don’t need your things. What we need is already there, in the place to which we’re going. This travel is different from the ones we have done before, do you know why?

  —Because you are telling me about it?

  —That’s right. I am telling you about it, so that you will know. I trust you. I feel you should know things. It will be the same in some ways. We will sleep while we travel, so we won’t see much of it, and when we wake up, we will be there. I wanted to prepare you, and to give you your new name before you left.

  —My new name, what will it be?

  The claimant walked down the stairs, slowly, deliberately. He arrived at the bottom and stood over the examiner.

  —Are you ready to hear it?

  —I am.

  —Henry, she said. Henry Caul. That is your new name.

  —Henry, he said. Henry Caul. Henry Caul.

  —Henry Caul, she said. It is time for us to be going. Come and sit with me on the porch. My name is Dahlia Gasten.

  —Dahlia Gasten, he said quietly.

  They went out on the porch and sat.

  —Have some of this, said Dahlia. It will make you sleep, and then we can go.

  She handed him a little bottle and he took it and raised it to his mouth. Had he seen one like it before? The end of the bottle was very small and it felt odd on his lips. He drank from it, and soon fell asleep.

  Then they were there, sitting on the porch. The examiner sat on one chair. He lay asleep in another. A strange noise came down the street of the town, and it was a truck. A truck came into view and stopped before the house. Two men came out of it and picked up the claimant, one by the arms and one by the feet. They carried him to a pallet in the truck’s rear, and set him gently down. The truck drove off, and soon its roar was as if it had not been, for a church bell was tolling in the distance, and insects buzzed in the near yard, and as the examiner rocked in her chair there was a faint creaking from the boards of the porch. Somewhere in the house a clock was ticking, and the tick went like this, tick, tick, tarick, tick.

  4

  THE CLAIMANT was awake and sitting up in bed when the examiner entered the room.

  —Do you remember my name? she asked.

  —Dahlia, he said.

  —That’s right, Henry. That is my name. Let us look around the house and see what we can see.

  So, they both went around the house and looked at things. He saw that it was just the same as the other house had been. He looked at the dining room and all the walls of the dining room, the kitchen and all the walls of the kitchen. He looked out the windows of the kitchen and saw that the garden was the same, the garden and the street beyond. He saw that the hall was the same, and the stair, the bedrooms were the same. The examiner took him into the study, a place where he had never really been welcome before, and she said,

  —This is the study. In this village, you are welcome here as much as I am. You can use this room, too.

  She went to the desk that had always been locked.

  —Here, she said, the desk is unlocked.

  She opened it. There was a book within the desk, and also sheets of paper.

  —This is where I put reports that I write about you and about your progress. The book here is the book of the craft of examining. It explains things about how to examine and why. It is a book like any other. Do you know what that means?

  Henry was silent.

  —It means that some parts are right and some are not. Every examiner makes decisions and does things in ways that are not doctrinal. I, for instance, constantly disobey the book in certain ways. In other ways, it is important to follow along. That’s partly because we are not in this alone. You and I are part of a thing that is larger than ourselves.

  She took the book out of the desk and held it up.

  —It is not a very large book, as you can see. If you want to read it, you can. I will leave it in the desk. You can also read any of the reports that I write that you find in there. But, remember, do not be angry if you find things written about yourself that are true. If you read someone else’s correspondence, there is always a price. One can often learn things about oneself that one didn’t expect. It’s rarely a comfortable experience.

  She went out of the room and down the stairs, leaving him there.

  He went to the desk, and closed it. He opened it again, and then he closed it.

  Then he sat in the chair and looked at the desk from the outside. Hilda rose in his mind and fell away, and he felt good.

  —I am becoming Henry, really, he thought to himself. I am much closer to Henry than I ever was to Martin.

  He said this out loud, for he liked the sound of the names in his mouth.

  —WHAT THINGS are there in every village? the examiner asked.

  —Houses, said the claimant. There are many houses, and all of them…

  —All of them are the same, finished the examiner. What else is there?

  —There are shops. There is a general shop, and a shop for clothing. There is a shop where you can sit and drink tea. There is the restaurant. Above those shops are rooms where the people who work in them live.

  —That’s right, said the examiner. And what about the gathering places?

 
—There is the library and the village hall. There is the band shell.

