The soloist

by Salzman, Mark

  (180)

  interests, which were dating European women, discussing the merits of existentialism with his expatriate friends in the cafe below his apartment in Kassel, and trying to spend as little time with me as possible.

  The closest I felt to Andrew came the afternoon he introduced me to the philosophy of Ecclesiastes. ''Listen to this, Reinhart,'' he said, quoting from memorv'. '' 'In much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth knowledge in-creaseth sorrow.' Unfortunately, thanks to Plato, that advice was ignored for two thousand years.''

  "What did Plato do.^" I asked, sensing that my tutor was about to entrust me with highly classified information.

  "He was the one who said, 'Virtue is knowledge,' Renne. Ever since then most people have thought that knowledge was the answer to everything, even today. But all that was proven wrong. Now we know that there's no such thing as 'truth,' and that knowledge can't help us. Most people don't dare face that."

  "You mean we know that all knowledge is wrong.>" I asked, shaken.

  "Well, just look at the world today, Renne. We can split atoms, but we can't stop people fi-om making atom bombs. The human experiment simply hasn't worked out. Our big brains are kind of like the huge anders on those prehistoric moose; they went extinct because they couldn't hold their heads up anymore from all that weight. We'd be a lot better off if we were a lot stupider—or a lot smarter."

  "So what's the point of anything, then.>" I asked.

  A knowing grin came over Andrew's face and, looking around to make sure my mother could not overhear us, he whispered, "You'll find that out as soon as you get a girl-ftiend!"

  (181)

  I was not able to pursue this line of thinking with Andrew, however. Not long after that conversation he met an Italian girl, decided he had lived in Germany long enough, and announced his plans to move south and teach at an American school in Naples, where she lived. In view of my increasing success and my heavy concert schedule, my mother decided I did not need ftirther tutoring, so Andrew was never replaced.

  Maria-Teresa wanted to know about all the traveling. I told her about the time the small airplane carrying my mother and me from Rome to Paris for a concert couldn't get its landing gear down and had to land on its belly in a river.

  "You must have been terrified!"

  "Not really. For a kid, that's exciting. I was more worried about my cello than anything else. It got out fine; the captain himself grabbed it from the seat next to me and made sure it got off the plane."

  "The captain bothered to save your cello.>"

  "Sure. He was Italian, and he'd talked to me on the flight. He knew that my cello was a Guarneri. No Italian would let a Guarneri get wet."

  Maria-Teresa confessed that she'd never been out of the country. In fact, she admitted, looking a little abashed, the only time she'd been East was when she and her second husband went to visit Graceland on the tenth anniversary of Elvis Presley's death.

  (182)

  The last witness for the defense was a cute but nervous girl, nineteen years old, whom Philip had dated a few times just before moving into the Zen Foundation. She wore a pink dress that made her look even younger than she was, and she kept her hands folded on her lap the whole time she was on the stand. She and the defendant had met at a photocopy shop where he worked and had a brief romance, but when Philip moved into the Zen church he told her he couldn't see her anymore because he was becoming a monk.

  ''He was really into Zen, and I thought it sounded . . . weird sometimes but pretty interesting, I guess,'' she said in a minuscule voice. Judge Davis scowled and told her to speak up. Her eyes kept darting over to look at her former boyfriend; she seemed more fascinated than upset by the fact that he was on trial for murder. He smiled at her blandly; she didn't seem to interest him at all.

  Ms. Doppelt asked the girl if Philip had ever said or done anything to suggest he was a violent person. "'No," the witness said, her eyes opening wide, ''he was the opposite. He didn't seem like he could hurt anybody."

  (183)

  "Can you think of any examples—incidents that might give us some idea of what Philip was like when you knew him?"

  "Yeah . . . um ... he bought me a goldfish for my birthday. Most people would give you jewelry or, you know, something like that, but he gave me something that was alive. . . . He was really into animals. He even saved spiders if they were on the sidewalk. He would pick them up in his hands and move them to a bush or something. Also, he would do funny things just to make me laugh."

