The presence of harmful function without anxiety or disorder, without stress on personality or mood — to call that psychological condition evil is not merely a judgment. It is a clear description and supplies the missing piece to a puzzle of psychology. Many practitioners have noted that it isn’t unusual for a patient to emerge from therapy as a less likable person. That’s a hint there is such a thing as too successful an adaptation to emotional conflict. Freud’s essential view of human beings (and this, more than anything, is what provokes so much hostility to him) is that we are savage animals who require at least sublimation, if not repression, to prevent our unconscious desires from having sway. In his view, social adaptation restrains us from our true desires: to rip food from the mouths of our starving companions, to rape our neighbors’ wives, to kill our fathers, to worship the moon with blood on our fangs, to live for the satiation of our animal appetites, relishing the moment-to-moment satisfaction of our mouths and genitalia. Sometimes the bondage of these unacceptable instincts causes neurotic conflict (and supplies Woody Allen with comedy): the wish to sleep with your mother appearing as a fear of elevators; the longing to eat your father’s flesh surfacing as a horror of clams on the half-shell. Freud’s many reinterpreters adopted a less harsh understanding of human nature, allowing for kinder and more altruistic ids. But they still posit emotional conflict as the cause of psychological dysfunction.
That view of humanity is supposed to catch everyone, from Gene Kenny to Adolf Hitler, in the net of psychology. Not Stick and Halley Copley, however. They don’t appear on our radar because we don’t recognize their outline. They are not in conflict. The equation is one-sided: they don’t need love and victory, only victory; they don’t need peace and pleasure, only pleasure. Truly, this makes labeling them evil a definition, not a swear word to vent our disapproval.
But how to treat them? They would not volunteer and society does not see them as ill. Indeed, their absence of conflict, their freedom from neurosis, makes them attractive, drawing nervous moths to immolation in their brilliant fire.
Frankly, I was stuck. I became desperate enough by the third day that, while idly going over the new chapters prepared by Amy Glickstein on Joseph’s experimental neuroleptic drugs, I considered spiking Halley’s Evian or Copley’s herbal tea (he had recently given up caffeine) with a psychotropic. Perhaps an antidepressant would heighten their unnaturally low levels of anxiety. Perhaps drugging this natural Prozac pair with Prozac would push their legal acts of self-preservation into a murderous mania. Unfortunately, then I would be a poisoner, not a healer. I wouldn’t have proved they suffered from a psychological condition susceptible to cure, any more than I believed Joseph had cured depression by chemical manipulation.
Edgar Levin broke through the barricade of the Prager Institute’s switchboard and also my reverie. I hadn’t included him on the list of those to be told I wasn’t there. I could have declined the call anyway, but I was curious.
“Well, Rafe,” Edgar said to my hello. “I’ve got to hand it to you. I didn’t think anybody could make Stick Copley nervous and confused but you’ve done it.”
“And how have I managed this miracle?”
“Apparently he doesn’t know where the hell you are or why you’ve disappeared. I called him this morning to find out if you’d agreed to manage his retreat sessions. First he tried to fake it, but when I asked him to transfer me to you, out came the truth. So I called my brother in Hollywood and he called your cousin Julie to get your number.”
“Julie knew my number?”
“Yeah. Is that a surprise? So what’s the story? You got the info you wanted for your book and you’re outta there?”
“Just taking a break.”
“Do me a favor, okay? Either in or out. This is a businessman you’re dealing with. They think a yes is yes and a no is no. Subtlety’s not their strong point. He’s got to know if he can rely on you.”
“I see.” I lapsed into thought.
It must have been a long pause, because Edgar laughed and said, “Hey, Rafe! I’m a busy man. I’m the biggest boy on my block. You can’t keep me waiting on the phone. The American economy will collapse.”
“Whose idea was it, Edgar?”
“Idea?”
“I’m sorry. I mean, to ask me to lead this fall retreat thing? You or Stick?”
“I like the retreats. I like an intimate management team. Happy families and all that. But, and this is one of the reasons I think Stick is a good manager, the encounter group leaders at these places are pathetic. Stick thought you might come up with better techniques. If you do, I’ll package you on a video, and we’ll make infomercials. My brother can produce it—Dr. Neruda’s Five Keys to Success.”
I was baffled. “Infomercial?” I asked.
Edgar chuckled. “Don’t worry. I was kidding. Are you having second thoughts about spending so much time in corporate land?”
“Something like that.”
“Come up to New York tomorrow. Stick invited me to lunch with the head of our new European division. You should join us.”
“Didier Lahost?”
“Yeah, some name like that. A French businessman. What a nightmare. I’m going to be bored out of my mind. Come along and entertain me. It’ll give you time to think and you can tell Stick your decision face-to-face.”
“I don’t want to crash a meeting.”
“Ain’t no meeting, just a how-do-you-do. The food’ll be good anyway. We’re eating at the Carnegie Deli. I love taking Frogs to eat Jew food.”
“There are delis in Paris,” I said.
“What do you want to bet Monsieur Lahost has never darkened their door?”
Another look at Copley wouldn’t hurt, I decided. I told Edgar to expect me and then dialed Stick. While I did, I wondered why Julie had my number. Perhaps her mother was worse; she had a mild stroke six months ago. I should call her and perhaps visit my cousins in Great Neck. I hadn’t seen them since Sadie’s funeral three years ago. This isolation from the world was silly — I was no superman. I needed my family.
“Well hello, stranger,” Laura returned my greeting with a happy note of welcome. “We’ve been trying to find you. Hold on.”
Stick’s stern voice was there immediately. “Where are you?”
“Don’t take that tone with me,” I said. “I’m not your employee. I don’t have to account to you for my whereabouts and my time.” I was surprised by my anger and momentarily ashamed. But why hold anything back? This man wasn’t my patient.