“They began by asking me whether the suitcase belonged to me. I confirmed that it did. They asked me why I’d abandoned it at three in the morning, near the intersection of Rue Duplessis and Rue de Plone, five minutes’ walk from my building. A tramp who was sleeping there had recognized me—the American from Rue de Rome.
“I told them that I had nothing to do with leaving it there and that the tramp had probably seen Abraham Hale, my former roommate, who had come during the night, while I was asleep, and who was about the same height and weight as me.
“They asked me whether I owned a pair of green corduroys and a navy blue jacket. They were the new clothes I’d bought near the Hotel Le Meridien. I acknowledged that I owned the clothes and that I’d worn them the day before, but it was still a case of mistaken identity: I’d taken a powerful sleeping pill and been fast asleep all night. But I had reasons to believe that Abraham Hale had been there. Who knows, maybe he’d been wearing my clothes, he sometimes did that.
“I lit a cigarette, wondering whether it was possible that they might not have looked inside the suitcase, weren’t aware that it contained a woman’s corpse. Or maybe it was all a morbid game, Simone’s body was already at the morgue, on the autopsy table, and the building was surrounded by officers waiting for the signal to burst into my apartment and take me in.
“The older one asked me whether I was aware of the fact that the suitcase could be searched without a warrant if it had been abandoned. It’s starting, I thought. I told him that I was aware of that, and he thrust his hands inside his trouser pockets. I saw a gun in its holster and a pair of steel handcuffs attached to his belt. The young officer bent over and opened the suitcase.
“It was full of clothes, which looked as if they’d been stuffed inside in a hurry. Abe’s clothes, to be exact, the ones that had vanished from the flat during the night. Not a trace of the body. They asked me why I’d thrown all those things away.
“I couldn’t understand any of it. Why had Abe abandoned the incriminating suitcase in such a visible place after having somehow gotten rid of the body?
“‘Were you in conflict with … Mr. Hale?’ the questions continued. ‘Where is Mr. Hale now?’ ‘When and where did you see him last time?’
“I told them that Abe had been behaving oddly, but conflict wasn’t the right word to describe relations between us. Abe had moved to somewhere in the 18th district, that was all I knew. I’d never visited him. The last time I’d seen him was when we met at a café about a week previously.
“Finally they left. After I closed the door behind them, I sat down in an armchair and tried to make sense of what was happening. After a few minutes, I gave up. My head was aching so badly that I almost passed out again.
“I looked through the clothes in the suitcase, in the mad hope of finding a clue. In a drawer I found Abe’s passport and a small gold pendant with the Statue of Liberty on it that I’d given to Laura, Simone’s sister, although I had no idea how it had come to be in Abe’s possession. And there, below the stacks of clothes, I found a note on which was written a single word in capital letters: RUN!
“I acted out of instinct—I obeyed the note to the letter and fled. I bought a one-way plane ticket to New York, packed, and went to the airport the very next day. I used Abe’s passport, because mine had disappeared and I was too scared to go to the consulate and ask for a duplicate. I needed to get home as soon as possible.
“After I got past the border control and made it back to the States, I sat down on a bench outside the airport and cried. A few people asked me whether they could help, but I was unable to utter a word.
“The rest doesn’t really have anything to do with why I called you here. I spent a few months in Mexico and then I gradually resumed my life. The fear that the police would knock on my door gradually faded and finally disappeared.
“I had only sporadic and superficial relations with women after that and it never entered my head to marry. If I had turned into a murderer that night, it meant that it could happen again, so I had to remove any possibility of that horrible thing repeating itself.
“I never heard anything about Simone or Abe. For many years, I tried to forget everything, and for a while I thought I’d succeeded. But then, a few weeks ago, something happened—the details aren’t important—and I realized that those memories have always been there, locked up in a secret room of my mind, biding their time. I’ve never forgiven myself for what happened that night, for the fact that I was there, whether I was the murderer or not. I fled like a coward instead of staying to clear matters up and take responsibility.
“I tried to compensate for the remorse by dedicating most of my life to charity. I wish I could turn back the clock. I can’t do that, but I don’t want to leave this world without knowing whether I am a criminal or not.”
I felt just as exhausted as he looked as we sat there in the dark. I could no longer make out his features. He was nothing but a deep shadow, a vague outline dissolved in the black water in which we were submerged, making us prisoners of the mystery he’d finally shared with me.
He got up slowly and turned on the lights before sitting down in the armchair once again.
“Now you know what this is all about,” he told me, looking at me somehow defiantly. “And tomorrow, if you agree, we shall begin our task.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” I told him. “First, I need your medical records. Second, I also need you to sign a statement confirming that you understand the risks involved with such therapy and that you accept full responsibility for any eventual consequences. Depending on the medication that is being administered to you, it remains to be seen whether such a statement will have legal validity, given the possible ground of diminished responsibility.”
“I know all that. You’ll find a copy of my medical record in your room. I’ve already been advised by my lawyer in regard to the statement—the painkillers I’ve been taking and the doses don’t diminish my mental faculties.”