  "Such as.>"

  "Oh, he would tell me these Zen stories about guys who would do things like put their shoes on their heads, or say fiinny things because they were enlightened, and he would do stuff like that too. Once when he came to pick me up he was wearing his shirt on backwards, with the buttons on the back ... it was just to make me laugh, you know? But it was also part of his philosophy, I think."

  "When you heard about what happened at the Zen church. Miss Conway, what went through your mind? What did you think?"

  The nervous girl sneaked another wide-eyed glance at Philip, who was sitting with his eyes closed as if he were meditating, then said, "I thought—^Wow, he must really have gone crazy. He wouldn't do something like that, not the guy I knew."

  When Mr. Graham asked Miss Conway if she ever saw Philip use drugs, she turned bright red and seemed to fi-eeze. Mr. Graham gently assured her that the court wasn't interested in whether she had used drugs with him or not but only

  (184)

  in whether he had ever used them. She glanced at Ms. Dop-pelt, who nodded as if to say it was all right for her to tell the truth.

  'Tes, he sometimes did," she answered finally.

  Mr. Graham pressed her to be more specific, and it gradually came out that Philip had used drugs fairly heavily. In fact, it sounded as if the two of them must have been intoxicated most of the time they were together, usually on marijuana, but occasionally with more serious drugs, such as LSD, mescaline and something called Ecstasy, which sounded like a kind of aphrodisiac. From looking and listening to her I would not have been able to identify her as a heavy user; she didn't seem to have been impaired by drugs. I wondered if they had affected Philip's mind, though, especially considering that he was unstable to begin with.

  Mr. Graham looked confident w^hen he called the state's first witness. Dr. LawTcnce Carrillo, to the stand. We learned that Dr. Carrillo was a clinical psychiatrist who had worked in a state mental hospital for eighteen years. He looked to be in his late fifties, with a heavy mustache flecked with gray and hard, dark eyes. He looked muscular and strictly no-nonsense, the sort of man you would want to have around if a psychotic patient needed to be restrained.

  "Dr. Carrillo, in your eighteen years at the state facility, did you treat patients there who were criminally insane? Whose mental illnesses led them to iolent, criminal behavior?"

  "Quite a few, yes."

  "Were any of them schizophrenic?"

  The doctor nodded almost sleepily. "Generally speaking,

  (185)

  schizophrenics tend to be too withdrawn to become violent, but occasionally, yes, we would see a schizophrenic who had turned violent during a bad spell."

  Dr. Carrillo had been allowed to examine the defendant only once, but was given access to all the results of the tests administered by the defense's psychiatrist, along with all of the material evidence of the case. Mr. Graham created a slight pause in the testimony by going over to his desk and picking up a thick sheaf of papers. It was a short delay, but the break in rhythm got everyone's attention. It reminded me of how, just before playing a cadenza, I would freeze for a beat—the entire orchestra would have just gone silent and people in the audience would be on the edge of their seats, anticipating my climactic flight—and hold for maybe a half a second, creating an almost unbearable tension, then release the first note; I could almost hear them gasp, like someone taking a breath after staying underwater too long.

  After his p
ause, Mr. Graham held up the sheaf of papers and said, "This is a copy of the report filed by the psychiatrist for the defense—Dr. Libertson, I think it was—who came to the conclusion that Philip Weber suffers from chronic undifferentiated schizophrenia. In your opinion, Doctor, is this diagnosis correct .>"

  The laconic witness nodded slowly and rubbed the corner of his eye with his ring finger. "Yep. He's schizophrenic, all right."

  A commotion broke out in the courtroom gallery. The prosecutor's expert witness seemed to be corroborating the defense psychiatrist's testimony. By that time the courtroom was fiUed with spectators every day. In addition to the relatives of the deceased Zen master, at least a dozen journalists were present, and a growing number of curious onlookers,

  (186)

  some of them shaven-headed, were starting to attend as well. There were even a few young women—they always sat in the first few rows—who seemed to have developed an almost romantic fascination for the defendant. The noise in the gallerv' forced Judge Davis to use his gavel in anger for the first time.

