by Morris West
“How long can you stay?”
“As long as I’m needed.”
“Then first you have to understand—”
“Madeleine, my dear.” This was now my father the diplomat. “Why don’t you take your brother into Larry’s office. You can be private there. When you’ve finished, come back here. Your mother has asked that all three of us join her for lunch at home.”
“Fine. But understand I can’t stay too long. I need to to be back before the children come from school.”
“Of course. I’ll phone your mother now and warn her.”
“Thank you, Father.”
She took my arm and led me across the corridor to Larry’s office. She stood for a moment, stock-still on the threshold, looking at the bookcases and the paneled wall space with its quartet of Boudins and the single Matisse sketch which flanked the obligatory display of academic awards and professional licenses. She shivered and clung to me in momentary desperation; then she pointed to Larry’s empty chair.
“You sit there, please, Carl! I can’t bear the emptiness!”
I sat. She perched herself on the edge of the desk, looking down on me. I waited while she stumbled through the first words.
“I’m very frightened, Carl. I have to stay calm because of the children, but it gets harder every day. I know—or at least I think I know—what’s happened to Larry. Mama believes I’m right. Father can’t seem to accept it. And yet, it’s very simple.”
“How simple?”
“Larry’s manic-depressive. The illness stems from that tragic time in his youth when his parents were killed and he was left pretty much alone to battle through his first years of manhood and his career studies. He’s a highly intelligent, loving man whose life is a continuous roller-coaster ride between peaks of exaggerated euphoria and black pits of the most terrifying depression. The condition is manageable to a certain degree with drugs, and Larry’s been good about taking advice and medication. On the other hand, the biggest highs and the worst lows are triggered by stress, and Larry’s had more than his share of that over these last months.”
“How was he when he came back from France last week?”
“Just off a huge high and heading down into a deep, deep pit.”
“You’re always sure of your reading?”
“Absolutely. It’s as clear as a weather map.”
“And you know how to handle it.”
“I thought…no, I still think I do. The first thing is to make sure he hasn’t gone off the medication or, if he has, get him back on it. That isn’t always as easy as it sounds, because at the top of the highs and the bottom of the lows, reason seems to go out the window. You can’t persuade the sufferer out of the mood. The worst thing you can do is try to argue him out of it. The only thing you can offer is love—and there are moments, Carl, when you just simply run out of that too. You have to take breath and gather yourself again for a new round of giving. Mama understands this. Father doesn’t. He can’t grasp the irrational element. He has no understanding of it, no sympathy with it.”
“But he wants to understand it, Madi, truly he does. I know how he feels. All this is new to me too.”
“You’ve been away too long! You’ve been living too well.”
“So, instruct me. Help me to understand, so I can help you. Tell me, first: Is there any violence in the situation, physical violence, against you or the children?”
“No!” She was quite emphatic about it, but she was swift to qualify the negative. “But if he’s pushed to extreme frustration, yes, violence is possible. I’ve seen him drive his fist through a plaster wall. But he’s never been violent to me or the children. You have to believe me. Larry is a good husband and a loving father. He’s also fortunate that I’ve got enough sense not to nag him in his exalted moments or his low ones. We can’t afford two fares on the same roller coaster.”
“So let’s talk about the highs and the lows. What happens?”
“In the highs, everything is possible. As Larry explains it, ‘You know you can reach up and pluck the stars out of heaven. You can bet a million and win on the turn of a card. You can build empires in your head.’ Larry was on a huge high when Father gave him the Suez assignment. He was so sure of himself that Father became quite irritated. He told Mama he would be glad to see Larry taken down a peg. But that’s the other side of the coin. Larry is a superbly intelligent man. He knew the commitment he had made. He was determined to deliver and he did—at enormous risk and cost.”
“So let’s talk about the downside, the slide into the pit. What happens?”
“Larry said to me once, ‘It’s nothing I can readily describe. It’s a moment, a state when the lights go out but you can still see, and what you do see is horror. There is no value left in anything, least of all in yourself. The easiest solution is to kill yourself. The hardest is to stay alive, because there is no tomorrow left to hope for.’”
“Is the death wish real?”
“Oh, yes. It’s real for him, for me, for all of us. You have to understand that and believe it. Otherwise you can’t help.”
“Be patient with me, Madi. I’m trying to take all this in. Are you telling me you believe Larry has committed suicide?”
“I know that he could, that he might, one day. Deep down I’ve had to prepare myself for the possibility. But this time, no. I believe he’s still alive. I’ve talked at length with the psychiatrist who has been treating him—I admire her and trust her. She works with me, too, because I have to provide the support for Larry and for the family. She believes that this time Larry has attempted to salvage himself by fugue—by a real flight from the real despair which afflicts him. She says the despair is not yet total. He still retains the hope that the upswing will come as it has come before, but the shame of his present condition is intolerable to him. He must cut and run as far and as fast as he can. There is evidence that this is exactly what he has done—and the evidence also points to the fact that he’s been preparing for some time.”
