The Madman - Страница 7

"Let us try a different direction, then, for the moment, Mister Petrel," the doctor continued. "Today was a difficult day, was it not?"

"Yes," Francis said. Then he guessed that he'd better expand on that statement, because the doctor remained silent, and fixed him with a penetrating glance. "I had an argument. With my mother and father."

"An argument? Yes. Incidentally, Mister Petrel, can you tell me what the date is?"

"The date?"

"Correct. The date of this argument you had today."

He thought hard for a moment. Then he looked outside again, and saw the tree bending beneath the wind, moving spastically, as if its limbs were being jerked and manipulated by some unseen puppeteer. There were some buds just forming on the ends of the branches, and so he did some calculations in his head. He concentrated hard, hoping that one of the voices might know the answer to the question, but they were, as was their irritating habit, suddenly quite silent. He glanced about the room, hoping to spot a calendar, or perhaps some other sign that might help him, but saw nothing, and returned his eyes to the window, watching the tree move. When he turned back to the doctor, he saw that the round man seemed to be patiently awaiting his response, as if several minutes had passed since he was asked the question. Francis breathed in sharply.

"I'm sorry…" he started.

"You were distracted?" the doctor asked.

"I apologize," Francis said.

"It seemed," the doctor said slowly, "that you were elsewhere for some time. Do these episodes happen frequently?"

Tell him no!

"No. Not at all."

"Really? I'm surprised. Regardless, Mister Petrel, you were to tell me something…"

"You had a question?" Francis asked. He was angry with himself for losing the train of their conversation.

"The date, Mister Petrel?"

"I believe it is the fifteenth of March," Francis said steadily.

"Ah, the ides of March. A time of famous betrayals. Alas, no." The doctor shook his head. "But close, Mister Petrel. And the year?"

He did some more calculations in his head. He knew he was twenty-one and that he'd had his birthday a month earlier, and so he guessed, "Nineteen seventy-nine."

"Good," Doctor Gulptilil replied. "Excellent. And what day is it?"

"What day?"

"What day of the week, Mister Petrel?"

"It is…" Again he paused. "Saturday."

"No. Sorry. Today is Wednesday. Can you remember that for me?"

"Yes. Wednesday. Of course."

The doctor rubbed his chin with his hand. "And now we return to this morning, with your family. It was a little more than an argument, wasn't it, Mister Petrel?"

No! It was the same as always!

"I didn't think it was that unusual…"

The doctor looked up, a slight measure of surprise on his face. "Really? How curious, Mister Petrel. Because the report that I have obtained from the local police claims that you threatened your two sisters, and then announced that you were intending to kill yourself. That life wasn't worth living and that you hated everyone. And then, when confronted by your father, you further threatened him, and your mother, as well, if not with an attack, then with something equally dangerous. You said you wanted the whole world to go away. I believe those were your exact words. Go away. And the report further contends, Mister Petrel, that you went into the kitchen in the house you share with your parents and your two younger sisters, and that you seized a large kitchen knife, which you brandished in their direction in such a fashion that they believed that you intended to attack them with the weapon before you finally threw it so that it stuck into the wall. And, then, additionally, when police officers arrived at the house, that you locked yourself in your room and refused to exit, but could be heard speaking loudly inside, in argument, when there was no one present in the room with you. They had to break the door down, didn't they? And lastly, that you fought against the policemen and the ambulance attendants who arrived to help you, requiring one of them to need treatment himself. Is that a brief summary of today's events, Mister Petrel?"

"Yes," he replied glumly. "I'm sorry about the officer. It was a lucky punch that caught him above the eye. There was a lot of blood."

"Unlucky, perhaps," Doctor Gulptilil said, "both for you and him."

Francis nodded.

"Now, perhaps you could enlighten me as to why these things happened this day, Mister Petrel."

Tell him nothing! Every word you speak will be thrown back at you!

Francis again gazed out the window, searching the horizon. He hated the word why. It had dogged him his entire life. Francis, why can't you make friends? Why can't you get along with your sisters? Why can't you throw a ball straight or stay calm in class. Why can't you pay attention when your teacher speaks to you? Or the scoutmaster. Or the parish priest. Or the neighbors. Why do you always hide away from the others every day? Why are you different, Francis, when all we want is for you to be the same? Why can't you hold a job? Why can't you go to school? Why can't you join the Army? Why can't you behave? Why can't you be loved?

"My parents believe I need to make something of myself. That was what caused the argument."

"You are aware, Mister Petrel, that you score very highly on all tests? Remarkably high, curiously enough. So perhaps their hopes for you are not unfounded?"

"I suppose so."

"Then why did you argue?"

"A conversation like that never seems as reasonable as we're making it sound now," Francis replied. This brought a smile to Doctor Gulptilil's face.

"Ah, Mister Petrel, I suspect you are correct about that. But I fail to see how this discussion escalated so dramatically."

"My father was determined."

"You struck him, did you not?"

Don't admit to anything! He hit you first! Say that!

"He hit me first," Francis dutifully responded.

Doctor Gulptilil made another notation on a sheet of paper. Francis shifted about. The doctor looked up at him.

"What are you writing?" Francis asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. I want to know what you are writing."

Don't let him snow you! Find out what he's writing! It won't be anything good!

"These are just some notes about our conversation," the doctor said.

"I think you should show me what you're writing down," Francis said. "I think I have the right to know what it is you're writing down."

Keep at it!

The doctor said nothing, so Francis continued, "I'm here, I've answered your questions, and now I have one. Why are you writing things about me without showing me? That's not fair."

Francis shifted in his wheelchair and pulled against the bonds that restrained him. He could feel the warmth of the room building, as if the heat had suddenly spiked. He strained hard for a moment, trying to free himself, but was unsuccessful. He took a deep breath and slumped back into his seat.

"You are agitated?" the doctor asked, after a few silent moments had passed. This was a question that didn't really need an answer, because the truth was so obvious.

"It's just not fair," Francis said, trying to instill calm back into his own words.

"Fairness is important to you?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Yes, perhaps Mister Petrel, you are correct about that."

Again the two men were quiet. Francis could hear the radiator hissing again and then thought that perhaps it was the breathing of the two attendants, who had not budged from behind him throughout the interview. Then he wondered whether one of his voices might be trying to get his attention, whispering something to him so low that it was hard for him to hear, and he bent forward slightly, as if trying to hear.