  As the whispers died down I looked at the two lawyers to see if I could detect any reaction, but they both remained impassive. The judge threatened to eject the spectators if the talking didn't stop at once. It did, but a nearly audible tension remained in the courtroom. All eyes and ears were on the tired-looking psychiatrist, who had provided us with the most dramatic moment of the trial so far.

  "He's schizophrenic, all right," the doctor repeated, looking right at the defendant, "but he isn't insane."

  "Could you explain the distinction for us. Doctor.^" Mr. Graham asked.

  "Yes. Schizophrenia doesn't automatically make you insane, any more than having cancer makes you dead. Millions of people suffer ft-om schizophrenia, but the disease affects people in different ways, and to different degrees."

  Dr. Carrillo explained that mental illness hardly ever comes in "neat little packages." He said that it is far more common for patients to suffer from a combination of disorders, which is why treating them can be so complicated. He told us that in addition to schizophrenia, Philip showed symptoms of several personality disorders fi-equently seen in violent, antisocial criminals.

  "But what you want to know, I assume, is whether or not Weber knew what he was doing that day, whether he was aware that he was killing a man, whether he could have done otherwise. And the answer is yes, he did know what he was

  (187)

  doing. He suffers from borderline illness, which means diat he approached psychosis, but he didn't cross that boundary. Weber's sick, all right, but he isn't crazy."

  I noticed that this doctor always referred to the defendant by last name only, whereas the first psychiatrist had always used "Philip."

  Mr. Graham asked the doctor how he could be certain that the defendant was not psychotic at the time. What in the evidence led him to that conclusion .>

  The witness grinned, as if to signal in advance that it would be a difficult question to answer. "You look at the whole picture," he said. "You don't just look at his answers on the tests. Let's talk about sanity for a minute. Most of us feel— our gut reaction, OK>—that anybody who commits a horrible crime must be out of his mind. If you commit a senseless murder, set a tenement on fire or try to kill the president, you must be crazy. But we still hold those people responsible for what they do, don't we.>"

  Dr. Carrillo shrugged in answer to his own question, then said, "Let's be honest here—it's an arbitrary judgment we make. No one really knows if the guy who chops his wife up and cooks her could have done otherwise. Given his genetic structure, his childhood experiences, his adult circumstances, we really don't know if he could have done better with his life. It's impossible to really know, but we have to draw the line somewhere, so we say: If someone is able to make rational choices most of the time, if they're able to exert self-control most of the time, then they should be held responsible for their actions. It may sound fancy, but it's really just common sense.

  "It's the same for people with mental illnesses. As I said before, most of them do know the difference between right

  (188)

  and wrong, and the exceptions are usually easy to spot. Classic examples would be the man who suddenly believes that everyone with a briefcase is a spy from another planet tning to kill him and who as a result murders his insurance agent thinking it's in self-defense. Or the man who strangles his wife thinking he's squeezing an orange. When you get borderline cases, though, you have to slow down a little. You want to be asking. Is the guy really psychotic, or is he only indulging his selfish fantasies? In those situations you have to look beyond just the fancy tests. You dig around and ask, What does he say about himself and about the crime, and how do those statements compare with the actual evidence from the crime.^ You look at the interiews, the case histor>'— everything—and you get something like a collage. Then, when you step back and look at it all, you'd be surprised how often it forms a clear picture.

  "In this case, the picture that emerges is of a lonely, insecure, selfish young man who wanted attention. He showed symptoms of mental illness before the crime— including schizophrenia—but on the whole, he had a good deal of self-control and self-awareness. It took a lot of self-control to wield that stick, let me tell you. It isn't easy to kill a man with a stick, even one that big. You have to hit the right places.