“So suicide or flight would not be an impulsive act?”
“Oh, no! It would be the act of a rational man, trying to escape from the madhouse in which nature confines him. It’s a primal choice: run or die. If you’re lucky you’ll outrun the demons one more time.”
That was the moment when I had to put the question, the hard question.
“Madi, love, you’ve explained this so eloquently to me, why couldn’t you have done the same with Father? Why couldn’t Mama have done it for you? He’s not a stupid man. He has his funny formal ways, but he’s kind and loving and he wants to understand. He feels that a door has been closed in his face.”
She sat silent for a long moment, biting her lip, turning her wedding ring round and round on her finger. Then she laid out the explanation.
“Larry was honest with me. Before we became engaged he told me of his problem. We’d had a long bitter quarrel over something quite trivial, and I was sure everything was over between us. Next morning he telephoned, and I agreed to meet him for coffee. He was deeply ashamed and eager to make me understand the nature of his problem and how he was attempting to grapple with it. Later, before we announced our engagement, he took me to meet Dr. Alma Levy, who was and still is his psychiatrist. However, he made me promise that what I had learned would remain a secret between us. He felt that if any word of his condition got out, his career would be compromised. I remember how he put it: ‘Money’s a timid animal at the best of times, but if word got out that a loony was playing the market…’ We laughed about it then. Dr. Levy agreed that discretion even in the family was desirable.
“It worked, too. Larry has done a magnificent job. So until now I’ve never had to find the words to explain the situation to Father—and when I did find them they were inadequate. Father felt betrayed by our lack of trust in him. I felt frustrated and angry. Mama tried to mediate between us, but even she failed to see Father’s own anxieties. Any public disclosure would be disastrous for Strassber
ger and its clients. That’s why he sent for you—and oh, Carl, am I glad he did!”
“Then say it to him. Don’t make him stand out in the cold. Meantime, you and I should keep working. You said a few moments ago that there was evidence Larry had been preparing his disappearance for some time. What evidence?”
“When he didn’t come home by Sunday I went through his things. I discovered that he had taken his medicine and the renewal prescriptions as well. On the other hand, he had left behind his wallet with his credit cards, his driver’s license, and his passport. On Monday morning I telephoned the U.S. bank. We use a Chase private facility on Madison. The manager is a friend. I discovered that, early on Friday morning, Larry had gone to the bank. He had removed his signature from our joint account, leaving me sole signatory. He made no withdrawal. However, he had cleaned out and closed his personal checking account, which had something like fifty thousand dollars in it. His deposit account had been closed out weeks before.”
“Which means that this financial genius was taking off into the wide blue yonder with a wad of cash in his pocket, a doctor’s prescription, a bottle of pills, and no identification at all. At first glance he’s a certifiable lunatic.”
“That’s what Father said. I called Dr. Levy. She gave me another reading altogether, a much more sinister one. She reminded me first that a manic-depressive is subject to profligate impulses: big splurges at the gambling table, impulsive buying of cars, jewelry, travel. Larry had had some episodes like that—it was only when the credit card bills came in that he truly realized what he had done. Let me say, though, that it was always his own money he spent, never mine or the children’s, or our joint housekeeping Dr. Levy interprets what he has done now as an effort to insulate us from the consequences of anything he may do in the future.”
“But for God’s sake, Madi—”
“Don’t say any more, Carl. You don’t know enough yet!”
“I’m sorry. Please go ahead.”
“Leaving without identification—again according to Dr. Levy—says several things: Larry is not Larry anymore. He has stepped out of his old identity and assumed a new one. Therefore we shouldn’t look for the old Larry, but let the new one walk his own road. However, he does cherish some kind of hope that his old self may be available to him again. Therefore he leaves the proofs of it here with me.”
“In that case he must have assembled a similar set of proofs for his new identity.”
“He could do that anywhere. There’s a whole international market for such things if you know where to look.”
“And if you have money to pay for them.”
“Oh, Larry has money, lots of it: his inheritance, his personal savings, the profits from his own market trading. That was the first thing Father’s investigators did—follow the money trail. They found that over the past four months Larry had rearranged all his finances. Two thirds of everything he passed to me and the children by way of a gift within the family. The other third, which is still substantial, he kept for himself and transferred abroad.”
“What about his shares in Strassberger?”
“All we know is that so far there is no record of sale or transfer. There is no mention of them in the letter from the attorney in New York advising us of the dispositions Larry made for us. I’ll show you that later. It simply says, ‘Our client instructs us to inform you…’ That sort of thing.”
“What about Larry’s transactions on his own behalf?”
“Father’s investigators traced most of those. They all ended at the same destination—a small private bank in Geneva, which, naturally enough, refuses to divulge any information.”
“How small is the bank? How private?”
“Very small, very private. Its president is one Dr. Hubert Rubens. Father’s Swiss colleagues know the man and the bank. Their comment is typical: ‘Little is known of the scope of its operations. Nothing is recorded to its discredit. All our dealings have been satisfactory and within the norms of banking practice.’”
