Doctor Christensen nods gravely. "Were there any, shall we say, defects in his lovemaking, during the times he was able to perform?”
“Does he come too quickly? Of course, he is a man,” she snorted. “Get it up, pop it off, fall asleep.”
The Doctor made a note of the latent anger of the wife. He made notes about everything, even when they said nothing. He thought plenty: This 'yellow' business, it is unusual, but generally this type of dream represents a transferred fear from something else in his subconscious. Rather than face this fear, his Censor changes what he is trying to face into the color yellow. What he said was, "In essence, your husband is avoiding confrontation. I would suspect that in his mind, sex has become a form of confrontation, which would explain his inability to perform. The added fact that the sexual dysfunction started at the same time as the dreams clearly tells us they are related. Have you ever considered the fact that YOUR frustration is part of the problem? YOUR needs are something he senses, which only adds to his sense of inadequacy?”
The look of surprise on her face told him the answer. No, she hadn't thought about this. She sat there for some time, thinking deeply. The good doctor knew to say nothing. Finally, she nodded. “What should I do?”
“I cannot advise you on this,” he responds solemnly. “But I can advise you that suffering and personal unhappiness are never things that solve problems or make a good marriage.” he paused and looked directly into her rather gorgeous eyes. “Rather than ask how we can fix your husband, maybe you need to ask how you can improve your present and immediate needs?”
All it took was a gentle resting of a hand upon the thigh. A firm, reassuring touch. The knowing that this would be kept secret, a thing bound by doctors privilege. She could say and do anything, and no one would know. Her deep urgency, frustration, and fear brought out tears. She did not resist as the good Doctor came over to console her, whispering soft words of reassurance.
They made love for a good part of the afternoon, leaving Sena feeling refreshed and relieved. She walked out of his offices far less angry about the injustice placed upon her.
The Good Doctor smiled as he watched her walk to the car. He had the whole area on security cameras because clients told you more about how they walked and looked AFTER a session than during it. Little Sena was looking good, and it reminded him just how much he enjoyed his work. As a Sexual counselor, the one thing that was most common was frustrated wives. Poor saps like Dimitri were a dime a dozen. What an idiot. Anyone couldn't get it up for a priceless jewel like Sena, a girl who oozed sex, was a fool.
He laughed, they PAY him to fuck their wives.
The Hollow Ring of Success
The night has given him no relief. Drugs blurred the memory of the nightmares, softened the blow, but sleep had eluded him. Dimitri had only been at work thirty minutes, and he felt exhaustion creeping up.
He had to shut his eyes. Lack of sleep and the high-pressure nature of his job forced him to shut the door to his office and lie down beside the desk. Sleep came immediately, blissful, deep sleep. Contentment flowed through his heart, he felt wonderful.
Dimitri was walking through a green field, content, alone. Green, so beautiful. He felt connected to everything around him, part of nature, part of life. The flowers seemed to sing, the air was bright and fresh. He looked down and saw a simple dandelion. He never realized how pretty that ordinary flower was. Then he saw another, and another. Then the horror dawned on him, Yellow!
His bliss began to turn, the color of the dandelion reached out. everything began to blur as the yellow became a mist that flowed upwards and into his lungs. Once more he is suffocating, surrounded and incarcerated by yellow. His happiness is gone, his bliss has turned to a numb sense of terror.
He wakes in a panic! Lying beside his desk, staring at the ceiling, inwardly screaming with frustration, he hears the reason for him waking, the telephone. He gets up, answers. It is a client, one seriously interested in a package. He puts his fear and loathing behind him and speaks with smooth confidence. One Point Five Million Dollars: This is all he sees. The yellow has receded into the distance, and he is once more focused on the task.
“Yes, iron-clad security. The top 30% guaranteed at sixteen percent, the second tier is returning nine percent, the lower 20% is at five. Your net return over thirty years is 30% per annum on the investment, with the top 30% guaranteed by Morgan and Stanley. You cannot do worse than 10%.” Dimitri pauses as he fields the obvious questions. “We all know about the market fears, but can you tell me a time when such high returns were 'not' met with gossip and market jitters? It's a volatile market, which is precisely WHY these sorts of products are being made available.”