  —Have all these things been the same in all the places we have been, in all the villages—or have they changed?

  —I think, he said, I think they have been the same.

  —Do you think they have been the same, because they are the same, asked the examiner, or because you want them to be the same—because you are not differentiating between them? We could call that a case of their being—the same to you. Is that possible?

  —I think, he said, I think they have been the same.

  —But if they were different, she asked, would you have known?

  —I think I would know, he said.

  —And would it matter?

  —I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  —If it wouldn’t matter, then isn’t it a bit difficult to say for sure which way it was?

  —I guess so, said the claimant. The villages are the villages—they are a place where we live. When I go in a direction, I know what I will find. When I return, I know it, too. The house is like that, also.

  —What if you went to a place, asked the examiner, where things were not like this? Where everything was new?

  —Things are always new. Even here. Isn’t that true?

  The examiner took out her book and wrote something down.

  —LET US MAKE a new cover for ourselves. A new cover and what shall it be?

  —I don’t know, said Henry. I am having difficulty again, getting around. Maybe something where I don’t have to move as much.

  —Has it been disheartening for you? To not move well?

  Henry nodded.

  —You should have mentioned it to me. It will pass, said the examiner. It’s just the medicine that helped you to travel. Perhaps you drank a bit too much. Too much can confuse the mind and the body. It will go away in a few days. Let’s see now, your cover. Your costume for this town. What could your cover be? What about if you are working on a paper. I am the person who travels with you, not a servant, but a person who sees to your needs. You employ me that way. And you are working on an important paper for an upcoming conference. You are that age that you could be a scholar of some sort.

  —A scholar.

  —You don’t need to talk about the subject. The less you do, the more interested people will be. The more you do, the less people will care, until if you were to talk about it all the time—they would actually avoid you. This is how such things are.

  —But then, said Henry, what will we do? I won’t actually be working on a paper. I don’t believe I could do that.

  —It is not the sort of thing you need to do. We will find other things to fill the time. We are working steadily toward our goal. Here is what we will do. Each day we will address our tasks. I will write my nightly report about it, and you can read it. Then you will know how you are doing. You will know how you are proceeding toward our goal.

  —I will tell you, she continued, that a person like you, a good, solid person who knows what to do and when, can live where he likes. We can find good work for you, and a place to live. You will soon have all the skills of a normal human being, and you will have the scope of a normal human being. You can even decide whether you want to live in the villages, or whether you would like to leave. Either is fine. I, for instance, would be perfectly proud of you whatever you chose.

  The claimant felt something wide and empty, like anticipation, but weakened. It was not false, but it did not sound out like a bell.

  —For now, let’s think about the things that you do well and the things you like to do. We’ll practice your interactions and we’ll talk about what frustrates you and what you fear. I have many new exercises for you, and when we have gone through them, we will be at the next step. Are you ready to begin? Remember, too, Henry. You can fail again and again as much as you like. What is the way to proceed?

  —Desperately and cautiously, he said. First cautiously, then desperately.

  THE CLAIMANT was sitting in the study. These days he often liked to come there. He would sit in the study and move things around on the desk. The book was there, and the reports. He could read them, finally. He hadn’t even really known they were there, but now he knew and he could read them.

  The truth was, though, that he did not read them. He had no desire to. Somehow, that they were available to him was enough. If they said one thing or another—he was sure it would be just about the same. There was a voice in him that rebelled at this, a voice that shrieked, screaming to him over broad distances to pore over the book, to read the reports, to glean everything that he could. But since Hilda had gone, that voice had grown weak, and he could scarcely hear it.

  Now, he rode high on all the praise that he was receiving. Daily, he was moving forward with his good nature and he found that he could speak to people and accomplish things in the world in the most startling ways.

  The examiner would say to him something like,

  Tomorrow, you are to go to the restaurant in the town. The restaurant will be full of people. It will appear that there are no more tables. The situation will be: you cannot eat at the restaurant, as there is nowhere to sit. A young man will be there also, waiting. You will hear him being told, you cannot eat here now, as the restaurant is full.

