Doctor Peters just shrugged his shoulders. "The new breed of Doctors believe in science, Raj Barabdhur. Unlike the previous generation, we need to study all the modern advances in medicine, and though I come from a reasonably privileged background, many of the new men do not. They are from middle-class families who have done well and can afford a better education for their children.
"As a result, perhaps I had a bit of the upper class beaten out of me with their merciless humor." He laughed, the Raj laughed, a sound completely at odds with their surroundings.
"I know the feeling well, my good doctor," The Raj smiled.
The noise of the approaching men was signaled by the dawn, red and angry as it tried to peer through the ever-present clouds and rain. They came in with vengeance, but their anger turned to cheers when they were told that Constance still lived.
The poor woman was wrapped up as best they could, and now that the good Doctor Saunders had arrived he could tend to her. There was a resounding 'hurrah' from the men, discovering their quest had not been completely in vain. It was a small piece of joy in an otherwise bleak and horrible day. And all the while, the rain just kept falling.
Smithers sat with Nickleson, filling him in on their discovery of Constance, and then it was his turn to sit, listening to the gruesome tale of the poor Polish folk. There was nothing really to say, only a process to follow that would contain the consequences: Villagers wanting revenge, women wailing, the company overlords demanding more. "Stay with the Raj,” said Nickleson. “He has the ear of the people, and if the bondsman shows up, he will hear of it first. Keep in touch. For now, the rest of us will camp here, on the pretext of waiting for the fellow to come back. Send word when you have news."
oooo00000oooo
The wailing was heard from one plantation of another all of the way back to the Godfrey plantation. It was like the jungle knew the matter had come to a close. Smithers stepped down from the Elephant as a rare splash of sunlight broke through the gloom, revealing the carnage. Such a sad but seemingly inevitable conclusion.
They had waited until the court photographer had made his way to the scene, to take photos of the deceased. The insane bondsman, lying in a pool of blood, mud, and rain, with the dog dead behind him and the rifle laying to one side. And Godfrey, bled out on his porch, with that weird smile on his face. None of them had ever seen the like, a grinning corpse.
The inquest was convened a month or so afterward, as the Monsoons ended. Statements were taken, reporters had filled the sleepy hotels, as stories about the madness of the tropics were sent to hungry readers. During this time the good Raj had invited Peter's to his personal residence, on the pretext of keeping him away from the reporters.
“Men of science are the new royalty,” he said, unashamedly buttering up the good Doctor. “This is where the future lies. Finding cures for diseases so nothing like this savagery every occurs again, this is where England shall make her mark. Her armies and her Navy gave her dominion, but it is her SCIENCE that will create her memory in the ages to come!” he pronounced to the sage nodding of Doctor Peters.
To himself, he heard the voice of his wise old father. "Lemons make good lemonade," he had always said. And so, the good Raj took a terrible situation, one of potential disaster, and turned it to a benefit. Quietly the word had gotten out, a man of science had gone into the wilds to try and defend the Empire against disease and madness. THIS is what was being published in the London Times, the story of the magnificent doctor who had risked life and limb to get a vaccine to a dying and demented man.
Yes, he had failed, but here was the future! And so on, etc. The small payment of some clean women and good times to a few reporters in town had paid off handsomely - with exactly the sort of press he had hoped to achieve. And now the good Raj had a new friend in Doctor Peters, a man certain to attain a high position. A man who would help HIS son when the time came for his oldest to step onto the ladder of English society.
Goodyear turned a blind eye to everything. The news carried none of the expected “mistreatment of bonded labor” they had expected. No one had exacted vengeance - the matter was sorted man to man - but the fascination of the grinning corpse did get more than its fair share of coverage. No further trials were called for. It was all just an incidence of madness in the jungle. "The Curse of the Monsoon," was the title of the editorial in the Times.