“I see you’ve thought of everything.”
“I’ve had months and years to think about this, and I’m a man who likes to have things in order.”
“We could try a word association test,” I said. “It would only take me a day or two to devise it. Sometimes the results are truly spectacular, and a lot more certain than those of hypnotic regression.”
He shook his head. “I’d like to stick to the hypnosis. We’ll see after that whether further tests are required.”
“Josh, did you keep a diary during that time?”
“No, I didn’t keep a diary. Why do you ask?”
“Sometimes our memory can play terrible tricks on us … How someone put it a long time ago, remembrance of things that happened isn’t necessarily the remembrance of things exactly as they were.”
“I have a very good memory, James. I’ve always had. And over the past few days, before you came here, I wrote everything down on paper, trying to remember precisely every detail.”
“I understand that and I’ve noticed that you can remember a lot of details, but our memory isn’t a camera that simply registers images and sounds; it has an incredible capacity to cosmeticize and even falsify its recollections.”
“I know what you’re suggesting, but I can assure you it’s not the case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get some rest. See you tomorrow morning.”
I found the medical record on the coffee table in my suite. Next to it, in an envelope carrying the logo of one of Joshua Fleischer’s foundations, was a waiver of liability in the event of any eventual unpleasant consequences arising from the therapy sessions he’d agreed to, along with a doctor’s certificate attesting that his current medication didn’t affect his mental capacity.
The leukemia had been detected in its late stage, had gone into remission after treatment with cytostatic drugs, and had then erupted and spread. It was almost a miracle that he was still alive and that his suffering wasn’t more acute. But all in all, it was a typic
al case, without any special connotations.
Before going to bed, I took out a notebook and fountain pen and jotted down an outline of the session. I also wrote down a plan B, in case the first didn’t work.
eight
I PRESERVED THE NOTES I made during the two sessions of hypnosis that took place successively on the following day. I reproduce them here verbatim.
Session 1
Patient: Joshua Fleischer, male, sixty-four, suffering from leukemia, no other known conditions.
The subject is slightly agitated, has an elevated heart rate and blood pressure, dilated pupils. He’s in a state of emotional alertness and wants to make sure that I’ve taken care of all the details. He states repeatedly that he has complete trust in me.
Before starting the session, he spoke on the phone with his attorney in New York for a couple of minutes. He checked that Walter and the nurse were on standby and tested the panic button. At my request, the curtains were drawn in the room. He made sure that we wouldn’t be disturbed by the medics or the house staff on duty.
The session is being recorded on an audio-video digital device, with the magnetic disk to remain in the patient’s possession. No copies have been authorized.
I commence the procedure for inducing a trance via verbal suggestion.
Patient is very tense. He reacts significantly only when I suggest he pictures himself on an empty beach. His level of suggestibility begins to increase. I proceed to induce the trance. The reaction is positive. Level-two state successfully induced.
To begin with, I attempt the method of objective induction. The subject’s definite identity is annulled with a view to diminishing the anxiety attendant upon abandonment of the repressive filters.
“Joshua Fleischer is now four years old. He’s calm and safe. You’re his only connection with other people. Can you ask him to describe for you what he sees?”
“There’s a lawn. He’s afraid of a bumblebee. It’s flying close to him. Mrs. Michaelson … Yes, he … The grass is wet. He might be invisible. Maybe he has vanished in the grass. Water … Debbie ought to have come out, to be with him. She’s wearing red stockings and white sandals.”
“Who’s Debbie?”
“She’s his babysitter. She talks on the phone for hours and her hair smells bad. She has a big, brown mole under her nose.”
He’s uneasy, he groans.
“An old man was hit by a car. The road was gray. He saw him when they pulled his body out of the highway. His face was red. He doesn’t know where everybody is. Debbie should be with him. He hears her voice, but he can’t see her. Ants, they are all over the place.”
“Everything’s fine. Many years have passed since then and Joshua is now sixteen. You’re standing just beside him. Tell me where he is and what he sees.”
He has an expression of fear on his face. He turns his head as if he’s trying to work out where he is. He gnaws on the fingernails of his left hand. With his fingers, he twists an imaginary lock of hair above his ear.
All of a sudden he leans forward, as if he’s been hit across the back of the neck, and he lets out a deep groan. He clutches his face in both hands, covering his mouth, as if he’s stifling a scream. He opens his eyes and looks at me without seeing me. Saliva trickles down his chin. He is breathing rapidly.
“Where’s Joshua?”
“He … enough …” he says and makes a gesture with his right arm, as if to say something is over. “Please … for … give … him …”
His voice is that of a teenager, choking on his tears. He’s weeping. But there’s something in that tone, as if he’s under anesthesia and his larynx is stopping him from articulating his sentences properly. The words are gelatinous. His eyes are now half-closed. He’s rocking back and forth in his chair, groping around him with his hands, like a blind man.