  But, you will approach the host and you will ask if there is a table, and the host will smile and incline his head. He will shout something over his shoulder and a table will be brought out and set up. The young man will be watching you and wondering who you are that such a thing could happen, and you will invite him to sit and eat with you as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

  Then you will sit, and he will ask you many questions about your life, none of which you will be able to answer. The reason is this: you do not remember the events of your life. Such is your plight. But, you will not lie. You will merely explain that you were ill but you are grown better, and that you are working now on a paper to present.

  When the young man leaves, he will invite you to meet him again, but you will decline, and if he asks why, you will say that you are very busy. You will feel a flush from the wine that you have had, and it will be difficult to decline this invitation, as the young man is very charming and his company is a great pleasure, but you will do so.

  Why will you do it? You will do it because it is a part of life also that you must train for—to have a strong will, and to be able to turn down good things. That is the exercise for tomorrow.

  And then it would happen that on the following day, Henry would go down to a restaurant, and he would do so not because he remembered to, but because he was hungry, and he had begun to eat at the restaurant sometimes. And at the restaurant, when arriving, he would notice that the tables were all full, and he would feel a vague worry that he could not be sat at a table. And as he approached the host, he would notice a young man being turned away. And the host would notice him standing there, would notice Henry, and the host would say, Henry Caul, our distinguished guest. Henry Caul, Henry Caul. The name would burnish and shine with a sort of proud energy. Then Henry would be shown to a table that had not been there a minute before. The table would actually be carried over the heads of many other guests, and tables would be pushed aside to accommodate it. Candles and the like, fancy silver, fine porcelain all would be placed upon the table, and the whole matter would unfold like a fan. And while this was happening and everyone was standing mesmerized watching it, Henry would say to the young man, your name, sir, and the young man would say, my name is Sasha, and Henry would say, come and sit with me, why not. Then the two would sit and they would not even need to order. The waiters would attend them who do not need to be told what is wanted; they merely bring what is best, and take away any number of unwanted things without rancor. And Henry would speak with Sasha, and Sasha would ask questions, he would say, Henry, if you don’t mind my asking, where are you from? What is that accent? And Henry would say, I do not know. That is the type of fact with which I am unacquainted, and
the reason is this: I remember very little of the past. You see, I have been convalescing and am just now returning to life. At the moment, I am working on a paper for an upcoming conference.

  Then, Sasha would ask about the paper, and Henry would say, I am not in the business of talking about papers that are not complete.

  And someone would come to the table with a letter and present it to Henry, saying, Professor Caul, here is a letter for you, just arrived. And Henry would put it into a pocket in his coat. He would not even look at it.

  When the dinner was through and they were standing before the restaurant, when the lights of the restaurant were practically turned off, and Henry had heard all about Sasha’s childhood, his current work, his fascination with sandpipers, they would bid each other goodbye, and Sasha would ask to meet again and be denied, and this denial would touch Henry less than he had thought it would, for he would be prepared, completely prepared for this, just as he was now becoming completely prepared for all things. Then he would walk home along the avenues, and the examiner would be waiting for him on the porch and she would clap her hands twice and smile, and he would smile back.

  Or the examiner would say, tomorrow you will be walking down the street. A man will trip and fall and his knee will be injured. He will be bleeding just a little. You will be carrying your jacket over one arm, and you will use it to staunch his bleeding. It will not be a serious wound. All the same, you will staunch it, and help the man up. You will give him your arm and accompany him to his house, and when he invites you in, you will join him for a glass of wine. When his wife gets home, they will ask you to stay for dinner. They will insist upon it, but you will say that you have work to do. In this case, you will demur even from saying your name. You will say this sentence, for the time being I would like to be an unnamed guest, and if you do it right, they will respect your wishes.

  And then, it would happen that Henry would go out walking and he would be passing along a crooked avenue where the pavement was a bit uncertain, and there he would witness a man falling to the ground. The man’s pant leg would be cut open and the skin of his leg would be broken, and there would be blood there, on the leg and on the ground. Without a second thought, Henry would wrap the leg and apply a good deal of pressure. He would speak in a gentle voice to the man, and he would lift the man to his feet—but only when the man was ready. At the man’s house, he would share a bottle of wine, and when asked about himself, he would obfuscate, and his obfuscation would be kindly met, for it would have been laid out in the gentlest and kindest way. Also, the supper would be avoided with the same light stratagem, and away Henry would go, across the village and back to his house.