Yes?
“Angelo. Angelo…”
Silence.
Jung waited, but the silence continued. Then he turned and looked at the bed.
Both Pilgrim’s wrists were bloodied—though he was still entirely asleep. Clearly, whoever had spoken had now departed.
The bleeding was not serious. That was clear, though it had been profuse enough to stain both bandages. Lifting Pilgrim’s hands to verify that he was indeed asleep, Jung stripped away the gauze and carried it into the bathroom. Pulling the light switch, he threw the bandages into the wastebasket and ran the hot-water tap. Then the cold. Wetting one end of a towel, he took it to the bedside where he cleaned Pilgrim’s wrists, dried them and laid them on the sleeper’s breast. This way, he created the image of a medieval knight at rest in his tomb, surmounted by his iconic self carved in stone.
Jung smiled.
Carved, he thought, in stone that has finally spoken.
He was glad the moment was over. To pass through such an experience as watching your patient in the grip of another personality always brought with it a rush of exhilaration followed by emptiness. As if you had been flushed like a toilet, and all your energies drained away in a single stroke.
He poured another two inches of brandy and lighted one last cheroot before he capped his pen and put it aside.
He then pushed himself away from the table, turned out the lamp and stood up. He stretched his arms above his head, and rising to his toes, he gave a great sigh—and sat back down.
Looking towards the windows, he saw that the moon had set. There was only the blue-shadowed snow and the merest hint of starlight.
He glanced into the sitting-room. Kessler had drifted off beneath his covers, curled and cosseted as if his mother had tucked him in and wished him a safe journey through the night.
My mother used to say that sleep is a voyage and one must make it safely to the other side of the Sea of Darkness.
Pilgrim, too, had drifted away as if a weight had been lifted—as if, when his dream had passed, a passenger had disembarked, taking all his luggage with him.
Angelo. Who was he? Who had he been, lying naked in his chair—and when? Surely there was more. And who was making the drawing—Pilgrim himself or another? All very stimulating, intriguing—rife with possibilities.
Jung threw back the last of the brandy in his glass, gathered up his clothes and went into the bathroom, from which he emerged a moment later carrying his pyjamas, his toothbrush and his slippers. All these he placed in his overnight bag—a Gladstone—together with his brandy, his notebook and his pen.
In the sitting-room, anxious not to awaken Kessler, he pulled on his overcoat and scuffled clumsily into his ratty old galoshes.
He debated leaving a note for Kessler, but thought better of it when he caught the image of Pilgrim reading it—either by mistake or by cunning. He wondered, gazing back at the bedroom, if Pilgrim would even remember asking for a doctor, let alone the doctor’s presence in the night.
He raised his hand in Kessler’s direction and silently bade him farewell and good day and left the suite.
Six o’clock. Or nearly.
As he hurried down the corridor he thought: the air will be welcome. Even the cold will be welcome. Even the snow. Even the troublesome drive in the car.
There was so much to do.
Lady Quartermaine to see and to consult. Breakfast to be eaten—who cares in what order? And contact to be re-established with the unknown identity with whom he had just spent the night.
And the question—the question. Who was Angelo?
21
Kessler struggled to wakefulness through a dream of beating wings.
Beyond the windows, the first of the doves and pigeons had begun to arrive.
There was a smell. What was it?
Cigar smoke. Cheroot smoke. Doctor Jung.
“Doctor Jung?”
There was no answer. Kessler fell back and closed his eyes.
The wings in his mind made a rustling sound. Feminine. The sound of skirts being kicked aside by women walking. His mother. His sister Elvire. He could hear them talking—whispering.
Is he asleep?
No, no—he’s just pretending. The way he always does, the lazy-bones!
Somewhere, a door shut. In the corridor, voices. It was morning.
Kessler reopened his eyes and pushed himself all the way to his feet.
Don’t go back to sleep.
He went—sock-footed, still disoriented—into the bedroom and stood at the side of Jung’s cot and wondered why it was empty.
Where? When? What?
He stared at the figure lying in the bed and said: “do you want some coffee?”
Never, never coffee. Only ever tea.
“Do you want some tea?”
The body rolled onto its stomach, one unbandaged wrist displayed on the pillow.
“Some toast? Marmalade?”
Pilgrim raised his other hand and put two fingers to his lips.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
There was no response. The fingers remained in place.
Kessler turned away and padded back to the vicinity of his cot. He was awake now and regretted it. I hate being awake. I’d rather dream, he thought. In my dreams, I can fly and escape it all. I can leave them all behind—my mother, Elvire, my absent father, all those sisters I never see anyway…
He stared at himself in the mirror on the wall. There I am, he thought, looking like a candidate for the yellow wagon…But no, I’ve done all that. All that is over. I’m safe. I’m alive. I’m sane. Or so they tell me.
He must begin the day.
He returned to the foot of the bed and touched Pilgrim’s toes.
“Are you alive?” he said. “Speak and be recognized.”
The body did not respond.
It was only then that Kessler remembered hearing Pilgrim’s voice adrift in the dark—and the light that had seemed like candlelight beyond the half-open door.
