I find the young psychiatrist waiting for me in a secluded alcove of the salon, away from the chatter and clicking cups of a table of conventioneers.
She stands, shakes my hand briskly.
“I understand you lost a friend. I’m sorry. Tell me about him.”
She seems brusque, yet intelligent and kind. She nods in sympathy as I talk about my sardonic, wise guru, relate his history, recall our friendship. She gently prods me about Garibaldi, and I tell her briefly of my life there, but I am stiff with this lively-eyed therapist, afraid of revealing the warps in my psyche.
“You’re tired of playing lawyer?”
“This will be my last case.”
“You seem incredibly good at it.”
“Life has more to offer, Dr. Dix.”
“Jane, please. And what does life offer you?”
“Peace and poetry, and fresh potatoes.”
“Garibaldi isn’t just an escape from the courtroom? Some convenient harbour?”
This percipient woman is daring me to be open. “Indeed not. I have found life on Garibaldi amply fulfilling.”
I fetch a coffee service on a tray, with croissants and jam, and plates of fruit. “What do you have in?” I ask.
She studies me for a while, as I am poised with the cream jug. “White, no sugar. You seem very formal in your ways, Arthur. Gentlemanly.”
“Fussy and stuffy, I’m told.”
“I don’t see that for one second. Though I sense a private school in the background.”
“That’s too insightful of you.” I feel awkward about her blunt forays into my life. Is she planning to peel off my layers of protective skin in search of the repressed weakling inside? She obviously knows I’m an AA member. Jonathan has probably told her about my career as a cuckold, the recent fracturing of my marriage.
“Jonathan went to the usual snobby boarding schools, of course,” she says. “Did they use corporal punishment at yours?”
“Liberally applied to that fatty area Shakespeare calls the afternoon of the body.”
“Societally accepted S and M. Sometimes the scars stay there for life.”
In defence, I turn the mirror to her. “And what are the pertinent details of your life?”
“I’m a contrary radical feminist lesbian with a chip on my shoulder.”
This forces a smile from me. But time is fleeting. “What did you think of Mrs. McIntosh, Jane?”
“Unfulfilled fantasies of love starring the next-door neighbour. An initial refusal to believe her love object could do this. Disappointment and anger blossoming into a desire for revenge. So she decides to tell the whole story.”
“A truthful one?”
“I think so.”
I grimace.
“Cheer up,” she says, and she removes a file from her briefcase. “I’ve transcribed several of my sessions with Jonathan. He insists that you peruse them. Some interesting papers and articles here, too.” Her eyes undress me. “I take it you know something about bondage, Arthur.”
Dare I tell her about my recurring dreams? “It’s a form of theatre, I suppose.”
“Yes, much like your courtrooms. Those can be theatres of pain, too, from what I’ve observed. I want to talk about pain with you, Arthur.”
I nod glumly. She continues.
“Pain is everywhere: in life, in law, in art. The dying swan, the tortured face of the flamenco dancer, El Greco’s Christ on the cross. The bad guy getting shot off his horse, murder mysteries, cop shows — we entertain ourselves with pain. Violence and sex sell toothpaste. We love it. We can’t get enough of it. Forgive me: I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and reading in the last few days, and I’ve got a whole treatise.”
“Just carry on,” I say. It is obvious now where this is leading. All faith in Jonathan has flown: Clearly, Dominique Lander is telling more truth than I cared to believe.
Jane shuffles through some of her articles, finds a page. She talks between sips of coffee and little bites of cantaloupe.
“Havelock Ellis: Pain is an aspect of the love of life. We’re all haunted by it, all living things. We live constantly next to it, waiting for it, fearing it, yet thrilled by it. The pain of love hurts as sharply as the pain of a wound to the body; tears of pain are indistinguishable from tears ofjoy.” She looks up from her papers. “This all leads to a theory, okay? There’s no solid answer, but there are reasons people get into B and D, bondage and discipline. Pain excites. It arouses just as sex does: increased pulse and blood pressure and muscular tension, hyperventilation. So it can be a kind of turn-on. An aphrodisiac. It may be aberrant, but we’re not dealing with psychopathy here or inordinate cruelty.”
She has much to say that is fascinating, but where do we go with it?
“Bondage is theatre, Arthur, but with a purpose. Hidden drives and desires are handled as play; demands of fantasy are met. Postponement and delay, begging, stalling, they’re all part of the game. The bondee maybe doesn’t truly enjoy the pain, but she or he is stimulated by the constraint, the sense of helplessness, the thrill of the unknown.”
“Where do these hidden drives and desires come from?”
“At a sort of basic sensory level, there’s an interesting biological explanation: Pain releases endorphins in the brain — and they’re addictive, like opiates. The long-distance runner breaks through the pain, gets a little hit of endorphin.” She reflects. “Probably why Jonathan took up running. Let me give you a sociological perspective.”
She finds another paper, glances for a moment at it, looks up. “S and M patterns are imbedded in our culture — socially, we value aggression, the dynamic of dominance and submission. Our gender relationships are set up in that framework — the male is traditionally dominant, the female reluctant and submissive.”
“Ah, but the times, I have learned, are changing.”
“Not that much. Okay, I also read one interesting theory about masochism serving as a guilt-relieving system: The punishment gives expiation for the sin of sexuality. The masochist knows that if anything sexually forbidden happens, it’s not her or his fault. Sometimes it never develops into scripted play: the prototypical case of the masochistic man and the cold, calculating woman — he satisfies his unconscious wish to be mistreated. It’s not that uncommon — the desire for domination by an authoritarian partner.”
A brilliant apercu from someone who knows nothing of my relationship with Annabelle. I cannot look at her squarely, and play with my coffee spoon. Clearly, she notices my agitation, and doubtless adds a mental paragraph to her file on me.
“Actually, bondage can be a way of dealing with male impotency.”
I take too large a gulp of coffee and feel it sear my throat. Her bright blue eyes are fixed on mine, which are veiled and guilty.
“Our culture is hard on men: all the demands — assertion, aggression, control. Can’t blame a guy if he just wants out. Easier on him if his partner takes full responsibility. Tie me up. Have your will with me. Excite me. I’ve had a hard day at the office. Okay, so, Jonathan grew up in an old, old culture — he was trained from early on in the chauvinistic arts. He tries, but he’s trapped within his father. Which brings me to a more clinical perspective. We’re getting to the nitty-gritty here: the eroticizing of childhood pain. A traumatic event in childhood can trigger B and D behaviour patterns. Or general day-to-day abuse by a parent can accumulate and bring about an adaptive response. Kids escape from physical pain by romantic daydreaming. Sexual imagery. Masturbation. When you eroticize your suffering it sort of imprints”
We are running out of time: Court sits in fifteen minutes. She sees me check my watch, and speaks more rapidly, urgently.
“Jonathan’s father regularly beat him until he was nearly ten — that’s when his mother brought him to Canada. Jonathan denies this was abuse — just strict British discipline. Anyway, there were other processes going on. A father who couldn’t express love. Just tons of ambivalence towards the great Lord Caraway. An older, favoured brother. A great deal of rebellion on the younger sibling’s part, which manifested itself in attention-seeking behaviour: mostly truancy. If Daddy continues to ignore me, I’ll be bad and he’ll whip me — and they’d finally interact and little Jonnie would get the attention he sought, his substitute for love. He received one particularly harsh whaling after he walked into his parents’ bedroom and found them making love. So you have a pretty fair picture.”