“You opted for compromise and balance,” said Borgland, nodding to the knockers. “That’s good. That’s healthy. Come in, come in.”
Cyril tried not to flinch when he spotted a milky-eyed Doberman regarding him like a blind seer gauging the state of his soul.
In spite of being below ground level the office was surprisingly bright and airy, with potted bamboo, pine panelling, a varnished fir floor, and rattan furniture. On the walls were framed photos of tropical vistas, beaches, reefs, palms, and an undersea shot of a school of black and yellow fish with long elegant gown-like fins. There was no couch, which was a relief. The idea of lying down had been worrying him; it would make him feel even more vulnerable than he already did. Borgland directed him to a wicker chair which creaked as he settled in. How many others had sat here weeping as they confessed their misery? Trying not to fidget, he positioned his hands palm upward on his thighs as though meditating, except that instead of calming him the sight of his upturned mitts made him think of small dead animals with their legs in the air. He moved his fingers and that made him think the animals were still twitching. He turned them over so that they rested palm down, except now they resembled crabs. It occurred to him that he had absolutely no control over his mind. All of three minutes he’d been here and he was exhausted. Incense burning in a bowl emitted tart sweet smoke, a clock ticked, the Doberman exhaled like a walrus.
“Do you mind dogs?”
“Dogs are fine.”
“Some people find Sigmund disturbing,” said Borgland. “If he bothers you I can send him out.”
“No, no,” he lied, unwilling to admit that at the age of five he’d been humped by a Doberman and that to this day they spooked him. It had been an enormous beast with a spiked collar, and it had crossed its paws around little Cyril’s shin and humped his leg, growling every time he’d tried pulling away. He noted the eerily glutinous eyes of Borgland’s dog.
“Cataracts.”
Cyril nodded. He’d heard that owning a dog was supposed to calm you down and make you feel involved, though it seemed to him that resorting to an animal for companionship was the depth of desperation. His mother said there were no dogs or cats during the war because they’d all been eaten. Like stringy veal, she’d added.
“Let me tell you a little about my approach,” Borgland was saying. “That is, my approaches, because I have a range. I’m not strictly a Jungian, but I do think that some of his views are valid. Are you familiar with Carl Jung, Cyril?”
“Symbols have more than one meaning,” he said, impressed at himself for remembering. Borgland was genuinely pleased, and Cyril was proud and at the same time indignant that Borgland should be so surprised. Did he look like such an ignorant labourer? “Exactly. Do you dream?” His tone implied that dreaming was a decision, that on a given night you might decide to do a bit of dreaming while on another you might opt to give it a miss.
“I dream. Yes.”
“The ancient Greeks called dreams the Thousand Sons of Hypnos. Hypnos being the god of sleep. He’d send dreams to deliver messages to mortals.”
Cyril discovered that his hands had clenched themselves into fists. He forced them open and pressed them flat to his knees.
“The brain is like a forest,” Borgland continued, “a forest that is self-aware. And that self-awareness actually influences how it functions and how it grows. Follow the same paths through the forest and they widen and become roads, and those roads become harder to avoid. In fact, they become habitual routes. Ruts, if you will. This occurs in both the conscious and unconscious mind. Unresolved fears breed recurrent dreams, and so a cycle develops, a potentially undesirable cycle.”
Cyril flashed on a picture he might draw, of a head or a skull dense with a thicket of bamboo sprouting from the nostrils and eye sockets and ears. “Okay, I get it.”
Borgland smiled. He had a habit of stroking his clean-shaven chin as if he had a goatee. Maybe he wanted a goatee but couldn’t yet grow one. “So you understand that we’re doing a psychological profile.”
“Got it.”
“So let’s begin at the beginning. Why do you think you’re here, Cyril?”
He could accuse Steve of being a conman and manipulator, but would appear angry and vindictive. Or he could say this was his mother’s revenge, but would appear paranoid. “They think I’m unstable.”
“They?”
“My mother and my nephew.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I’m as stable as the next guy.”
“Do you?” Borgland’s tone was that of a benevolent teacher offering a wayward though essentially good-hearted student a second chance to come clean and tell the truth.
Cyril forced himself to breathe evenly and meet Borgland’s gaze. He spoke in a measured tone, “Yes.”
“Okay.”
Cyril permitted himself to look around, noting again all the bamboo and thinking he’d like some in his yard even if it might not be his yard for long. In hot countries bamboo grew two feet a day, an inch an hour. Yes, he should get some bamboo, a hedge tall enough to block out the cemetery. It struck Cyril as utterly revolutionary that he could block out the cemetery and look out the kitchen window and see bamboo instead of graves, bamboo full of birds, bamboo rustling in the breeze. If he could keep control of the house he could sell it and then move somewhere with whole jungles of bamboo.
Borgland politely cleared his throat. “Do you still have nightmares about your brother Paul?”
Cyril’s heart lurched. He felt himself sinking into a swamp and feared he’d made a grave error in coming. “No.”
“No?”
Cyril shook his head.
“No nightmares?”
“Not really.”
“So sometimes?”
Cyril’s fists were locked as tight as knots; he forced them flat to his thighs. “I understand what he went through. He was traumatized. He was angry. And he was small. His growth was stunted. He had brittle bones, bad teeth.”
“Did you love him?”
“I was afraid of him.”
“Because he tortured you.”
Cyril balked at the word. He tried to appear relaxed and reasonable. “All brothers fight.”
Borgland picked up a pencil and was about to write on a pad when he paused and looked enquiringly at Cyril. “It won’t bother you if I make a few notes now and then?”
“No,” lied Cyril.
“You didn’t feel the need of a therapist after your breakdown?”
Breakdown. It made him think of a car, dead on the side of the road. Okay, he’d skidded a bit, lost control on a curve—yet only once, and only for an instant—it had been a stressful time and afterwards he’d straightened out and carried on. “My brother had it tough. It wasn’t fair what he lived through.”
“The famine and then the war,” said Borgland. “Your family was caught up in terrible events. You were fortunate to escape them.” Consulting the file on his desk, Borgland put his fingertips together. “What do you remember about your father?”
“He smelled like metal.”
“Was that good?”
“It was him.”
“Did he hit you?”
“The old man? No.”
“Never?” Borgland maintained eye contact.
“Not that I recall.”
“So it’s possible. It’s common to block out traumatic memories.”
“No. He wasn’t violent. He didn’t even shout.”
“Are you angry at having to be here?”
Of course he was angry at having to be here, even if he could walk out any time he wanted. He forced himself to take a couple of low slow breaths before responding, and when he did he was careful to speak calmly. “It’s frustrating. I helped my mother financially. I moved back in and took care of her, took her to her doctor’s appointments, did most everything. I mean, I run my own business, I’m steady, responsible. These things…” He waved dismissively, “they happened decades ago. I was a teenager. And no one was hurt. And the breakdown—I was upset. I had a couple of bad nights, that’s all. And now this.”