The Rules of Dreaming (9 page)

“Olympia,” Gottlieb nodded salaciously.

“You ever notice her eyes?  I bet that took some doing.”  Mrs. Paterson’s voice dropped back to a murmur and Gottlieb added his own clarification.

“Olympia’s got Miles Palmer’s eyes,” he said between slurps of his coffee.

“So what?”

“What do you think?  S
he got them from her uncle?”  Gottlieb leered at me with lewd amusement as I squirmed in my seat.

“There’s something strange about that girl,” Mrs. Paterson went on.  “If you ask me, she’s just a kewpie doll, just a hollow little thing that looks pretty on the outside but’s got a big hole in the middle.  You hear what I’m saying?”

Gottlieb was laughing so hard that the coffee was dribbling down his chin.  “Is that right, Hoffmann?” he sputtered, a little too loudly.  “Is Olympia just a pretty doll with a hole in the middle?  You ought to know!  Ha ha ha ha!”

I was so angry I bolted up from the table and hurried away without even picking up my tray or clearing away my trash.  Behind me I could hear laughter—women’s laughter, not just Gottlieb’s—but I didn’t dare look back to find out whether they were laughing at me.  At any rate I couldn’t have looked back if I tried:  I had been stopped in my tracks by a sudden, blinding headache that seized my temples like a pair of tongs hoisting a block of ice to the
ceiling.  When the attack subsided I found myself standing in the kitchen surrounded by cooks and dishwashers who, by the looks on their faces, must have wondered if I was one of the patients.  I introduced myself officiously and they turned back to their work.  Glancing around the kitchen, I noticed a paring knife lying on a counter, with a short wooden handle and a sharp three-inch blade.  When no one was looking I wrapped the knife in a linen napkin and stuck it into the pocket of my suit jacket. 

Then I hurried back upstairs.  I had to be ready for Nicole’s therapy session at two o’clock.

By the time Nicole tapped on the door of my office I had recovered from my migraine attack and my humiliation and anger in the dining room.  I straightened my desk and lowered the window shades, wondering whether she would say anything about what had happened.  Eavesdropping is never dignified, but I was prepared to defend my behavior, if necessary, as a adjunct to her therapy.

“I just had lunch with Hunter and Antonia,” she said
blandly.

I pretended to be surprised.  “Really?  What did you talk about?”  

“Oh, the usual nonsense.  You know how it is, talking to that pair.”

I decided to play along with her.  “Have you noticed any change in Hunter lately?”

She shook her head.  “Not really.  It’s disappointing, isn’t it?  I thought Hunter’s piano playing was some kind of breakthrough that would lead somewhere.”

“It still might.  We haven’t exhausted all the available techniques.”

Nicole looked back at me curiously.  “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” I hesitated—I knew I shouldn’t be discussing Hunter’s case with another patient, but Nicole’s interest in his recovery was
a healthy sign and I wanted to encourage it—“Olympia suggested that we do a past life regression, using hypnosis.”

“You can’t be serious!”

Her skeptical tone caught me off guard.  Wasn’t this the woman who, just a week before, had been lecturing me about the “spirit world”?  I still had deep misgivings about hypnosis and past life regression, but I realized that bringing them into the conversation had been a lucky stroke.  Through these topics I could probe into thoughts and fantasies that Nicole might otherwise have been afraid to discuss.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” I said.  “At first I thought the idea sounded kooky—you know how Olympia is—but she gave me a list of books to read on past life regression and I’m almost ready to try it.  Apparently her father—Dr. Bartolli, who used to work here and is very well acquainted with this
technique—thinks Hunter would make an ideal candidate.”

Nicole seemed incredulous and strangely agitated.  “Isn’t this reincarnation you’re talking about?  The transmigration of souls?”

“Not necessarily.  It could be a psychological phenomenon.  A person could imagine himself living in some distant age and construct an entire past life based on some book or movie he’s forgotten all about.”

She lowered her eyes and turned away as if she were looking for an escape route.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I don’t believe in reincarnation,” she said quietly, turning back to face me,  “but I guess I’ve been coming to believe in something similar.  Not the transmigration of souls but the transmigration of ideas
.”

I waited patiently for her to continue.

“It’s part of the thinking I’ve been doing for my thesis.  I think it was prompted by the research I mentioned last time on the connection between Schumann and Hoffmann.”

I
reached for a pencil so I could jot down some notes.  Nicole was pulling me into uncharted waters and I wanted to be able to remember how I got there.

“Ideas are like seed crystals,” she went on.
  “A writer like Hoffmann could create ideas that spread out and infect thousands of other personalities. And then someone like Schumann—”

A little shiver ran down my spine.  “Why did you say ‘infect?’”