“Does Father have any comment?”
“He just frowns and says Larry must have been doing some very offbeat research.”
“Have you told Father everything you’ve told me?”
“Everything. I wish I could be sure he understands the real nature of Larry’s problem. He still talks about a ‘nervous breakdown,’ like an old horse-and-buggy doctor!”
“Be patient with him. You’d find the same difficulty if you had to conduct a conversation about modern banking.”
“I know. Don’t scold me, please.”
“My next question’s a delicate one. This new, born-again Larry has cut loose. He can be and do whatever he wants. What identity, what lifestyle will he choose? In other words, what are the other faces of the man you married?”
“I have nightmares about that.”
“Whom do you see in the nightmares?”
“An actor, Carl.” The answer came in a rush of passionate words. “A great actor going through a whole repertoire of parts: rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, great lover, sad clown…Each role is a mockery of himself—and of me! I know that’s unfair, because Larry was never intentionally cruel. Dr. Levy explains that he’s had to live half his life behind a mask of urbanity and sobriety. He couldn’t share the wild triumph of the highs. He dared not reveal the squalid terror of the lows. Even with us, his family, there was always some concealment. One day I taxed him with it. He told me, ‘I’m trying to cast out my own devils, Madi. I don’t want you and the children to share my seasons in hell.’ We had to share them anyway. Now he’s given me a hell of my own.” Then abruptly she ended the interrogation. “Enough for now, Carl! I don’t want Father to see me weeping.”
“Why not, for Christ’s sake? It would do us all good to shed a few tears together.”
There were no tears at my mother’s luncheon table. Her imperious presence imposed calm upon us all.
According to Berthe Alexandra Strassberger, a meal should be a civilizing ritual, and respect should be paid to the food and to the good appetite of those who share it. She would have no business talked until the coffee was served. Then she surveyed us all serenely and said, “I assume we are all agreed on what must now be done?”
It seemed to me a very large assumption, but it was not my place to say so. My father had first right of reply. He was very respectful.
“My dear Berthe, we have not agreed on anything yet. We have had only a couple of hours with Carl. It has taken all that time to give him the information we have.”
She turned to me.
“But you are willing to help us, Carl?”
“Of course, Mama.”
“Then tell him, Emil! Tell him what is proposed. Then let Carl speak his own mind.”
“Very well. Here’s where we stand at this moment. The Suez deal has been announced to the financial press. The Strassberger name stands high in the market. No announcement has yet been made about Larry’s disappearance. I propose—and Mama and Madeleine agree—that we release a statement to the effect that on medical advice Larry has taken extended leave to recuperate from the labors of the last few months. It’s near enough to the truth, and it enables us to invoke medical confidentiality with the press.”
“I don’t like the idea. Any lie you tell will later carry its own penalties.”
“Please let me finish. At the same time, though not necessarily in the same statement, we announce that you, Carl, have rejoined the firm as special assistant to the president. Your assignment will be to review, strengthen, and extend our international operations. In fact you will be searching for Larry, and you will have the name and the resources of the company to support you. Your salary will more than compensate you for any delays or losses on your personal projects. I know this comes as a surprise, but I hope—we all hope—you will agree to the arrangement. If you do agree, you yourself will be the sole arbiter of what is told and to whom.”
I should have known that there’s no such t
hing as a free lunch. I should also have known that when Berthe Strassberger lays her silken hand on your wrist and smiles into your eyes, when Emil Strassberger hits you with a sandbag, you drop to the canvas and stay there for the full count.
By the time I had my wits together again, Madi had gone home to her children, my mother had retired for her afternoon rest, and I was closeted with my father in his study, plotting the search for Larry Lucas. It was only when we were private that my father put his true thoughts into words.
“If Madeleine is right, you’ll come upon Larry sooner or later or he’ll drift back when this crisis is over.”
“And if she’s wrong?”
“Then I’ll make an each-way bet. He’s dead already, or somewhere along the line he’s gone over the edge.”
It was too loaded a phrase to let pass.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“Exactly? I can’t say. In the most general terms I mean that Larry could step over the edge of acceptable social behavior—he’s done it already by this flight—and you could find yourself chasing a rogue.”
“But you said he checked out clean with your auditors.”
“He did, completely. What bothers me is the degree of premeditation in his exit. If you accept Madeleine’s explanation and the opinions of Dr. Levy, it represents a rational act of desperation. I find that hard to believe, against the cyclic pattern of mania and depression which they describe. Remember, I’ve worked with Larry. I’ve seen him in highs and lows—and found him equally hard to deal with in either state. That’s my fault, not his. But I’m convinced of one thing: Whatever Larry said about himself, on the upswing or the downswing, it was never quite the whole truth. Understand me! I’m not saying he lied. I accept the element of illusion at both extremes of the experience. I can guess, at least, the loneliness of his suffering. But I have to relieve him of his directorship. He’s a loose cannon now, with a fistful of our shares in his pocket.”