What was it? What had he said? A name. Someone’s name.
The birds flew up in a gust of wind beyond the window.
Angels.
Angels.
Angelo.
BOOK TWO
1
When Jung returned home, his wife, Emma, was still in bed. She woke to find him singing in the bathroom, from which there was a sufficient spill of light to show her feet the way to the floor.
Padding to the door, she opened it and peered through the steam. There was Carl Gustav seated in the tub scrubbing his back.
“Do you want me to do that for you?” she asked.
“No, no. Go back to bed. All is well.”
“It certainly sounds it,” said Emma. “I haven’t heard you singing for weeks. Was it Mister Pilgrim? Did he speak in his sleep again?”
“YES!” Jung roared like a triumphant child. “YES! YES! YES!”
Emma folded her arms and smiled. “I’m so happy for you,” she said.
“Be happy for the world,” said Jung with a laugh. “One of its most interesting citizens is coming back to life.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Yes. You can telephone the Hôtel Baur au Lac and tell them to give Lady Quartermaine a message as soon as she’s awake. Don’t say a word about Pilgrim. Leave that to me. Just say I’m on my way and want to see her.”
“Now, Carl? It’s seven o’clock in the morning.”
“Yes, now. Of course now. Most emphatically—now!”
Emma departed to make the call. At a quarter past seven Jung was in the downstairs hall pulling on his scarves and overcoat. Pushing his stockinged feet into his galoshes, he bellowed up the stairs: “shoes! Shoes! I’ve forgotten my shoes!”
Seconds later, Emma appeared on the landing, from which she threw down a pair of brogues.
“Thank you. Thank you. I’m away.” Jung blew Emma a kiss, tucked his shoes under his arm, took up his satchel and left the house.
&
nbsp; Emma called after him: “hat! It’s cold! You’ll freeze your ears!” But he was gone.
Emma descended to the hallway, one hand on her belly. “You have a very careless father,” she said—and went into the kitchen.
On his arrival at the Hôtel Baur au Lac, Lady Quartermaine was waiting for Jung in the lobby.
“Such an early call,” she said. “No matter. Have you had your breakfast? I have not. I normally have it brought to my rooms. But this morning…Good heavens, Doctor! It’s not yet eight o’clock. Have you come with news?”
“I apologize for the hour, Lady Quartermaine. But, yes—I have vital news. He has spoken at length—and I need your help to interpret what has been said. And no, I have not yet had my breakfast. I’m famished.”
“We will go in then, and you can bring me up to date.”
They made their way to the dining-room, where Jung was relieved of his scarves and overcoat.
“You seem to be wearing galoshes, Doctor. Shouldn’t you remove them?”
“I cannot. I am wearing only stockings underneath.”
“I see. Well, I won’t ask for an explanation—though I assume there must be one.”
Jung thought of the shoes still sitting on the front seat of the Fiat—and said nothing.
Sybil Quartermaine allowed the Maître d’ to show them to a table “away from too much light.”
Grapefruit halves were ordered. Coffee, toast and strawberry preserves. Jung also ordered an omelette and ham.
Sybil wore a violet morning dress with two loops of pale grey opals. She was hatless.
“I think it pretentious to wear a hat just because you’re on view in a public place. Would you not agree? Of course, being a man, you never have to think about such things. I noted that you arrived without a hat, Doctor Jung. No shoes. No hat. In the dead of winter. You amaze me.”
“It’s May.”
“So you say. But that’s no excuse. It might as well be dead of winter, for all I can tell. I shall be glad of England, where the daffodils had already bloomed and died before we left London.”
The coffee arrived. The pot, once their cups had been filled, was left on the table.
“And so? Your news.”
“I barely know where to begin.”
“You say he spoke. Begin there.”
“He spoke in his sleep. This was after midnight. Four o’clock, I believe.”
“Spoke in his sleep? But we all do that. Is that your news?”
“No, no, Lady Quartermaine. No. You do not understand. Night before last, Mister Pilgrim asked for me in his sleep. And…”
“And so…?”
“Last night I stayed in his room and he spoke again…” Jung stopped and lifted his hand to his head. “I must look dreadful,” he said. “I was so excited, I forgot to brush my hair.”
“Oh, do stop going on about it! Tell me what he said.”
Jung sat forward.
“Has Mister Pilgrim ever spoken to you about a young man named Angelo?”
Sybil set her cup in its place, dabbed at her lips with her napkin and spread the napkin out on her lap.
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“No.”
“What a pity. I was hoping you could tell me who he is.”
“Angelo, you say. What sort of name is that?”
“I assume it’s Italian.”
“Italian. Of course, Italian. I’m still not quite awake, I’m afraid.” She withdrew a cigarette case and lighter from her handbag.
To Jung she appeared to be less unawake than nervous and he wondered why.
“Does it ring a bell of any kind?”
“I’m afraid not. No.”
She lighted a cigarette. “And what did Pilgrim say of this Angelo person, this Italian?”
“He said there was a drawing of him. Naked.”