“Because it could be like a crystal—something clear and bright and beautiful—or it could be something more insidious and evil, like a virus that has to migrate from one human to another in order to survive.  So Hoffmann could become Schumann who could become Offenbach who could become—I don’t know—Dostoevsky?  Nietzsche?  Joyce?”

I pretended to scribble some more notes as the full impact of Nicole’s theor
y hit home.  In my career I had encountered many delusions, but never anything so elaborate, so well thought out, so thoroughly mad as this.  It’s a common belief among psychotics that some distant person or force is sending messages aimed at controlling their mind and actions, to the point where many schizophrenics will claim that their voices are controlled by demons or computer chips.  But this was the first time I’d ever heard this delusion articulated as a general theory of culture.  Nicole’s illness, I realized, was far more serious than I had imagined.  I stood up to signal that our session was over.  “Well, that will give us a lot to think about for next time.”

And then she turned the tables on me.  “Are you still dating Olympia?”

“Olympia?” I stammered.  I wanted to say: We’re not dating; we’re just friends.  But Mrs. Paterson had just told Nicole that I spent every night in Olympia’s room.  “We see each other sometimes.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t like her, do you?”

“She seems very nice.  But I wonder... whether she’s good for you.”

Suddenly I understood.  It was the transference I’d detected at our last session.  Nicole had fallen in love with me and now she was jealous of Olympia.  “Maybe we can talk about that next time.  But try to remember”—I forced a smile—“this is supposed to be about you, not me.”

“I’m not jealous,” Nicole said, returning my smile, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”  She stood up to face me.  “It’s just that—you’re going to think I’m stark raving mad when I say this—it’s just that Olympia seems to be carrying the Hoffmann virus and she’s drawing you into her world.  So this is going to be about you.  And there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

Chapter 9

Miss Whipple had a secret that she’d kept to herself for seven years.  She and
Maria Morgan had never exactly been friends, but they shared the kind of intimacy that exists between a librarian and her borrower.  She knew what books the opera singer read, how long it took her to read them, and how she felt about them, and that was more than many of her so-called friends knew about her.  They moved in different circles, of course, but at the library they talked about books and opera, which both of them were passionate about.  Shortly before she died, Maria Morgan checked some materials out of the library—a few books and some sound recordings.  In those days they still circulated long-playing records, and on her last visit to the library Maria Morgan had gone home with a full-length recording of
The Tales of Hoffmann
, the Ansermet version of
The Nutcracker
, and
Piano Music of Robert Schumann
played by Alicia de Larrocha.  She also checked out several books, including a collection of supernatural tales from the nineteenth century.  As she explained to the librarian, she planned to use these materials to prepare for her triple role in Hoffmann, steeping herself in everything fantastic and uncanny that she could get her hands on.  Nothing in her manner seemed distraught or depressed, but within a few days she was dead.  Miss Whipple was too discreet to mention the overdue books and records, and after a few weeks her patience was rewarded.  Avery Morgan himself came to the library to return them.  She thanked him sympathetically and waived the fines, even overlooking the absence of one of the records, the Schumann piano music, which was never returned.  It wasn’t until after he left that she discovered the letter stuck in one of the books.

Nothing too surprising about that.  Letters, postcards, shopping lists—even obscene photographs—come flying out of returned books all the time.  Miss Whipple had amassed quite a collection over the years and learned a great deal about her neighbors in the process.  But to find a letter addressed to
Maria Morgan so soon after her death, and postmarked shortly before it, was almost too poignant.  Miss Whipple’s first instinct was to call Avery Morgan and offer to hold the letter until he could pick it up.  Certainly not to open it or read it.  What kind of person would do that?  But her second instinct—and it was the one that soon prevailed—was to stuff the letter into her purse and take it home so she could read it without being observed.  At home she discovered that it was a love letter and it did not come from Maria Morgan’s husband.  When she thought about some of the things mentioned in the letter and who it was that must have written it, she had to catch her breath.  She read the letter over a few times, just to make sure there was no misunderstanding, and then she buried it deep in a locked file cabinet and tried never to think about it again.

“I don’t know if there’s much of a story here,” Dubin told Miss Whipple one morning as he followed her shelving cart between the stacks.  “Maybe
Maria Morgan really committed suicide.  She’d been depressed—”

The librarian snorted derisively as she squeezed a copy of
Reversal of Fortune
onto the top shelf in the True Crime section.

“You disagree?”

“If she was depressed,” Miss Whipple said, “I certainly never noticed it.  She was in here checking out books the day before she died.”