“He had no business being there,” he says, in a different voice, that of a grownup, bitter and harsh. “What the hell was he doing there, with that girl? Of all the boys, it had to be him! Who gave him alcohol, for God’s sake?”
He’s suddenly thrust backwards, hitting his shoulders against the back of the armchair. He lifts both hands to his left clavicle. The sounds he emits are suggestive of intense pain.
“The red room,” he says. “That room … I don’t want to go back in there ever again …”
I pause for ten seconds and then take the state of relaxation deeper, to the third level. His breathing is now regular. His expression relaxes.
“Ten years have passed and Josh has graduated from college. How does he celebrate on the day of his graduation?”
He looks preoccupied. He laughs, keeps running his tongue over his lips, he’s swallowing as if he’s salivating strongly. He says something in a low voice, but I can’t make it out. He seems to be searching for an object near him. He keeps looking at his left wrist, as if trying to find out the time.
“I don’t think she’s coming,” he says and mimes lighting a cigarette. He “smokes” angrily, increasingly agitated. “Hey, Phil, how have you been doing? No, man, I don’t think so, I’ll wait a little longer, and maybe … Somebody has to … It’s not a question of cowardice, just that …”
He doesn’t say anything else. He’s concentrating, as if trying to remember something. His lips are moving silently. His facial expression keeps changing every few seconds. Then he takes a deep breath and enters an almost catatonic state, his arms outstretched in front of him, palms facing upwards, as if releasing a captive bird.
“Joshua is in Paris, France, in a suite at a hotel named Le Meridien. Abe Hale, his friend, should be arriving in a few minutes. Joshua and Simone are already there.”
He seems to be concentrating hard, and nods quickly as if trying unsuccessfully to grasp what is expected of him.
“Joshua thinks it’s a mistake,” he says with sadness in his voice. “He likes it there and he wants to stay. He can’t believe Simone agreed to it. He knows it may be dangerous, but … Maybe it’s not the only way ...”
“Was it Josh’s idea that they meet there?”
“No, it was hers … Who cares, anyway? Abe shouldn’t have come.”
“Why are they in that hotel suite?”
“She said that she wanted to ... Abe’s trying to persuade her to change her mind, but she doesn’t want to. He’s a lunatic. She says that she would rather die than tell him what ...”
His voice is low, weary. Then he gives a start, twists his head around as if he’s heard a noise somewhere to his right. His lips are moving, but he makes no sound for a number of seconds.
“That’s room service. They ask for another bottle,” he says, looking at somebody invisible on his right. “Hey, where … No, he doesn’t think so …”
He looks all around him, blinking rapidly, like a man who has found himself in the dark and is trying to work out where he is. Suddenly, he opens his mouth wide and freezes with a look of terror on his face, with his eyes wide open, staring into space. He’s sweating profusely.
“There’s a clock on the wall. Look at it and tell me what time it is now.”
He slowly turns his head to the left, like a mechanical doll. He mutters something unintelligible.
“What time is it now?”
“No,” he says, and shakes his head adamantly. “He can’t do it. He doesn’t think it’s the right thing to do. Not now, not ever. They should …”
He lifts his legs up and hugs his knees, as if he’s sitting on the floor.
“Must … It’s a mistake … No, he won’t say anything. Each of them must choose what to do.”
He keeps shaking his head, and from time to time it seems like he’s watching somebody moving around within a confined space. He seems to be holding a book, which he leafs through, shaking his head.
“Now … ”
“He can see her now … Oh, my God, this can’t be true! What have they done? Oh, no …”
His scream is so loud that I’m sure it must have been heard all th
rough the house. He leans forward, places his feet on the floor and clutches his knees tightly. He freezes, catatonic once again.
He no longer responds to questions, he rejects two successive suggestions at regression. I decide against taking the trance to level four. I proceed to gradually bring him back to a waking state.
He breathes deeply, looks in every direction, glances at the clock on the table.
“Only twelve minutes have passed,” he says.
“We reached an impasse,” I explain. “There was no point in trying any further.”
“So, what have we found out?”
He’s impatient, his habitual mask of composure seems to have slipped, and he doesn’t attempt to adjust it.
“Nothing significant,” I tell him, and he can’t conceal his disappointment. “You were there, in the hotel room, most likely with Simone and Abe, just like you said. One of you tried to make the others change their minds about something. Abe arrived later, but it seems that you were both waiting for him in the room. I don’t think you were hiding when he arrived, unlike what you told me. I think your memory’s guarding those recollections extremely well, as I expected. You kept repeating that you weren’t going to say anything.”
“Is that all?” he asks. He shifts his gaze from me to the video recorder, which is still running, as if he suspects I might be hiding something.
I tell him that the first session is exploratory and that in the second I won’t be using the objectification method. I explain to him what this method has entailed—it’s suggested to the subject that he’s a different person witnessing the scene he’s about to relate, in order to eliminate blockages and inhibitions. The description of a scene from a neutral perspective on the subject’s part greatly enhances the accuracy of his account. In the following session, I’ll be using his real identity.
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