Schizophrenia
52 Sarah
At last, we are at home, and my dear husband is resting, after what was supposed to be a long break away, in Berlin. I know, he did enjoy himself, and he was well cared for.
My friend Gabrielle, and his own sister Jane, did say that the change could have worked, if only. But his schizophrenia is now too advanced to heal itself without a great deal of professional help. His phantasms about the mythical Melissa have got worse over there, with hallucinations that frightened me at times.
Conspiracies
I am still puzzled at the way his imagination works, and how, in front of our eyes, he transformed that peaceful holiday, in a city he professes to love – it is my city after all – into a progressive nightmare of conspiracies, weird aliens and personal grief. At one point he said that he had enough material for at least two novels. Gabrielle says that his talent as writer is the obverse of his tendency to morbidity, his sudden depressive bouts, and his suspicion of strangers.
His sleep is peaceful enough. Since we came back, he has hardly spoken of Melissa; for now she appears to have dissipated behind some other dream. For I do not doubt that he is dreaming, even when he’s awake. As his wife, my role is to watch over him, to take care of his needs, to protect him.
Disciple of Jung
Jane comes and visits when she’s in the country. And our doctor, Helga, is here at least once a week. We have known her since Julian showed his first sign of serious illness. Gabrielle introduced us to her. At first I was a little frightened of her piercing grey eyes, her jet-black hair, and her long, beautiful hands. The hands of a witch, I then thought. Helga is Austrian, and a disciple of Jung. She’s however a cool clinician, and her approach to treating Julian is most impressive. With Gabrielle, who knows her since their medical school days, we have often spoken of the origin of Julian’s illness.
Helga has a very pragmatic view: Julian is victim of some genetic quirk, but also of a vivid imagination he has carefully nurtured as a fiction writer. She has an interpretation of my husband’s obsession with the little town of his childhood, and of Melissa, his college sweetheart. For Helga, Julian missed out big time as a youngster, all messed up he was with ideas of chivalry, his delusive military ambitions, his idealism. He has now reconstructed the character of Melissa in a new incarnation, all fictional, but for him, also real.
Platonic Love
For myself, I believe there is more to it than his school years and his platonic love for that young girl. Julian goes back, time and time again, to the period that followed his leaving the little town, what he calls his lost years. I have looked at his papers, his military record, his diary. He was seriously wounded in North Africa, nearly died from head injuries. Perhaps the Melissa of today, however fictional, is that of his dreams, when he was awaiting death, on his hospital bed. Perhaps the Coven of his delirium is a compendium of all the threats that surrounded him then.
Parables
53 Julian
I have lost all energy, and the world around me no longer makes sense. Sarah’s here, as ever loving and attentive to my needs; yet she talks to me in a different voice now, as if to a child. When I ask her a question, about Brooklyn, for example, or about what we heard at the conference, she answers with parables, or just smiles and changes the subject.
What happened to her? What is happening to us? Is it merely the change of rhythm, the change of city? I know those days in Berlin were magical: the tree-lined streets, the companionship, the limitless sex… How I miss the small apartment near Viktoria Park, our running across the old airfield in Tempelhof. Has the magic gone, or is it all in my mind? Sarah, the ultimate logical being, seems to be telling me that nothing has changed, and that I should rest. Why am I so tired, am I ill? I don’t feel ill; I don’t feel I have changed, but the world around me has.
The worst part of it is that Melissa is nowhere to be seen. Yet I know she was with us travelling back from Berlin. I still see the two of them, my wife and her, walking across the arrival luggage area at Heathrow, chatting and laughing, while I pushed the trolley with our suitcases. Then things got blurred. Sarah drove us home, through the evening traffic and the usual rain. I fell asleep, next to her, or was it next to Melissa?
Twist in Time
Am I the victim of a twist in time? Or is there a sombre explanation for what I feel? In my office I watch out of the window, over the late autumn garden. The rain is falling on the dead leaves, a solitary crow picks up minuscule black corpses on the wet grass.
There is nowhere to go: Sarah is out for the rest of the day. Jane is still in Russia, perhaps she will call tonight from her hotel… The idea of going to the city appals me, merely thinking of the crowded walkways, the overwhelming noise, the unknown faces, everywhere.
There is another thought lurking in the depth of this grey mood: the other night I thought I heard Helga’s voice, in our house, not in my room, but closed by. What would Helga be doing here? Would she be visiting Sarah? Was she then talking with Sarah?
Blurred pictures of three girls, running in the clear morning air of the airfield, cross my mind: Sarah, Melissa and Helga, their long legs, their smiles, the smiles of young men waving at them. Then, in our studio, Sarah and Helga coming out of the bathroom, naked, still wet, laughing, and disappearing in the bedroom where Melissa is waiting for them. Or did I imagine that scene?
Manuscript
I walk to the living room, leaving behind on the desk the stack of papers, notes, and my manuscript, which I am supposed to be working on today. On the coffee table I see my phone, untouched since we arrived from the airport; I realise the SIM card is still my German one, the one Sarah bought for me at Aldi’s on Yorckstrasse. No, I do not want to think about the day, eons ago, when Melissa called me.
From our vast record collections I pick up some classic blues, John Hurt and Elmore James, the ones Sarah loves. Soon the soothing notes of jazz fill the room. In the kitchen I ground coffee beans. Now, the telephone rings: Sarah wants to know how I am, and I say I am good, just a little sleepy.
“Take things easy, Julian, my love, no need to worry about anything, and I’ll be back early tonight.”
Suddenly I need her here, holding me, I need her warmth, I need her physical presence, to protect me from the shadows around me.
Leave a Reply