maroon-jacketed tome that served as the shrink’s bible.
Under the circumstances, there was only so much that Duran could do. The psychopharmacology was straightforward enough—Clozaril was the drug of choice—and it was prescribed by the Dutchman’s psychiatrist in Europe, who communicated occasionally with Duran by e-mail. Using hypnosis and regression therapy, Duran’s task was to uncover any trauma contributing to de Groot’s dysfunction, and to help him confront it. Only then would he have any chance of a sustained recovery.
It was, in many ways, a curious case. Among other things, Duran found it interesting that the Dutchman interpreted his illness as a kind of possession—with the instrument of possession being a worm. That the worm was a demon, rather than a parasite, was self-evident even to de Groot: parasites didn’t issue orders—incubae did.
At first, Duran had theorized that the worm was indicative of a multiple personality, with the Dutchman suffering from dissociation rather than schizophrenia. But, no. The Worm was an invader (in de Groot’s eyes), and not an alter ego.
Another disturbing element in de Groot’s personality was his overt racism. In an age of political correctness, it was startling to encounter someone who said the kind of things the Dutchman did. “I don’t know how you live in this city with all these niggers.” Duran was offended by comments like this and always and immediately objected; it was one of the things he and the Dutchman were working on, although so far they hadn’t succeeded in discovering the roots of de Groot’s bigotry. Holland had a small population of blacks—mostly Moluccans—but people of color did not seem to have played any significant role in his client’s life. Duran shook his head, wondering how the Dutchman got by in the businessworld—particularly in D.C.—if he tossed off racist comments with any regularity.
Duran looked down at his notes and picked out a word that he’d underlined:
mandala.
It was a term that figured prominently in de Groot’s fantasy world, with the Dutchman insisting at every session that the mandala was evil, and had to be destroyed. Duran recalled that a mandala was some kind of geometric design but still, he’d looked up the term in hopes of parsing its significance for his client. But the encyclopedia wasn’t very helpful. According to it, a mandala was (variously) a representation of the universe; a symbolic painting (consisting of a square, enclosed by a circle); and/or a field of power in constant flux. Buddhists used the figures for meditative purposes, but what they meant to de Groot was anyone’s guess.
Two weeks earlier, he’d shown the Dutchman a collection of Tibetan mandalas that he’d found on the Internet. De Groot’s reaction had been a soft shrug, and the polite remark, “How interesting …” The figures had not seemed to engage him at all.
What
was
interesting was what Duran had learned through his research—that visual hallucinations of mandalas were quite common in schizophrenics, who found in the rigid symmetries of the figures a kind of order and stability that did not exist elsewhere in their minds. Most schizophrenics found
solace
in mandalas whereas de Groot …
Bizzzzzzzzzzzttt!
The intercom startled Duran, as it always did, but his client was right on time. Closing the folder, he got to his feet, went into the living room, and pressed the switch on the intercom. “Henrik?”
The Dutchman was almost as handsome as he was crazy. His hair was yellow, rather than blond, spiky and glistening, like the pelt of a wet animal. High cheekbones and the palest of blue eyes flared and glittered on either side of a long, straight nose. A deeply cleft chin completed the picture.
Or not quite. There was something else about de Groot’s appearance that turned heads on the street. It was, for lack of a better term, an aura of athleticism—a nimbus of physical power and grace that his
Under the circumstances, there was only so much that Duran could do. The psychopharmacology was straightforward enough—Clozaril was the drug of choice—and it was prescribed by the Dutchman’s psychiatrist in Europe, who communicated occasionally with Duran by e-mail. Using hypnosis and regression therapy, Duran’s task was to uncover any trauma contributing to de Groot’s dysfunction, and to help him confront it. Only then would he have any chance of a sustained recovery.
It was, in many ways, a curious case. Among other things, Duran found it interesting that the Dutchman interpreted his illness as a kind of possession—with the instrument of possession being a worm. That the worm was a demon, rather than a parasite, was self-evident even to de Groot: parasites didn’t issue orders—incubae did.
At first, Duran had theorized that the worm was indicative of a multiple personality, with the Dutchman suffering from dissociation rather than schizophrenia. But, no. The Worm was an invader (in de Groot’s eyes), and not an alter ego.
Another disturbing element in de Groot’s personality was his overt racism. In an age of political correctness, it was startling to encounter someone who said the kind of things the Dutchman did. “I don’t know how you live in this city with all these niggers.” Duran was offended by comments like this and always and immediately objected; it was one of the things he and the Dutchman were working on, although so far they hadn’t succeeded in discovering the roots of de Groot’s bigotry. Holland had a small population of blacks—mostly Moluccans—but people of color did not seem to have played any significant role in his client’s life. Duran shook his head, wondering how the Dutchman got by in the businessworld—particularly in D.C.—if he tossed off racist comments with any regularity.
Duran looked down at his notes and picked out a word that he’d underlined:
mandala.
It was a term that figured prominently in de Groot’s fantasy world, with the Dutchman insisting at every session that the mandala was evil, and had to be destroyed. Duran recalled that a mandala was some kind of geometric design but still, he’d looked up the term in hopes of parsing its significance for his client. But the encyclopedia wasn’t very helpful. According to it, a mandala was (variously) a representation of the universe; a symbolic painting (consisting of a square, enclosed by a circle); and/or a field of power in constant flux. Buddhists used the figures for meditative purposes, but what they meant to de Groot was anyone’s guess.
Two weeks earlier, he’d shown the Dutchman a collection of Tibetan mandalas that he’d found on the Internet. De Groot’s reaction had been a soft shrug, and the polite remark, “How interesting …” The figures had not seemed to engage him at all.
What
was
interesting was what Duran had learned through his research—that visual hallucinations of mandalas were quite common in schizophrenics, who found in the rigid symmetries of the figures a kind of order and stability that did not exist elsewhere in their minds. Most schizophrenics found
solace
in mandalas whereas de Groot …
Bizzzzzzzzzzzttt!
The intercom startled Duran, as it always did, but his client was right on time. Closing the folder, he got to his feet, went into the living room, and pressed the switch on the intercom. “Henrik?”
The Dutchman was almost as handsome as he was crazy. His hair was yellow, rather than blond, spiky and glistening, like the pelt of a wet animal. High cheekbones and the palest of blue eyes flared and glittered on either side of a long, straight nose. A deeply cleft chin completed the picture.
Or not quite. There was something else about de Groot’s appearance that turned heads on the street. It was, for lack of a better term, an aura of athleticism—a nimbus of physical power and grace that his
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