Just wait now. Wait for the greed to kick in, to override the fears. A good trader feels the pulse of the client, hears how he breaths, listens to what he thinks and waits for the subtle shift, and FINALLY - the decision. "Yes, I am happy to speak with your accountant Sir Thompson."
He is patched through. The usual questions, all which were covered in the prospectus the fellow didn't bother to read. “Yes, Morgan Stanley issued the package. Yes, under the US stock market. Yes, top tier level of the package fully guaranteed. No, no significant downside risk.” He had said it many times. The buyers and their accountants all knew in their bones it was too good to be true, but their investment funds were so flush with money they had to stuff the excess somewhere, and this had all the hallmarks of a good deal.
It all looked so good on paper, yet most merchant bankers flogging this crap knew it was a parcel of defaulted loans repackaged as a gold class investment. And who cared if they failed, they were guaranteed! Even if the bottom tier dropped out, as it would, the whole thing was still profitable. As long as it made money, looked good on the books, and soaked up some of the excess liquidity, it remained a tradeable commodity.
Dimitri is patched back to the buyer, “Are you ready to move on this package, John?” A pause, then an affirmative. Thank fucking Christ! “Excellent, I will have the paperwork sent over and we can close this deal, and might I say Sir Thompson, a very wise choice.”
He hung up before second thoughts hit the buyer. Next, he rang his secretary. “Send a dozen roses to the wife of Sir John Druthers Thompson, yes he just took up an option. I want him collected in the Bentley for the signing at the head office, and get the paperwork off right now to his listed barrister and accountant. And, obviously, send the confirmation certificates to his bank and Morgan Stanley to close it.”
Her congratulations were thin, it was just another deal done. His first in six months, though. A long time between drinks. What a relief - what he had done was not just buy more time at his desk, he secured the option to buy the property in Wales. He could retire now, if he wanted to. One and a half mill is a lot of commission.
He should have felt fantastic, but instead of elation, all he felt was the yellow dream he had woken from. Will it go away now? Will he be free of the curse? Dimitri doubted it was this simple. Maybe he should have told the shrink more? Something said no - He didn't trust the guy, he didn't know why. Anyway, early afternoon. He felt better, the future had been secured, or would be by tomorrow afternoon.
The dreams started with London, time to leave, start afresh. It was the job, he knew it, the job was what was grinding him down. Time to move on, to Wales, or maybe back to Spain. It really didn't matter now, he had done it, time to pack up before the whole thing crashed.
The taxi pulled up to an empty house. Sena was out, and the kids weren't due back from school for an hour. Well, good, he was exhausted. He needed some dreamless sleep, a sign he was out of the woods. He goes past the marble kitchen, the leather lounges, and expensive art, but pays it all no mind. He walks into their bedroom, with the silk curtains, Arabian rugs, and African tribal sculptures, then heads into the bathroom with its gold plated taps. He takes off the monkey suit, Saville Row, perfectly tailored. The shoes cost a thousand pounds, the embroidered tie two hundred quid.
Even his socks cost thirty quid. Just money but necessary: everything was about looking good, appearing successful.
You put up the front, oozed confidence, smiled sincerely, and looked the part. That way people trusted you, you were part of the fabric that wealth was cut from. Only a few months ago Sir John Druthers-Thompson had cropped up, successful, rich, ran a chain of dentistry practices. First class sap. How the FUCK did he manage to build a business worth five hundred million pounds who can say, but one hundred mill of it got dumped into that ONE package he bought today.
Of course, Dimitri had done the research before schmoozing the clucker. He found him hookers, took him to the right casinos, made his life heaven on a stick, all at his personal expense. People don't get the cost of business in this town. Find the mark, work it, make it pay. Talk up the deal in a quiet way: Good solid investment, real estate package, not like the flaky options crap, and much higher return than blue chips with way less risk than you might expect - at least on paper.
