Pilgrim…” Furtwängler put out his hand as if to take the patient’s arm.
“No. Don’t,” said Jung, stepping forward. “Let him be.”
Pilgrim’s arms fell to his sides.
Kessler moved towards him, holding a Harris tweed jacket.
Jung put his finger to his lips and took the garment in hand. Kessler moved away and waited with the others.
Jung said: “here is your jacket, Mister Pilgrim.”
Pilgrim turned only slightly—not enough to look into Jung’s eyes—and slipped his arms into the satin-lined sleeves.
“I know who you are,” said Jung.
Pilgrim attempted to do up his buttons.
“My name is Carl Jung and I have read your book about Leonardo da Vinci. Splendid, I thought it was. Splendid. And…”
Pilgrim suddenly turned and, passing the others, walked into the bathroom, where he shut the door.
“Is there a key?” Jung asked.
“No, sir,” said Kessler. “All the keys are in my pocket.”
“Is there a razor?”
“No. I’ve removed it. Shaved him myself this morning.”
“What was his reaction to that? To being shaved.”
“He knocked the razor out of my hand at one point. Same as he did with the tie, just now.”
“Did he try to pick it up?”
“No. He let me do that. Then I finished the shave and there was no more fuss.”
“What’s his opinion of you?” said Jung. “Does he resent you?”
“He doesn’t speak. I’ve caught him staring at me once or twice, but without expression. He seems to know who I am and that I’m here to help him, but aside from that, I hardly get a flicker.”
“Has he done this before—close himself in the bathroom?”
“Only when he’s used the toilet. I was in there with him when he bathed. I never leave a patient alone when he bathes. Not ever.”
“Good. It’s just as well. Even when there’s no intention to harm himself, there can still be accidents. And he hasn’t said a word?”
“No, sir. Not one.”
“Did he eat his breakfast?”
“Yes. Half a grapefruit. A piece of buttered toast and a cup of coffee.”
“That was all?”
“That was all.”
Jung regarded the bathroom door and turned to Furtwängler, who—after all—was Pilgrim’s physician.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
Furtwängler tried not to sound curt. “What are you thinking of doing?” he asked.
“Joining him. And if it seems to be appropriate, I shall close the door behind me. With your permission?”
Furtwängler raised an eyebrow at Menken. “I appear to be losing another patient,” he muttered. And then to Jung: “just remember he is mine, Carl Gustav.”
“Of course,” said Jung. “I merely want to make contact.”
“Very well, then. If you must—go ahead,” Furt-wängler looked again at Menken, who turned away towards the windows. “We shall wait here.”
“Thank you.” Jung gave a diffident bow and went over to the bathroom door. Slowly and gently, he knocked three times and went in.
10
There was no light. The room was in darkness.
Not knowing its geography, Jung hung back by the door, his left hand still on its handle.
“Would you prefer it if I did not turn on the light, Mister Pilgrim?” he asked.
There was no reply.
Jung waited, motionless.
He listened for Pilgrim’s breathing, but there was none.
“The dark has always been of interest to me,” he said. “When I was a child, I was afraid of it, of course—the way most children are. My father was a minister—a pastor of the Swiss Reform church. I often saw him in the local graveyard performing the service for the dead—and, being impressionable, I dreamt quite often of the image of him standing there, but in my dreams there was never light. It was always gloomy, murky—dark. I suppose it was the graves that frightened me as much as anything else about the service for the dead. They put you in the dark and then they leave you there. That sort of thing. Perhaps you might have had such dreams yourself when you were a child. Or very like. Most children do have
“No. Don’t,” said Jung, stepping forward. “Let him be.”
Pilgrim’s arms fell to his sides.
Kessler moved towards him, holding a Harris tweed jacket.
Jung put his finger to his lips and took the garment in hand. Kessler moved away and waited with the others.
Jung said: “here is your jacket, Mister Pilgrim.”
Pilgrim turned only slightly—not enough to look into Jung’s eyes—and slipped his arms into the satin-lined sleeves.
“I know who you are,” said Jung.
Pilgrim attempted to do up his buttons.
“My name is Carl Jung and I have read your book about Leonardo da Vinci. Splendid, I thought it was. Splendid. And…”
Pilgrim suddenly turned and, passing the others, walked into the bathroom, where he shut the door.
“Is there a key?” Jung asked.
“No, sir,” said Kessler. “All the keys are in my pocket.”
“Is there a razor?”
“No. I’ve removed it. Shaved him myself this morning.”
“What was his reaction to that? To being shaved.”
“He knocked the razor out of my hand at one point. Same as he did with the tie, just now.”
“Did he try to pick it up?”
“No. He let me do that. Then I finished the shave and there was no more fuss.”
“What’s his opinion of you?” said Jung. “Does he resent you?”
“He doesn’t speak. I’ve caught him staring at me once or twice, but without expression. He seems to know who I am and that I’m here to help him, but aside from that, I hardly get a flicker.”
“Has he done this before—close himself in the bathroom?”
“Only when he’s used the toilet. I was in there with him when he bathed. I never leave a patient alone when he bathes. Not ever.”
“Good. It’s just as well. Even when there’s no intention to harm himself, there can still be accidents. And he hasn’t said a word?”
“No, sir. Not one.”
“Did he eat his breakfast?”
“Yes. Half a grapefruit. A piece of buttered toast and a cup of coffee.”
“That was all?”
“That was all.”
Jung regarded the bathroom door and turned to Furtwängler, who—after all—was Pilgrim’s physician.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
Furtwängler tried not to sound curt. “What are you thinking of doing?” he asked.
“Joining him. And if it seems to be appropriate, I shall close the door behind me. With your permission?”
Furtwängler raised an eyebrow at Menken. “I appear to be losing another patient,” he muttered. And then to Jung: “just remember he is mine, Carl Gustav.”
“Of course,” said Jung. “I merely want to make contact.”
“Very well, then. If you must—go ahead,” Furt-wängler looked again at Menken, who turned away towards the windows. “We shall wait here.”
“Thank you.” Jung gave a diffident bow and went over to the bathroom door. Slowly and gently, he knocked three times and went in.
10
There was no light. The room was in darkness.
Not knowing its geography, Jung hung back by the door, his left hand still on its handle.
“Would you prefer it if I did not turn on the light, Mister Pilgrim?” he asked.
There was no reply.
Jung waited, motionless.
He listened for Pilgrim’s breathing, but there was none.
“The dark has always been of interest to me,” he said. “When I was a child, I was afraid of it, of course—the way most children are. My father was a minister—a pastor of the Swiss Reform church. I often saw him in the local graveyard performing the service for the dead—and, being impressionable, I dreamt quite often of the image of him standing there, but in my dreams there was never light. It was always gloomy, murky—dark. I suppose it was the graves that frightened me as much as anything else about the service for the dead. They put you in the dark and then they leave you there. That sort of thing. Perhaps you might have had such dreams yourself when you were a child. Or very like. Most children do have
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