Constance was sent, half-mad, to her Uncles house. She did not want to go back to England, despite the company offering to pay her way. She said nothing to the press and disappeared from view. She would marry some years later and speak not a word of her ordeal to her new and entirely unaware husband.
The only requirement she had of the marriage, which she made perfectly clear, was that the boys from the marriage were to be sent to good English schools, and were not to be raised as plantation owners. No, they were to become doctors or professional men. But every Monsoon that came, every time the rains gathered to fall, Constance grew quiet.
Her uncle had quietly explained a little of the background to her husband, as much as he knew, and he understood. "Moods are like the seasons. They come with their rain and depart with the sun." he would tell the poor, frustrated man in the depths of the rainy season, when Constance would howl for days on end - like a mad dog.
Yellow
Have you ever experienced a nightmare you cannot wake up from? And when you do, it seems to linger - like a bad smell, the sense of it intrudes onto your present. Dimitri Johannes Putri, a Merchant Banker working out of Temple Square in London knew exactly what I am talking about.
Breathing the dank, yellow mist, Dimitri felt that horrid yet now familiar sense of suffocation permeating his mind. He was drowning in the color yellow, yet he could still breath. But is was a gasping breath, a sense of no oxygen. Despite his lungs inhaling the yellow mist, it gave him nothing. Around him, all that existed was a mono-tone of yellow. The hazy floor, yellow, the sense of a wall, yellow. The ceiling, yellow. His heart beat rapidly, a panic rose in his gut. He knew he should run but a morbid fascination held him in place.
He had seen it before, this world of yellow. He knew he should avoid it, his sense said to leave it alone, but his curiosity won. It was just a dream. Perhaps THIS time he could change things. He imagined he had a champagne bottle. If he broke it, maybe he could scratch the surface, and reveal what was under the permanence. It is a dream, he can have anything he wants.
He picks up a bottle, hits it against the yellow wall, but the wall is soft, compliant. The bottle does not break. He smashes it harder, finally meeting enough resistance to shatter the glass. He holds it by the neck and tries to gouge the wall. He feels it cutting through, he feels his success and it excites him. Yet the mist seems self-healing, the wall just forms up behind where he has scratched and, as a consequence, the claustrophobic imprisoning sense of futility once more starts to overwhelm him.
He snaps awake as the threat took over the imagination. Thank God, it WAS a dream. It had felt completely real. He felt he was INSIDE yellow, breathing yellow, suffering an eternal hell of yellowness. And it WAS hell, he knew it. He was being warned and his sense of relief from waking up now turned to anxiety. He knew it would return to haunt him. All he need do was close his eyes and the yellow mist would come again.
Enough, stop the thinking, get up, clean the teeth, pour a coffee. Shake it off, get to work. He can't call in sick anymore, despite the fact he couldn't eat. Food in his belly turned to acid, and he was throwing it up inside the hour. More coffee, drown the fear in caffeine. His gaunt face betrayed the stress, the ever-tightening belt spoke of starvation.
The mirror in the bathroom reflected the strain. Dark rings surrounding red shot eyes. He reached for the O2 and took a few deep breaths. That felt better, a good hit of oxygen always made you feel better. Better than cocaine and far more legal, he thought to himself. Unlike his peers who spent every morning in the bathroom pumping up their adrenalin, he was clean. His body was fit, healthy
- It was his mind that was going.
He dressed, taking on the sharp, trimmed appearance of the Merchant Banker always reassured him. Discipline, he needed to focus. Pull it together. Yes, he knew his company was corrupt, he was a thief by default, but it was a treadmill you can't stop. You lose everything if you stop. Ethics were not his problem. He could go to confession this evening, alleviate the guilt.
But he knew true forgiveness wasn't coming. He knew he was on the eternal wheel - An unforgiving, merciless Awagawan. He like the Hindu tradition, one day he would study it more, but for now, he was dressed for war. Back to the bedroom, ruffled sheets where his gorgeous wife had been, he leaned over and smelled them. It was so good, her sweet scent lingered. He went to the drawers, packed his gym gear into a carry bag. He would work out the night sweats through the lunch breaks. Slipping into the handmade, black patent leather shoes, he was ready for the world.