Well, when it fell over the sap still had his guarantee, so Dimitri didn't feel too bad. Yet when you know for certain that you are selling a shyte sandwich and calling it sushi, it is hard to keep the smile permanently on your face. Surely the mark would speak to someone with a clue? Surely Sir Thompson would bump into a banker who knew what trash his company was selling?
But no, his boy sailed through almost three months of schmooze, blissfully unaware of the garbage rolled up into the package he bought. The US had gone to hell in a handbasket, packaging derivatives, inflating outcomes, offering absurd warranties, but Wall Street was also paying out these outrageous commissions.
In the last two years, he had knocked out a few contras, and patched across a few people into a basket buy, but dear Sir Thompson was his first and only full-comm package. That meant it was all his: One point five mill, the value of seven years of broking rolled up into a single deal. Finally, he had the capital to get out of this rat race.
He laid down but didn't sleep. Dimitri felt irritable, irritated. Then he hears the garage door, it will be Sena. Good, he can tell her the news. Time to be out of London, away from the stress. He looked down at his limp dick, smacked it to see if it would wake up. “Fuck you,” he said to the useless piece of crap. He got dressed, casual clothes. The kids will be home soon, time to go out for a family meal.
Homecoming
Sena walked in, feeling better than she had in years. Smiling, whistling, what a relief to have a real man, and someone she can trust never to speak. It wasn't that she didn't care for Dimitri, but he really was a nervous wreck, always worrying about every little detail. OCD, with some sort of issue from childhood, he never relaxed. Her parents had noted he was highly strung, their way of saying not a good fit. Maybe they were right.
She was genuinely shocked to see him standing there in the kitchen when she walked in, smiling. Her guilt was immediate, he must have found out, but how? Maybe he had the whole thing set up? He wanted a divorce, he wasn't impotent, he hated her. He wanted to get rid of her and had set her up, videoed her making love to the doctor.
The smile vanished, the whistle stopped in mid-air, and both of them just looked at each other. Married for ten years, complete strangers, they both stood there, staring at each other like neither knew who the other was. Sena spoke first, “You are home early. Is there a problem?”
Dimitri just stared back. He felt yellow rising around him, he was breathing yellow, suffocating in yellow. He staggered to a chair to sit down, thinking he was about to pass out. His hands were shaking, his heart racing, maybe it was all finally over?
Sena ran over. Tears in her eyes, her Catholic upbringing taking charge, forcing her to confess her guilt to her husband. “I am so sorry Dimitri, I don't know what came over me. I don't know what to say.”
Dimitri heard nothing. All he saw was yellow, walls of yellow closing in. Storms of yellow, crashing in the distance, resounding thunder of yellow. Lightning flashes, piercing bright and yellow smashed his thoughts. He passed out, sliding into a sea of yellow oblivion. Death in yellow, his final thoughts.
Sena cried, realizing that she loved him, understanding how evil she had been to cause him this shock. How did he know? The whole thing must have been a setup. But he had been driving her to it, knowing her hot blood, knowing what she would do.
Hospital
Dimitri came to in a hospital bed. White, everything blessed, pure white. Maybe this was heaven? Perhaps he had escaped hell, and come to the good place after all? Then he felt the heaviness in his body and a nurse who had noticed him awake came over. “Good to see you awake, Mr. Putri. That was a nasty turn you had. I placed a call and your doctor will be in shortly. He asked me to advise him when you woke. He will explain what happened.”
Emptiness. The echoes of footsteps down long corridors, the whistling sound of some machine. Nothing else. Dimitri looked about, private room, bare and clean. He must have collapsed. What was Sena saying? He barely heard it before he passed out. Yellow everything, it had consumed him, threatened to kill him, and there was nothing he could do. Must have been a panic attack, he reasoned.
The doctor came in, a very serious man, in his late 50's, carrying a clipboard. As he held it up to look over the details, Dimitri saw his name on it. “What's wrong Doc?” he asked.
"Stress-induced heart attack, as far as I can see. You work in high-level finance, yes? (Dimitri nodded) Well, Mr. Putri that was a calling card from the Angel of Death. You need to have a complete break, and I mean a total stop. Stress is killing you.”
