Finally, he reached the black spiral staircase that led to Room 54. A true baroque monstrosity, in the spirit of the gargoyle coat racks, it twisted and turned crankily, almost spitefully, into a well of darkness dispelled only by the occasional glimmer of railing as it caught the light of the single, dull bulb hanging above it. Of all the building’s eccentricities, he found the staircase the most delightful. He descended slowly, savoring the feel of the wrought-iron railings, the roughness of the black paint where it had chipped and weathered to form lichen-shaped patterns. The staircase smelled of history, of ancestors, of another world.
By the time he had reached the bottom, he had shed the last of his delight, his self-interest, his selfishness, his petty irritations, his past. All that remained were curiosity, compassion, instinct, and the rose: a bit of color; a bit of misdirection.
He fumbled for the light switch, found it, and flooded the small space beneath the stairs with stale yellow.
He took out his keys. Opened the door. Entered. Closed it behind him.
Inside, he blinked and shaded his eyes against the brightness of superior lighting. Smell of sour clothes.
Faint musk of urine. Had X been marking his territory?
When his eyes adjusted, he saw a desk, a typewriter, a bed, a small pro vision of canned goods, and a separate room for the toilet. Windows — square, of a thick, syrupy glass — lined the walls at eye level, but all that lay beyond them was the blankness of dirt, of mortar, of cement.
The writer sat behind the desk, on a rickety chair. But he wasn’t writing. He was staring at me.
I smiled, put down my briefcase. I took off my jacket, careful not to disturb the rose, and laid it over the arm of the nearest chair.
“Good morning,” I said, still smiling.
He continued to observe me. Very well, then, I would observe him back. We circled each other with our eyes.
From the looseness of his skin, I deduced that he had once been fat, but no longer; he had attained the only thinness possible for him: a condition which suggests thinness, which alludes to thinness, but is only a pale facsimile at best. He had too much skin, and broad shoulders with a barrel chest. His mouth had fixed itself half-way between a laconic grin and a melancholy frown. A new beard had sprouted upon his chin (it was not unkind to him) while above a slight, almost feminine, nose, his blue eyes pierced the light from behind the golden frames of his glasses. He wore what we had given him: a nondescript pair of slacks, a white shirt, and a brown sweater over the shirt.
What did he smell of? A strangeness I could not identify. A hint of lilacs in the spring. The waft of rain-soaked air on a fishing boat, out on the river. The draft from a door opening onto a room full of old books.
Finally, he spoke: “You are here to question me. Again. I’ve already answered all the questions.
Numerous times.” A quaver in the voice. Frustration barely held in check.
“You must answer them one more time,” I said. Briefcase again in hand, I walked forward until I stood in front of his desk.
He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. “What will that accomplish?”
I did not like his ease. I did not like his comfort. I decided to break him of it.
“I’ll not mislead you: I am here to decide your final disposition. Should we lock you away for five or ten years, or should we find some other solution? But do not think you can lie your way into my good graces.
You have, after all, answered these questions several times. We must reach an understanding, you and I, based solely on your current state of mind. I can smell lies, you know. They may look like treacle, but they smell like poison.”
I had given this speech, or a variant of it, so many times that it came all too easily to me.
“Let me not mislead you,” he replied, no longer leaning back in his chair, “I am now firmly of the belief that Ambergris, and all that is associated with Ambergris, is a figment of my imagination. I no longer believe it exists.”
“I see. This information does not in any way mean I will now pack up my briefcase and set you free. I must question you.”
He looked as if he were about to argue with me. Instead, he said, “Then let me clear the desk. Would you like me to give you a statement first?”
“No. My questions shall provide you with the means to make a statement.” I smiled as I said it, for although he need not hope too much, nei ther did I wish to drive him to despair.
X was not a strong man and I had to help him lift the typewriter off the desk; it was an old, clunky model and its keys made a metallic protest when we set it on the floor.
When we had sat down, I took out a pen and pad of paper. “Now, then, do you know where you are and why?”
“I am in aChicago psychiatric ward because I have been hallucinating that a world of my creation is actually real.”
“When and where were you born?”
“Belfont,Pennsylvania. In 1968.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“My parents were in the Peace Corps — are you going to write all of this down again? The scribbling irritates me. It sounds like cockroaches scuttling.”
“You don’t like cockroaches?”
He scowled at me.
“As you like.”
I pulled his file out of my briefcase. I arranged the transcripts in front of me. A few words flashed out at me: fire… Trial… of course I loved her… control… the reality… It was in the room with me
…
“I shall simply check off on these previous interrogatories duplications of answers. I shall only write down your answers when they are new or stray from the previous truths you have been so kind as to provide us with. Now: Where did you grow up?”
“In theFijiIslands.”
“Where is that?”
“In the South Pacific.”
“Ah… What was your family like? Any brothers or sisters?”
“Extremely dysfunctional. My parents fought a lot. One sister — Vanessa.”
“Did you get along with your sister? How dysfunctional?”
“I got along with my sister better than Mom and Dad. Very dysfunctional. I’d rather not talk about that — it’s all in the transcripts. Besides, it only helps explain why I write, not why I’m delusional.”
In the transcripts he’d called it the “ten year divorce.” Constant fighting. Verbal and some physical abuse. Nasty, but not all that unusual. It is popular to analyze a patient’s childhood these days to discover that one trauma, that one unforgivable incident, which has shaped or ruined the life. But I did not care if his childhood had been a bedsore of misery, a canker of sadness. I was here to determine what he believed now, at this moment. I would ask him the requisite questions about that past, for such inquiries seemed to calm most patients, but let him tell or not tell. It was all the same to me.
“Any visions or hallucinations as a child?”
“No.”
“None?”
“None.”
“In the transcripts, you mention a hallucination you had, when you thought you saw two hummingbirds mating on the wing from a hotel room window. You were sick, and you said, rather melodramatically, ‘I thought if I could only hold them, suspended, with my stare, I could forever feast upon their beauty. But finally I had to call to my sister and parents, took my eyes from the window, and even as I turned back, the light had changed again, the world had changed, and I knew they were gone. There I lay, at altitude, on oxygen—’”
“—But that’s not a hallucination—”
“—Please don’t interrupt. I’m not finished: ‘on oxygen and, suddenly, at my most vulnerable, the world had revealed the very extremity of its grace. For me, the moment had been Divine, as fantastical as if those hummingbirds had flown out of my mouth, my eyes, my thoughts.’ That is not a hallucination?”