  ''Also, he's a fairly bright guy, and thinks pretty clearly. He stumbled on a gold mine when he discovered that Zen church because their philosophy, from what I've heard, seems to encourage 'doing your own thing.' He's not the only one to hop on that bandwagon, by the way; anybody remember the Beat poets? They were burping and scratching themselves at poetr' readings and saving it was Zen for a while, but it went out of fashion prett)' fast."

  (189)

  Several people in the courtroom chuckled at the poetry-reading image, particularly Gary, who snorted like a horse. Maria-Teresa nudged me with her elbow, motioning toward Gary with her eyes and rolling them scornfully.

  "Weber's ideas, as unappealing as they are, are just too consistent and well organized to be coming out of a psychotic mind, I would say. Real psychotics may think they're geniuses, but they almost always make poor sense. The transcripts of Mr. Weber's interviews with the police, the other psychiatrist and me, on the other hand . . . Hell, if you published 'em, I'll bet you'd get a lot of people wanting to be this guy's disciple. He's got a dangerously clever mind."

  (190)

  f. It was disturbing testimony. I didn't have much time

  u to consider how it affected my opinion of the case,

  r however, because just before Judge Davis announced

  the lunch break, Maria-Teresa leaned over and asked, ''I found a better place to eat—are you free today?"

  Of course I was delighted that she wanted to have lunch with me for the third time, but I also worried that some of the others, particularly Mrs. Friedman, were starting to show interest in the fact that we were spending so much time together. As we filed out of the courtroom and dropped behind the others I asked if she'd noticed the whispers and sidelong glances.

  ''Oh, yeah. I don't care what they think—do you.^" It was the answer I wanted to hear, but shouldn't have wanted to hear. I knew by then that she was interested in me; better judgment was telling me that I should not be giving her such encouraging signals. Poorer judgment, however, insisted loudly that nothing bad could come of it, that it was exciting but safe. As soon as the trial ended I wouldn't ever see her again, and nothing serious could happen in such a short amount of time.

  (191)

  The restaurant was a little Indian place in an old hotel building. A tiny speaker nailed to the wall provided us with taped Indian music, which I found distracting. Hypnotic music makes my attention drift in and out, so that I feel as if I were hearing a mosquito making passes by my ear. I had the waiter move us to a table farther away from the speaker, but that only made it more annoying because then it really did sound like the bu
zz of insects.

  Since I don't know Indian food, I let Maria-Teresa order. I'd tried it once in England when I was about fourteen and hated it, but I didn't like anything new then. I wanted my American hamburger for lunch every day, no matter what country I was in. Maria-Teresa ordered me a drink made of yogurt and mango juice; I tried to be open-minded about it, but yogurt makes me think of health food and all the desperately unhealthy-looking people who shop for it, so I let her have the drink and asked the waiter to bring me a martini.

  Maria-Teresa laughed at the martini glass; apparently she found it amusing that someone my age would drink out of such a glass with a straight face. "Can I have your olive, though.^"

  "Not if you're going to make ftin of my drink."

  "I'm not making ftin of your drink. I'm making fun of you."

  I let her have it. She wiped the gin off it with her napkin and popped it into her mouth. "Yum. Ask me something now."

  "What about.>"

  She unleashed that gorgeous smile—she had a slightly chipped tooth, and I was attracted even to that—and said, "Anything. Just ask me something—I want to talk."

  (192)

  I thought for a moment, then asked her what hobbies she had besides listening to proletarian music.

  ''Oh, all right. Are you gonna be disappointed if I say I don't have any good ones?'' she asked.

  ''Why would I be disappointed?"

  "Well, you lead this artistic life, and you're probably always around people who are interesting and creative. My life is just get up, go to work, stress out, come home, fix dinner, listen to the stereo, watch TV, then go to bed. On weekends I try to go out with my fiiends, but since they're all busy with their kids, it's hard to get together. My life is boring, in other words."