She set aside the case and lighter and said rather tartly: “are you quite certain the name referred to the subject of the drawing? What about the artist? Angelo could very well be Michelangelo. I believe he worshipped nude young men…”
“Michelangelo…”
“Yes—and why not? It’s Pilgrim’s period of expertise and you can imagine the number of such drawings that must have passed before his eyes. Nudes by the hundreds. Frankly, I prefer the word nude to naked—but have it your way. It was your choice.”
“You seem angry,” Jung said. “Are you?”
“Of course not.” Sybil spread her fingers and gave a shrug. “Why should I be angry?”
“I can’t imagine. But you are.”
Sybil began to rearrange her cutlery. She pouted and looked rebellious, not unlike a bad child.
“Lady Quartermaine, I am in the difficult position of having to deal with a patient about whom I know next to nothing. All I know is how you met, what he does and how well he does it, because I have read his book. And I know he has now attempted suicide twice…”
“More often than that.”
Jung blinked.
Sybil looked off towards the windows. There was a table there with an attractive young man and woman seated opposite one another. Clearly, they had recently been married and could barely keep their eyes from each other.
Sybil turned away and rummaged in her handbag, taking out her dark glasses. “The light…” she explained. “The snow.”
Fitting the glasses in place, she drank more coffee before she spoke again. “Are you married, Doctor Jung?”
“Yes. My wife’s name is Emma. At present she is pregnant with our fifth child.”
“Congratulations. Emma, you say.”
“Yes.”
“A gentle name. A lovely name…”
“Lady Quartermaine—is something wrong?”
“No.” She looked at her rings, but still would not look at Jung. “No. Nothing is wrong. You must not persist in asking.”
“But you said…”
Sybil regarded her cigarette. “I said that Pilgrim had attempted suicide more than twice. Which, I am sorry to say, is true. If you want the details, you may have them from Doctor Greene. I cannot bring myself to relive it all.” She stubbed her cigarette and then said: “he wants so desperately to die. And I…”
“And you…?”
The grapefruit halves were brought by a white-gloved waiter and deposited in place. Each was set in a silver-latticed glass bowl of ice. Each had a sugar-frosted maraschino cherry at its centre. Sybil removed the cherry and put it aside.
All at once, she appeared to be on the verge of tears. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. The truth is, I have been less than honest with you, Doctor Jung…” She turned her spoon on its back and waved her hand and said: “I ask your forgiveness—but there were and there are reasons.”
“Please. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It does. It does. If only I knew how to say all this…”
She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, and removing her glasses, she dabbed at her eyes. She then replaced the glasses and sat with both hands lightly fisted on the table, one hand still holding the handkerchief. When she spoke again, her voice was misted with what, to Jung, seemed to be grief.
“There is such a great, great mystery about my friend—and I am privy only to some of it. Though I hesitate to tell you this, I must. You should know there are journals. Private journals. Some of which he has allowed me to see. His accountings of various—shall we say—episodes in his life. And when you said…” She pushed her uneaten grapefruit away. “When you asked me if I had ever heard Mister Pilgrim speak of someone whose name was Angelo, I said no. Which was true. In the strictest sense, quite true. But…although he’s never spoken the name aloud, I have seen it written. In his journals.”
Jung gave a sigh. There.
One small glimmer of light had appeared. A brick had been removed from the wall surrounding his patient.
He dug into his grapefruit. “Is he real—this person? Angelo?” he asked.
“Not is. Was.”
“Was?”
“Yes. It is a name from the past. The very distant past.”
“And it’s not a fictional name? Not a fictional person?”
“Not a fiction. No. Very real.”
“Who was he, then?”
“A relative of Mister Pilgrim’s.”
“A relative—and Italian. Interesting.”
“Possibly.”
Jung by now had finished his grapefruit and Sybil poured them each a second cup of coffee.
“I wonder who invented coffee,” she said.
“God, I should think.”
“God. Of course. How droll.” She drank. “Do you believe in God, Doctor Jung?”
“Whenever I am asked that question, Lady Quartermaine, I have an urge to give a supercilious answer. Just then, for instance, I was tempted to look at my watch and say that I do not believe in God before nine o’clock in the morning.”
Sybil gave a smile. “In other words,” she said, “it is none of my business.”
“No such thing. I meant only…Ah!”
The white-gloved waiter had arrived with Jung’s omelette and ham.
Jung nodded his thanks and continued: “it is simply that I cannot take part in such a weighty discussion before I have finished my breakfast.”
“Touché.”
“Tell me more about the journals,” he said, cutting into his omelette. It was pleasantly runny. “How did you come to gain the privilege of reading them?”
Sybil regarded her grapefruit—pulled it back towards her and began to eat with her handkerchief still in her hand.
“They were delivered to me in a parcel.”
“A parcel?”
“Yes. Prepared by Forster. Pilgrim’s man.”
“And this was…when?”
“Just after Pilgrim tried to take his life by hanging. That first week, before we brought him here, when he was recuperating and I was making the travel arrangements.”
“I see. And now they are…”
“Now the journals are in my suite here at the hotel.”
Jung stared at her, saying nothing.
He carved a piece of ham and ate it. Then he carved another, pushing it around his plate to sop up the juices of his omelette.
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