them.”
Jung waited.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
There was still no reply, and still no sound except for the faintest echo of water running somewhere else in the building.
Jung let go of the doorknob and took a step forward.
Nothing.
He then took another step and waited again.
And again, nothing.
“Later in my life, perhaps around the advent of puberty, the dark took on new meaning for me. I no longer feared it, but welcomed it. No more graves. In fact, I rarely dream of graves any more. I may well infuture, of course—growing older. But for the time being, the grave has been replaced by the cradle—you might say: the life force. After all, the dark most often is where we procreate…”
At a distance, someone flushed a toilet. The water pipes began to sing.
“I have never conducted an interview in the dark before,” Jung said. “It amuses me. Perhaps it amuses you.”
Nothing.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
Jung took a third step forward.
“Why do you insist on silence?” he said. “Is there really nothing you would say?”
Apparently not.
“If I thought it was really of interest to you, I would continue my dissertation on the subject of darkness, but I suspect…”
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away,” Jung said.
“But…”
“Go away. Be patient. Wait.”
Jung could hear conversation beyond the door but made out no words.
How long had he been in here?
He could not tell.
If only he knew where the light switch was.
He felt along the wall behind him.
They usually put it near the entrance, he thought—but there was nothing there.
“If you could assist me, Mister Pilgrim, I need toknow where the light switch is because I require the toilet…”
This was, of course, a ruse, but he thought it might work. Anything might work. Perhaps he should shout for help. Or give a cry of: FIRE !
This thought made him laugh out loud.
“I am thinking the strangest, most ridiculous things, Mister Pilgrim,” he said. “I was thinking I might cry fire in order to trick you into responding—but, of course, if there was a fire you would see it…”
Matches.
How damnably slow I am!
As he searched his pockets—finding everything but his matches—he began to have the curious thought that somehow Pilgrim had escaped him and that, all this time, he had been talking to himself.
He stumbled forward—and stopped. Sickened.
His toe had caught at the edge of what might be an arm or a leg.
“Mister Pilgrim?
Jung gave a gentle nudge with his shoe.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
He knelt down.
Even as he did so, he made a mental note that he had blundered in his assessment of Pilgrim’s state of mind—that he had lost him as a consequence of pride. His confidence that he knew better, that Pilgrim had no real desire to further harm himself had overridden common sense. A man who really wants to die will try and try and try again…as this man already has.
All this went through his mind as he descended to his knees. And furthermore…
His knees struck the floor.
Pain.
Tiles.
Bruising hard and freezing cold.
He caught his breath and reached out with both his hands, sliding them palm down across what felt like the wind-blown ice of his childhood—the nightmare ice of Lake Constance.
His fingers caught hold of a sleeve.
Tweed.
Rough.
Empty.
He pulled the jacket towards him.
Then a shirt with its collar torn off.
He raced his fingers over every pocket on his body.
Matches. Matches. Where?
He was wearing a white smock and under it, his jacket, waistcoat and shirt. Pockets. Pockets. Too many pockets…
There, you idiot!
Of course.
Lower left waistcoat pocket, exactly where you left them.
It took three unsuccessful attempts before, at last, the fourth match flared.
By its light Jung saw that he was adrift in a pool of discarded clothing—trousers—necktie—underwear—shoes—socks—jacket—shirt…
Oh God—where is he?
The match burned down to Jung’s fingertips. Throwing it into a corner,
Jung waited.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
There was still no reply, and still no sound except for the faintest echo of water running somewhere else in the building.
Jung let go of the doorknob and took a step forward.
Nothing.
He then took another step and waited again.
And again, nothing.
“Later in my life, perhaps around the advent of puberty, the dark took on new meaning for me. I no longer feared it, but welcomed it. No more graves. In fact, I rarely dream of graves any more. I may well infuture, of course—growing older. But for the time being, the grave has been replaced by the cradle—you might say: the life force. After all, the dark most often is where we procreate…”
At a distance, someone flushed a toilet. The water pipes began to sing.
“I have never conducted an interview in the dark before,” Jung said. “It amuses me. Perhaps it amuses you.”
Nothing.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
Jung took a third step forward.
“Why do you insist on silence?” he said. “Is there really nothing you would say?”
Apparently not.
“If I thought it was really of interest to you, I would continue my dissertation on the subject of darkness, but I suspect…”
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away,” Jung said.
“But…”
“Go away. Be patient. Wait.”
Jung could hear conversation beyond the door but made out no words.
How long had he been in here?
He could not tell.
If only he knew where the light switch was.
He felt along the wall behind him.
They usually put it near the entrance, he thought—but there was nothing there.
“If you could assist me, Mister Pilgrim, I need toknow where the light switch is because I require the toilet…”
This was, of course, a ruse, but he thought it might work. Anything might work. Perhaps he should shout for help. Or give a cry of: FIRE !
This thought made him laugh out loud.
“I am thinking the strangest, most ridiculous things, Mister Pilgrim,” he said. “I was thinking I might cry fire in order to trick you into responding—but, of course, if there was a fire you would see it…”
Matches.
How damnably slow I am!
As he searched his pockets—finding everything but his matches—he began to have the curious thought that somehow Pilgrim had escaped him and that, all this time, he had been talking to himself.
He stumbled forward—and stopped. Sickened.
His toe had caught at the edge of what might be an arm or a leg.
“Mister Pilgrim?
Jung gave a gentle nudge with his shoe.
“Mister Pilgrim?”
He knelt down.
Even as he did so, he made a mental note that he had blundered in his assessment of Pilgrim’s state of mind—that he had lost him as a consequence of pride. His confidence that he knew better, that Pilgrim had no real desire to further harm himself had overridden common sense. A man who really wants to die will try and try and try again…as this man already has.
All this went through his mind as he descended to his knees. And furthermore…
His knees struck the floor.
Pain.
Tiles.
Bruising hard and freezing cold.
He caught his breath and reached out with both his hands, sliding them palm down across what felt like the wind-blown ice of his childhood—the nightmare ice of Lake Constance.
His fingers caught hold of a sleeve.
Tweed.
Rough.
Empty.
He pulled the jacket towards him.
Then a shirt with its collar torn off.
He raced his fingers over every pocket on his body.
Matches. Matches. Where?
He was wearing a white smock and under it, his jacket, waistcoat and shirt. Pockets. Pockets. Too many pockets…
There, you idiot!
Of course.
Lower left waistcoat pocket, exactly where you left them.
It took three unsuccessful attempts before, at last, the fourth match flared.
By its light Jung saw that he was adrift in a pool of discarded clothing—trousers—necktie—underwear—shoes—socks—jacket—shirt…
Oh God—where is he?
The match burned down to Jung’s fingertips. Throwing it into a corner,
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