The librarian started to say more but instead she avoided looking at Dubin and concentrated on her reshelving.  Her eagerness to cooperate with Dubin had been flagging; it cut against the grain of her natural discretion.  She was not the kind of person
who went around telling secrets to strangers, even in a good cause.  And of course there were some places she absolutely would not go, secrets she’d kept too long to tell them now.

Dubin followed her around the corner to the History section.  He picked
up a book off the cart and tried to locate where it went, but she snatched it out of his hand.

“I’ll do that if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” he smiled, taking a step back.  “According to the articles you gave me, she was being treated for depression.”

There was a long pause as Miss Whipple made an opening fo
r the book and slipped it in.  “All I can say is I was very surprised to hear that,” she finally said.

“So did she kill herself?”

“I never believed it.”

Dubin watched her carefully.  “In that case she must have been murdered.”

The librarian seemed to shiver when he said that word.  “Don’t say that!”

“Well, I think it’s the only alternative.  She didn’t die a natural death.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

Dubin gave her his most winning smile, the one he reserved for old ladies and government bureaucrats.  “I’m sorry.  I’m just trying to run through the logic of whether I ought to be spending my time on this or not.”

She smiled grudgingly and pushed her cart around a corner and halfway down the next aisle.  “Okay, go on.”

“
The question is why would anyone have wanted to kill her,” Dubin said. “Money had nothing to do with it.  I checked out her will.  Her money went exactly where you’d expect it to go—to her husband in trust for the kids, with a small bequest to a sister in California.” 

“Avery Morgan certainly didn’t kill her for her money, if that’s what you’ve been thinking.”

“What did he kill her for, then?”

“I didn’t say he did.  I just meant, he’s already got so much money of his own.”

“You suspect him, though.  Don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You do suspect him.  Everybody around here does.  But is it based on anything other than speculation?  What was his motive?”

She lowered her voice almost to a whisper.  “Maybe she had a lover.”

“More speculation.”

“No.  Maybe I know she had a lover.”

“You know that for a fact?  It’s not just some gossip you heard?”

“I think I know the difference between fact and gossip.”

“How do you know?  Did you catch them in the act?”

“No.”   She hesitated.   “I—I saw a letter.”

“To Maria Morgan?”

She nodded.

“Who was it from?”

Miss Whipple swung her shelving cart around so that it stood between herself and Dubin, and with that barricade between them she faced him defiantly.  “I’m afraid you’re going a little too fast for me, Mr. Dubin.”

“I thought you wanted to help.”

“I’m trying to help, but I have my limits. You’re going to have to do your homework and see what you can find out for yourself.”

“All right.  I can think of two other people who probably know at least as much as you do.”

She smiled skeptically.  “Who’s that?”

“The nurse.  What’s her name?  Mrs. Paterson?  She was with the family even in those days, wasn’t she?  And Dr. Palmer.  He was the one who treated Maria Morgan for her so-called depression.”

“I doubt if either of them would talk to you.”

“Well, there’s no harm in asking, is there?  I’ll let you know what happens.”

When Dubin and Miss Whipple stepped out from behind the stacks they came face to face with Avery Morgan, who stood at the desk waiting to return an overdue book.  Morgan seemed shocked to see Dubin and angry with the librarian for allowing him in the library.

“What have you been telling this man?”

The librarian blushed and nearly toppled over.  “Mr. Morgan.  What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.  He’s been asking you about Maria, hasn’t he?  What have you told him?”

“Nothing, really.  I haven’t told him anything.”

“He’s a blackmailer.”

“A blackmailer?”

“That’s right “

She turned to Dubin, who again tried his most winning smile.  She did not smile back this time.  “But he told me he was a writer.”

“The only thing he writes is extortion notes.”

“But who is he blackmailing?”

“He’s tried my wife and me, but since he doesn’t have anything to blackmail us about he’s shopping around in the neighborhood for whatever he can find.”  Morgan’s lower lip was quivering.  “No one in this town is safe with a man like that walking around.”

Dubin drove past the train station and parked in the shady spot where he often sat watching for Nicole.  He thought about her often, much more often than
about Susan Avery.  Sometimes, in her flimsy running clothes, she flitted out the door and flew away before he could even think about following her.  There was no sign of her that day, which was just as well.  His encounter with Avery Morgan had left him in a foul mood.  He knew what he was and made no excuses for himself, but still Avery Morgan had wounded his pride.  No one in this town is safe with a man like that walking around.   It infuriated him to be spoken of that way, even if it was true.

