Angel of Death. Christian Russell
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in the first few days. Rowing, steaks, cheerful drunk men. About a week later, when we were about fifty miles away from Macapá, almost isolated among the islands of vegetation, something happened. The boat with supplies and medicines capsized and everything ended up forty-five feet below. The grown-ups kept their cool. There was plenty of water and game. Only we had lost our way. Suddenly marsh fever struck ruthlessly. It was a very quick and aggressive type, ‘Plasmodium falciparum,’ as I found out later. We were stuck in the marshes without any medical kits, and four days later all the grown-ups were dying. My father died second. They passed away one by one under our very eyes. Neither my brother nor I caught it. We just starved until some fishermen found and helped us get to a Salvation Army shelter, in Belém. Now, tell me, doctor, do you think our rescue was a sign foreboding a special fate?”
McGerr, rather troubled by what he had heard, felt the need to point out. “First, allow me to draw your attention to the implications. This tragic story’s affected you deeply. A man is the sum of his childhood traumas. Freud said that.”
“This guy, Freud, was sexually obsessed. You’d better answer this question, doc: don’t you think this story points to a special fate, to the few chosen ones?”
“It depends on what you mean by fate. The notion is ambiguous. Tell me, is the fate of the Potomac to flow through Washington or to flow into the ocean?”
“By special fate I mean leading a special kind of life, not mingling with the crowd.”
“I see. Man’s ultimate obsession, that of not being mistaken for someone else. The very fact that you survived should make you happy, though. Your rescue may have been the very climax of this special fate. Don’t hope for too much, however. You’d obviously like the sun to shine for you only. But—mind you, Pollux: out there, far away from the crowd, all on your own, there’re lots of risks!” The doctor paused to see if his words had sunk in.
“What risks?” Pollux asked still undisturbed.
“The risk of being outcast and ignored, the risk of only coming to terms with yourself on your death bed. And then it will be too late.”
“Maybe my fate is to be a powerful man, worshipped by the crowds, able to spare or to sentence. Such a man can’t be an outcast and has nothing to regret in his dying hour, simply because he might become immortal.”
“Sure, I’ve seen that TV series too,” the doctor tried to sound funny.
“Come on, doc, what do you think of what I’ve just told you?”
“You want so much to be special, Pollux, unique even. And you want power, too,” the doctor tried to make things clear to him. “But God loves ordinary people. That’s why He’s made so many of them. Remember what the Bible says? ‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’”
Pollux nodded waving his arms as if he were exercising in a gym. “Fear of power.... Who the hell preaches that? Jerks like Freud and Jung?”
“You’re so full of contrasts, Pollux. On the one hand, you’re afraid of the society and its strictness. On the other hand, you need the crowds, their love and admiration. You think of yourself as one of the chosen but the real personalities are nothing but jerks to you.”
“Not all of them. There are some I admire. Not many, though, I must admit that.”
“Give me one example.”
“Well, in my opinion, Shakespeare’s a genius.”
“Right. Now we’re getting somewhere. I think it was he who said that if you live in such a way that no one will remember you, you’ll die alone and your face will die with you too.”
“That’s right. Only you didn’t grasp it properly, doc. You don’t need a crowd to be remembered forever. You only need to entwine your fate at one time or another with that of a chosen person. Who would remember Ophelia, Polonius, King Claudius, or Laertes if their fate hadn’t been tied to Hamlet’s?”
“But Hamlet brought death to them all,” McGerr protested.
“Indeed he did. But in return he offered them a life beyond time. A life in Eternity.”
The doctor decided it was time he inhibited the other with his competence. “Look here, man! I understand your quest, your doubts. You’re terrified lest conformity should cripple your soul. And you’re trying to put the pieces of your life together, like in a puzzle, so that you’ll get a unique fate, that of a superman. Only you can’t do it all. You don’t know what the puzzle looks like.”
“And you can help me?” the patient asked distrustfully.
“I don’t know. Maybe, if you give up that sadness of yours.”
Pollux stood up. He took a chair from the corner of the room, drew it next to McGerr’s and sat down. He gave him that penetrating look, piercing both his mind and soul.
“You know something, doc?” he said after a while. “I think you’re sadder than I am. So sad and fed up with your own failures that you’ve chosen to know the others’ failures as well. Especially when you get paid for it too. And you’ve collected a pile of dramas, an ocean of misery just to convince yourself that, by comparison, you’re still a lucky guy. Tell me something, though: how many of those fates have you managed to change? How many of your patients have you offered a new existence? And if you have, how many of them placed you in its center? I’ll tell you: those patients have written your name on their Christmas card lists and then forgotten all about Dr. McGerr. You know what I’m going to do? When I get home I’ll write this in my journal: ‘Today I met a man who fools himself by pretending he honors the human species.’” Pollux stood up to leave.
“There’s still twenty minutes to go,” McGerr said.
Pollux gave him a compassionate look. “You can use it to woo your receptionist. I’m afraid this hasn’t been a very fruitful session for either of us. Should I say ‘See you’? Actually, I think I’d better say ‘Good-bye.’ I’m afraid your schedule will be so tight the next few weeks you won’t be able to squeeze me in.”
He saw through me, the doctor thought. Am I that obvious? God, that was fast! Meanwhile, Thanatos had taken a few steps toward the door then turned to face the doctor. ‘Maybe the meek shall indeed inherit the earth...but not before the powerful have had their way with it!” He went out but his presence, heavy, almost surreal, lingered in the room.
Alone in his office, McGerr tightened his fists. On the blank chart carrying only the name of Pollux he wrote ‘demophobia.’ He recalled the marsh fever incident and added ‘possibly drepanocytosis’ or ‘thalassemia’ in a subclinic stage. ‘Heterozygote?’ Then he realized it had actually been their last session. A humiliating one for him at that. He crumpled the paper and threw it into the basket in the far corner of the room with a dexterity even Patrick Ewing would have envied.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday, October 16
Mark was at his desk frowning at some papers that he had just received. Three days after the Majestic attempt, they had finally managed to trace Edward Druller. That was one way of putting it, for the NYPD had actually found his body burnt almost beyond recognition. His car had fallen into a precipice near Newark airport. The Ford had caught fire and Druller with it. At least those were the preliminary results. As soon as they had been able to examine his remains properly, they had found a nice bullet hole in his skull. Who had executed him and why? Anyway, his fault had been too big to let him live on.
Now Mark was impatiently waiting for the forensic’s report hoping for more details. All of a sudden the door was pushed open and Sean Paulardis came in triumphantly in his well-known navy blue outfit.
“Hi, everyone!” he said and made his cowboy hat land on his desk. “Your hero’s back, my friends. My hand got numb giving all those autographs. But for you, I’m willing to put in some extra effort.”
“Save your scribbling,” Steimberg cut him short while hugging him. Mark did