“Is that all?” Dimitri said, relieved.
Doctor Carrigan, Senior Surgeon, or so Dimitri had presumed because that is what the name badge said, was not amused. “Your wife was in a panic, talking about some visit to a Doctor Christensen being the cause of this. You saw a psychotherapist yesterday?”
Dimitri nodded, “Yeah, strange guy. Didn't like him.”
“I am glad to hear, Mr. Putri. The guy is a hoax. Absolutely no qualifications at all. Did he prescribe or offer you any pills?”
“No, barely spent any time there. My wife found him for - er - a condition he specialized in. She booked the appointment, never seen the guy before. A hoax you say?”
“At least he didn't give you anything that could have triggered this, but he does NLP, a sort of programming thing. These fools believe they can train you to act in certain ways through eye movements and finger movements. He has no qualification in any form of sexual dysfunction, but thankfully that doesn't seem to be the trigger for the heart attack. Mr. Putri, in simple terms, you have an extremely high-stress job, and the stress has won this round. My advice, if you wish to live a long life, is to walk away. Maybe come back in a year when your system has readjusted.'
The doctor looked at a list of readouts, “There are more tests we would like you to do, but even without these, I know the symptoms. You have been living with too much worry, stress and anxiety for too long, and your heart has given you a clear message to stop. I spoke to your wife, and she said her parents had a spare house in Spain. Quite frankly, she is worried to death herself over you, blaming herself for this." The good doctor paused and looked directly at his patient. "If I may speak directly, I have rarely seen a woman who loved her husband as much as she clearly does. I would strongly suggest taking the easy road, go to Spain, rest, recover.”
He paused, making sure Dimitri got the message. The resigned nodding of the head was a good sign. “She also said you have been suffering from very strange nightmares, which started when you both first came to London three years ago?”
Dimitri trusted this man. “I close my eyes, and all I see is yellow. I am breathing it in and suffocating in yellow every night. I live in fear of shutting my eyes, can't sleep, can't fuck, can't do anything but work. And yeah, started when we came to London.”
The Doc nods. “That sounds like a hell of the worst sort. Look, I am no psychiatrist, but I have seen a lot of people over many years. One thing I ra
rely see is a loving wife, healthy kids, and everything to live for. Have you been feeling suicidal?”
“No, not really. But I know it's all going to crash, Doc. These nightmares of Yellow, I know they are a symptom of what's coming. I just want it to end. I am tired, exhausted, and honestly - I am sure my wife wants to leave me, so when that happens i lose the kids, and I will have nothing to live for.”
Doc Carrigan held back a tear. “My wife died last year. I only realize now how much more I could have done for her. She was a good woman, never complained, never interfered, understood how this job keeps you up for god awful hours. I miss her, but I at least I still have my work and friends. Now I am guessing all you have ever done is work, am I right?”
Dimitri nods. That is what he was trained to do, as soon as he was walking and talking his parents had him doing jobs. All the kids worked the farm in Romania. Half-starved, cold, it didn't matter, you worked. When his father died and there was no income, his mother became a hooker. It was the only way to support the family. Finally, she earned enough to bribe border guards, and she got them out of the communist poverty and into Europe.
“Make something of yourselves,” was all she implored of them. “Be someone that matters, make a difference.”
The Doc didn't wait for him to answer, “Dimitri, may I call you Dimitri? (he nods) You have been given a message and a second chance that few others get. You should have died, but only a string of events saved you. Your wife called an ambulance and one was literally next door. The paramedic was one of the few who understood what was happening and applied shock to kick start your heart. You were in here on life support inside twenty minutes and you had the very good fortune of private health insurance so you could afford me. This is my specialty, and I am telling you, your whole system is run down. Maybe some part of you is sending these dreams to tell you to get out of where you are? You ARE suffocating, Dimitri, in more than the stress of the job. You need a complete break. Complete and total.”
Witch Hunters and Other Stories (2018-2019) Page 14