*
* *

Miss Whipple spent a sleepless night, angry and upset with herself as much as with Dubin.  What had she done?  After keeping her secret for seven years, what had possessed her to confide in a stranger?  He called himself a writer—and he looked like a writer, with his thoughtful eyes and his delicate m
oustache and the wavy dark hair that he wore a little too long—and somehow she must have thought she could trust him.  She thought he’d write a book that would eventually find a place in the True Crime section, and she’d be mentioned in the Acknowledgements—“The author extends his warmest gratitude to Miss Francine Whipple, without whose tireless assistance this book could never have been written.”  Was that what she’d been hoping?  Was she that much of a fool?  All she’d accomplished was to expose the town and everyone in it to the machinations of a blackmailer.

Miss Whipple tossed and turned for three more hours before she fell asleep.  By then it was almost dawn and she knew exactly what she would have to do.  Don’t worry, she told herself.  The letter is in a safe place.

*   *   *

I feel I should say more about Hunter and Antonia, because this is their story, not mine.  And I could do that easily enough by sticking to the jargon of my trade, substituting clinical data for the kinds of observations we normally make about the people around us.  But to say very much about them as human beings—to describe them in the same terms as I’ve described Olympia or Nicole or even Jeff Gottlie
b—is frankly beyond my powers.

Hunter was a hard person to know.  His social interactions consisted of incoherent ravings interspersed with long periods of silence.  It’s no accident that
Hamlet
was his favorite play.  He spent his life brooding, reading books, talking to himself as he tried on his multiple personalities, shouting out random challenges and conundrums—and watching videos, endlessly watching videos, often the same one for hours at a time.  I could record all this as clinical data, but I would have to be Shakespeare to go beyond the pathological in my rendering of it.  And he had spent most of his life so heavily sedated that, unlike Hamlet, he could not express himself in actions any better than in words.  You could have watched him for a hundred years without coming any closer to knowing his innermost thoughts.  I wanted to bridge the gap by reducing his dosages, but on that I had been overruled.  For Antonia the situation was even more hopeless.  Gibberish would have been an improvement over the seven years’ silence her illness had imposed on her.  In her bright blue eyes you could glimpse a beautiful soul, like a tropical fish in an aquarium, trying to escape through the clouded glass.

Just three weeks had gone by since Hunter first sat down to play the piano, but so much had changed in those weeks that it seemed a different world.  Hunter’s illness had shown some improvement; Nicole had turned out to be more seriously troubled than anyone imagined; and I—not to be outdone by my patients—had become the victim of frequent nightmares and migraine attacks that left me feeling unable to cope with the demands of my job.  I considered calling Dr. Neuberger, the therapist who, during my residency, had helped me overcome these and other symptoms before they spoiled my chances for a successful career.  But what would I say to Dr. Neuberger?  How could I spare the time to travel into the city to see him on any kind of regular basis?  Frankly, there were things going on in my life that I would have been reluctant to discuss with him.  I had been drawn into a relationship with Olympia that even I could recognize as a dangerous sexual obsession.  I had lost my judgment and self-control and was beginning to lose my grip on reality.  Only that could account for my fateful decision to yield to Olympia’s blandishments and allow her father,
Dr. Peter Bartolli, to conduct a hypnotic past life regression on Hunter Morgan.

Dr. Palmer would have been furious if he’d known what we were doing behind his back.  Not only because it involved
Peter Bartolli but because to him the whole subject of past life regression was completely beyond the pale.  I’d had the same reaction when Olympia first brought it up, but under her prodding I did enough research to convince myself that the idea wasn’t utterly mad.  A scientist named Stephenson at the University of Virginia has published several volumes of carefully documented studies on the past life regression phenomenon, having traveled throughout Africa and India collecting first-person narratives for many years.  For example, Stephenson relates the story of a small boy in India who specifically recalled being murdered in a past life, describing his killers, their weapons, and numerous details that no one in his village could have known.  It turned out that a crime corresponding exactly to the boy’s “recollection” had been committed in a distant village about six months before he was born.  My research uncovered many stories of a similar nature.  And I discovered that past life regression through hypnosis has been used as a therapeutic tool by a wide variety of practitioners, including many who don’t believe in reincarnation or any other mystical claptrap.  It’s no more unbelievable than Freudianism, I told myself—and probably no less therapeutic.  And so I pretended to have an open mind, though deep down I knew it was nonsense.  The truth is that I was being guided not by sound medical judgment but by my obsession with Olympia.  In her mind anything labeled “New Age” might as well have been proven beyond a reasonable doubt—she herself had experienced several previous lives, she told me, all of a glamorous and historically significant nature.  And at the merest hint of skepticism on my part, she would turn away coldly and challenge me to argue the point with her father.