Pilgrim by Timothy Findley

here.”
    “And you say he should have died but did not on account of some extraordinary circumstance?” Menken asked.
    “Well, it certainly seems so,” said Furtwängler. “Both the examining physicians had already signed his death certificate and departed when—all at once, five, six, seven hours after the hanging—he came back to life.”
    “Could be he really didn’t want to die…” said Menken.
    “But you say he’d tried it before. Other suicide attempts?” Jung asked.
    “Yes.”
    “By hanging?”
    “No. Other ways. Drowning. Poison. The usual.”
    “Well. Extraordinary. Unless, of course, Menken is right and he really never tried hard enough.”
    “I would have said that being apparently dead for seven hours was trying hard enough,” said Furtwängler.
    “And now Blavinskeya thinks he’s come to her from the Moon.”
    “Yes. Alas…” Blavinskeya was not Furtwängler’s favourite patient.
    Jung sat back and slapped his knee decisively. “Well!” he said, “when can we see him?”
    “Now, if you like.”
    “I like it very much. Come along. Drink up. We shall all go together. To the Moon, gentlemen!” Jung raised his glass and emptied it. “To the Moon—posthaste!”
    Furtwängler’s hand closed tighter on his tumbler as he drank. Mister Pilgrim was his patient, by prior arrangement with Lady Quartermaine—and with Bleuler’s implicit approval. And yet, as he set his glass aside and rose to join the others, he felt a momentary sense of foreboding. He had lost other patients to Jung in the past—most notably the Countess Blavinskeya—which was why he now resented the lack of progress in her recovery. Jung’s sometimes overwhelming enthusiasm could pull down the entire structure of another analyst’s treatment if he was not carefully monitored.
    As they left, Furtwängler turned the key in the door and thought: one day, I might find a way to have him out of the Clinic altogether.

9
    Pilgrim was standing childlike in the middle of the floor while Kessler attached a collar to his shirt. Kessler himself was sweating rather profusely.
    Furtwängler was the first to speak. “Is he not able to do that himself?”
    Kessler had only just managed to insert a recalcitrant stud and was somewhat breathless with frustration. “He fights it, sir,” he said. “I think he would prefer to dress himself, but there’s three other studs down there on the floor somewhere, the result of his having dropped them. I’ll just do his tie, if you don’t mind.”
    The orderly had already selected a splendid blue silk cravat, which was draped across his shoulder. He nodded at the two other doctors who stood, white-coated and silent, near the door. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. And then, referring with a glance to Pilgrim, he went on. “We have been for our walk and are waiting for our lunch.” He put the tie around Pilgrim’s neck and began to form a knot. “We did not sleep well, but stood a long while over there by the windows staring out at the sky. At six o’clock, an hour before sunrise, we sat down and turned our back on the room with our knees pressed tight against the wall. At seven-fifteen we acknowledged the need to use the toilet, did so and returned to the window. When the sun appeared yonder, we raised our hand in greeting. Most extraordinary. Makes no other gestures. Handsto the sides most times, and clumsy in the use, as witness the three lost studs.”
    Kessler drew the knot as if to tighten it, but Pilgrim threw up his hands to prevent him.
    Kessler stepped back.
    “Well now,” he said. “Another first.”
    Pilgrim finished the knot and twisted it to one side.
    Furtwängler moved across the carpet.
    “Mister Pilgrim,” he said—his smile as perfect as practice could make it. “I have brought my colleagues to meet you: Doctor Jung and Doctor Menken.”
    Pilgrim, who was pulling down the wings of his collar, turned away towards the mirror above the bureau.
    “Mister