Downstairs, his wife smiled: Dark hair, dark eyes, so beautiful. The kids, already up, chatting, eating cereal, and him, the hollow ghost knowing he didn't deserve any of it. But he would do the deals, bring in the money, hope for a miracle and carry on. Hope that, somehow, this endless tunnel to yellow would come to an end.
No light but yellow. No future, but yellow. He was shaking as he poured the second coffee. “Bad night darling?” her glorious Spanish accent asked, concerned.
Was it possible she actually loved him? Don't be a fool, he said to himself. When the money ran out, she was gone. “Yeah, nightmares. Worse than before, but I have to get into work.”
“I booked you to see Doctor Christensen for six this evening. He's not just a shrink, he is a hypnotherapist. I think this might be the better way to go, rather than more drugs. They aren't working for you.” she said, sweetly.
By that, she meant his limp dick. The anti-depressants killed him. Lithium ruined his drive. He was a mess, and she would leave him soon, he knew it. Maybe if he earned more money, it would hold off the inevitable. “Good idea,” he said. “Text me the address, I got to get … See you, kids,” and he went round and hugged them all. Every day he hugged them because he never knew if they would be here when he came back.
They laughed and giggled, just perfect kids. Two boys and a girl, all under eight. How could this last year have gone so wrong? Yes, he knew the loan packages were garbage wrapped up in mink. Everyone knew it was going to crash, but all he needed was one more - a cool 1.5 mill in US dollars. That was a million pounds, enough to buy them out of here. One more package before the show crashed and burned.
Then, when hell arrived, when the house of cards burned down, they would have their home in the country, a lifestyle away from the madness, and he could day trade for a living. One more package before insanity sets in.
SIX PM
Doctor Christensen saw more than a few brokers and merchant bankers. Trading in the madness of 2006 was driving them all to the brink. They all said the same thing, hell was coming. It was all going to crash. They smelled of fear and guilt, every last one of them, and Dimitri Johannes Putri was no better or worse than the string of similar he had been working with all summer.
They all had lonely wives and problems getting it up. But they were rich and prepared to pay anything to get a hard-on again.
Dimitri had been lying comfortably, listening to the soft repeating lines. Gently being lulled to a state of relaxation. “You are feeling relaxed, calm. You are walking in a field of flowers. Tell me what you see?” he asked as his client slowly slipped into the subconscious.
Nothing, no comment, only a breaking of sweat. Then a terse, single word, “Daffodils.”
“Why do the daffodils make you worry?”
“Yellow, they are yellow.”
The panic in his voice was a clear warning. “We are leaving that field, we are walking into a peaceful place, a place where quiet music plays. (The doctor queues some soft violins over the speakers) Can you hear the music?”
“Yes, I hear it.”
“Does it make you feel calm?”
“Yes, I feel calm,” Dimitri lied.
Doctor Christensen had never met someone so fixated on a color like this. Did he try and go deeper, seek to unearth the strange fear that was associated with yellow? “Now imagine, you are walking along, and you see a door. You open it and walk in. The room you walk into is red. How do you feel walking into a red room.”
“I am OK.” Dimitri lies again. There was no red room, it was yellow.
Eight PM
“How did it go?” she asks him
“Great!” he lies with false enthusiasm. “I think you may have found the right person.” he lies again. “I appreciate that you are taking so much care, and I know that together we will get over this and get back to a normal life.” He was expecting the cock to crow, but the reality was, his cock did nothing. That was the problem - Dead in the water, like the rest of his life. How long before she left him?
She smiled her sweet inscrutable smile. He had no idea what she thought, how she felt, or if she loved him. He doubted it, but she married him, they had three children, she might feel some sort of affection. He didn't know how, he was a loathsome creature, sucking off the blood of others. Merchant bankers who traded the type of crap he was flogging were the lowest of the low. But it made money, it provided her with a lifestyle, gave his kids an education.
