"Who are you?"
"I'm a lawyer," he says. "I've come to see you about a psychiatric patient of yours who you are treating for mental illness, and who is accusing a client of mine of an imaginary rape, and I am terribly concerned about the man's wife, his children, and I need your suggestions. Please, Dr. Koch."
"I'm afraid I cannot talk about a case to anyone except the patient." What has this tiny man to do with Francine?
"I think it's imperative that I see you now, Dr. Koch. You'll understand the moment I explain."
"Impossible," I say. Yet I am curious. "Perhaps we could make an appointment," I say. "When a patient cancels, I could call you…"
I can see the doorman staring at us. Shall I order the man away?
"Dr. Koch," says Brady, "this is a private matter."
Of course it is private, between Francine and myself and no one else.
"It is essential," says Brady.
I am a European idiot. Is it politeness to this stranger that makes me invite him up? Or my curiosity?
As we go into the living room I say, "I am really very tired." Why is he looking around the apartment that way?
"I'll be brief," says this Mr. Brady, sitting down. He puts each hand, fingers extended, on one knee, very symmetrical. "I am a lawyer. I represent Harry Koslak, who has been indicted for an alleged offense against a patient of yours, Francine Widmer. In the event that this case is not dismissed and we go to trial, I intend calling you as a witness for the defense."
I start to object and he says, "One moment. My client will of course pay at the usual specialist rates for your time when you testify and any preparatory time involved, or we can subpoena you, as you wish. I have studied the case and I believe your patient is a high-strung woman of easy morals who has a history of sexual relations with others in extralegal circumstances. Please let me continue. I know you have a confidential relationship to your patient, but at the same time you have the reputation, I have checked, of a kindly man, and I assume you would not want to see the father of two young children go to jail for accepting the favors of a young woman who has given those favors to others on repeated occasions. It is making too much of a minor thing. It is possible that Miss Widmer's testimony on the stand over several days would be too trying for her. Perhaps this whole matter can be disposed of expeditiously, without unnecessary pain to anybody, but to do so I would need to review the record of her treatment. I could, of course, have another psychiatrist testify as to her psychological condition based on her testimony or any pretrial testimony that is admissible, and you might then be subpoenaed to support or contradict specific points in his testimony, but as you can see, that would make for a very long drawn-out procedure painful to all parties. If you cooperate now, it would speed things up immeasurably, and as a courtesy, for your cooperation, I would be pleased to arrange for a donation of a thousand dollars to your favorite charity, or if you would prefer the cash so that you could make the donation yourself, that could also be arranged, what do you say?
This is unbelievable. I have heard of such people. "One moment," I say. I go to my study and dial Thomassy's home number — thank heaven I have it — and apologize for waking him at that late hour. He says he was not asleep. In the background I can hear a woman's voice. Is it Francine? I tell Thomassy who I am being visited by and the essence of what he has said.
"Let me talk to him," says Thomassy.
I go to the living room where Brady is now pacing and I point to the extension phone and say, "Could you pick up please?" and then I hurry back to my study like a mischievous child to listen in.
"Brady," he says, "what the fuck are you doing there?"
It is a very short conversation, an exchange of expletives and tough legal phrases I do not grasp, and they hang up. I put the telephone on the cradle and go back to the living room, but Brady, glaring at me, says not so much as a good night, and leaves.
I feel a tightness like a pre-angina condition as I prepare for bed. I try to read. Hopeless. This man Brady will get what he wants if he has to disembowel me. Can one fight back against people like that? Or does one wait in bed, foredoomed, for the sounds of Kristallnacht?
Thirty
Francine
One successful fuck does not a summer make. The next time it could all collapse, and we'd be back where we started. Was I wrong to be nervous?
George didn't want to eat out, so we drove to his place and I extracted enough from his fridge to cook us a passable dinner. He pushed the food around on his plate as if it was pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Afterwards I put on some Mozart the Peacemaker. It almost always works for me. In his armchair, without looking up from his law book, Machiavelli says, "Could you turn that down?"
"I thought you liked Mozart?"
He didn't answer me.
Eventually I said, "This is just like being married, I suppose."
He put a place marker in the book, shut it, sighed, and said, "I'm sorry."
"What's the matter, George?" I went to turn off the phonograph.
"You don't have to turn it off. I just said turn it down."
"My generation hasn't learned to listen to music when it's barely audible. Can I read something to you?"
"I haven't been read to since ten years before you were bom."
He's feeling his age tonight.
"What did you want to read?"
I took the sheets out of my briefcase. " 'In Praise of Limestone.' Auden. Know it?"
"No."
"It's my cure-all."
"It's illegal to copy books," he said.
"It's my book. If I copied it by hand, would that be illegal? Jesus, the law is cockeyed. May I read?"
"Is it long?"
"It's the right length. Don't let me force it on you."
"Look, my head's full of something else. I won't be able to concentrate."
"Tell me what's the matter."
"Not right now."
"What've you been reading?"
"Cases."
"Is that all you're going to say?"
"Rape cases. Look, Brady's going to try to battle this out before we ever get to court. His strategy's to harass you into dropping the whole thing. The prosecution's nowhere without you."
"I know I won't quit. Let me read Auden to you."
"I've dealt with Brady. He's a certifiable sadist. When he wants his jollies, he gets them. He looks for situations where he can twist someone's balls."
"Then I'm safe."
"Brady's not after you. He's after me, don't you see? I'd love to push his face into the gravel, but this time I've got a handicap I'm not used to."
"Me?"
"My relationship with you. He's got to find out about it if you keep coming here."
"Want me to stay away?"
"As a lawyer? Yes."
I lay there on the couch, trying to let the music soak into me, thinking Josephine de Beauharnais wouldn't have just sat around listening to music, she'd have found something to distract him.
I sat up. He didn't look up.
I stood. If I stood on my head, would he notice? I went to the John, took off blouse, shoes, slacks, pantyhose. I rubbed my hand across the elastic marks. I was tempted to rub lower. Opening the door of the John a smidge, I could see him making notes demonically. I got all the way to the couch stark naked, stretched myself out. He didn't notice.
The record, thank heaven, stopped. I didn't go to turn it over. He noticed the absence of the music. That's when he looked up.
"Dear God," he said.
I turned part way to the wall. Thata girl. He thinks you're shy. You're showing him your fantastic ass. My ears, like rabbits' ears, listened for sound. He was putting the book down. He put the yellow pad aside. He was coming across the room. I turned toward him. He had dropped to his knees beside the couch.