He shouldn't complain, just cope with the self-hate, take some pills, focus on the next deal. A day at a time, a nightmare at a time, just keep going. He resigned himself to the bathroom in an attempt to scrub off the guilt.
Sena watched him, the shoulders stooped, the moving cloud of grey. She had no idea what the trouble was, but she knew it was in his mind. He was a good man but lost. She had reached out many times, but intimacy was met with fear. She had thought he must have been molested as a child, something that would explain how he had changed.
Three years ago he was so much better, but the job came up in the financial district that meant moving from Barcelona to London, ever since it had been a downward spiral. She had read up on the sort of work he was doing, very high stress, leveraged investments. Hours of research, months of talking before 'placing a package' as they call it. Dimitri had done well, made more than enough for their extravagant lifestyle, but the costs were his peace of mind. It was soon after they got to London that the problems started.
Well, tomorrow she would speak with the Doctor. He had stressed that in these matters he had to see both husband and wife and to not mention this to her partner till after treatment was complete. She asked directly if this was because he felt part of the condition lay with her, but he laughed, assuring her that she was just there to fill in the background details her husband omitted.
Apparently, in sexual dysfunction, the male never opens up completely. That was the cause of the problem, he said, some deep area that was shut down. "Could it had been incest?" she had asked directly over the phone. "Yes, this is often the case, but time will answer these things." Doctor Christiansen had responded.
A Second Appointment
Dimitri had headed in to work in the temple district, as always
“Is he angry?” Doctor Christensen asked Sena. He looked at the card, Selena Margarita Brook-Putri. Hyphenated name, she wanted to keep her family connection. She was obviously Spanish - High cheekbones, regal manner, dark hair, dark eyes - and she had the accent. He checked the education, exclusive schools like this meant wealthy parents. He wondered to himself - Why did she marry a poor Jew? But he knows can't ask this directly and get an honest answer.
"Sexual dysfunction usually has a strong, base emotion the person does not state as the cause. Often it can simply be anger, frustration, a feeling of being trapped.” the Doctor opens up the dialogue.
“Dimitri is always angry” she answers, “But he is not violent.”
“Perhaps the dysfunction is because he is not releasing anger?” The doctor states the obvious as a question. “I need to ask very personal questions a
nd, as we are under client privilege, I cannot tell you anything about your husband, but I may be able to help him - and yourself - far more quickly if I can clearly understand your experience.”
Sena nodded. She liked Dim, she wanted this to work, but a husband that couldn't fuck was a pointless marriage. "It started three years ago, with the move to London. That was when the stupid yellow dreams began to happen. He would wake up in a panic, sweating, anxious. Soon after that, he couldn't get it up." She said, and as she spoke she began to realize how she was beyond frustrated.
“Are you able to make him come manually?” the Doctor asks.
Such personal questions, but he was a professional. “I try, it sort of works. I even do a striptease, but in the end, he is mostly embarrassed. He knows he wants to but some part of him just locks up.”
“Are you finding release in other ways?”
“Yes, of course.” So many personal questions.
“Is this satisfying?”
“Of course not.'
“So your husband not only feels inadequate, he will be fearing you are perhaps looking, shall we say ... in other areas?”
“I am an honorable woman, Doctor. What are you suggesting?”
“I am not suggesting anything Mrs. Brook-Putri. Nor am I judging. I am asking questions to discover the precise boundaries, in the hope and trust we will be able to work together to find an answer to this strange psychosis your husband is experiencing. I must admit, I have never experienced anything quite like it, and I am trying to find details that your husband will not talk about. I am sure you will understand, it is a difficult issue.”
“Just impossible.” she agrees. “I mean, he is a good man. He loves his children, he cares for us financially, but the way he is going he will lose his position, and I cannot put my children through his increasing manic behavior.”
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