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Authors: Thomas Harris
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other patients.
“It was you, it wasn’t me,” the squirrelly patient offered. “You might as well admit it. Do you have any gum?”
“I tried to ask him further about his sister, but he closed down,” Dr. Rufin said. The count stood behind Lady Murasaki’s chair in the examining room. “To be frank, he is perfectly opaque to me. I have examined him and physically he is sound. I find scars on his scalp but no evidence of a depressed fracture. But I would guess the hemispheres of his brain may be acting independently, as they do insome cases of head trauma, when communication between the hemispheres is compromised. He follows several trains of thought at once, without distraction from any, and one of the trains is always for his own amusement.
“The scar on his neck is the mark of a chain frozen to the skin. I have seen others like it, just after the war when the camps were opened. He will not say what happened to his sister. I think he knows, whether he realizes it or not, and here is the danger: The mind remembers what it can afford to remember and at its own speed. He will remember when he can stand it.
“I would not push him, and it’s futile to try to hypnotize him. If he remembers too soon, he could freeze inside forever to get away from the pain. You will keep him in your home?”
“Yes,” they both said quickly.
Rufin nodded. “Involve him in your family as much as you can. As he emerges, he will become more attached to you than you can imagine.”
18
THE HIGH FRENCH SUMMER, a pollen haze on the surface of the Essonne and ducks in the reeds. Hannibal still did not speak, but he had dreamless sleep, and the appetite of a growing thirteen-year-old.
His uncle Robert Lecter was warmer and less guarded than Hannibal’s father had been. He had a kind of artist’s recklessness in him that had lasted and combined with the recklessness of age.
There was a gallery on the roof where they could walk. Pollen had gathered in drifts in the valleys of the roof, gilding the moss, and parachute spiders rode by on the wind. They could see the silver curve of the river through the trees.
The count was tall and birdlike. His skin was grey in the good light on the roof. His hands on the railing were thin, but they looked like Hannibal’s father’s hands.
“Our family, we are somewhat unusual people, Hannibal,” he said. “We learn it early, I expect you already know. You’ll become more comfortable with it in years to come, if it bothers you now. You have lost your family and your home, but you have me and you have Sheba. Is she not a delight? Her father brought her to an exhibition of mine at the Tokyo Metropolitan twenty-five years ago. I had never seen so beautiful a child. Fifteen years later, when he became Ambassador to France, she came too. I could not believe my luck and showed up at the embassy at once, announcing my intention to convert to Shinto. He said my religion was not among his primary concerns. He has never approved of me but he likes my pictures. Pictures! Come.
“This is my studio.” It was a big whitewashed room on the top floor of the chateau. Canvases in progress stood on easels and more were propped against the walls. A chaise longue sat on a low platform and, beside it on a coat stand, was a kimono. A draped canvas stood on an easel nearby.
They passed into an adjoining room, where a big easel stood with a pad of blank newsprint, charcoal and some tubes of color.
“I have made a space here for you, your own studio,” the count said. “You can find relief here, Hannibal. When you feel that you may explode, draw instead! Paint! Big arm motions, lots of color. Don’t try to aim it or finesse it when you draw. You will get enough finesse from Sheba.” He looked beyond the trees to the river. “I’ll see you at lunch. AskMadame Brigitte to find you a hat. We’ll row in the late afternoon, after your lessons.”
After the count left him, Hannibal did not at once go to his
“It was you, it wasn’t me,” the squirrelly patient offered. “You might as well admit it. Do you have any gum?”
“I tried to ask him further about his sister, but he closed down,” Dr. Rufin said. The count stood behind Lady Murasaki’s chair in the examining room. “To be frank, he is perfectly opaque to me. I have examined him and physically he is sound. I find scars on his scalp but no evidence of a depressed fracture. But I would guess the hemispheres of his brain may be acting independently, as they do insome cases of head trauma, when communication between the hemispheres is compromised. He follows several trains of thought at once, without distraction from any, and one of the trains is always for his own amusement.
“The scar on his neck is the mark of a chain frozen to the skin. I have seen others like it, just after the war when the camps were opened. He will not say what happened to his sister. I think he knows, whether he realizes it or not, and here is the danger: The mind remembers what it can afford to remember and at its own speed. He will remember when he can stand it.
“I would not push him, and it’s futile to try to hypnotize him. If he remembers too soon, he could freeze inside forever to get away from the pain. You will keep him in your home?”
“Yes,” they both said quickly.
Rufin nodded. “Involve him in your family as much as you can. As he emerges, he will become more attached to you than you can imagine.”
18
THE HIGH FRENCH SUMMER, a pollen haze on the surface of the Essonne and ducks in the reeds. Hannibal still did not speak, but he had dreamless sleep, and the appetite of a growing thirteen-year-old.
His uncle Robert Lecter was warmer and less guarded than Hannibal’s father had been. He had a kind of artist’s recklessness in him that had lasted and combined with the recklessness of age.
There was a gallery on the roof where they could walk. Pollen had gathered in drifts in the valleys of the roof, gilding the moss, and parachute spiders rode by on the wind. They could see the silver curve of the river through the trees.
The count was tall and birdlike. His skin was grey in the good light on the roof. His hands on the railing were thin, but they looked like Hannibal’s father’s hands.
“Our family, we are somewhat unusual people, Hannibal,” he said. “We learn it early, I expect you already know. You’ll become more comfortable with it in years to come, if it bothers you now. You have lost your family and your home, but you have me and you have Sheba. Is she not a delight? Her father brought her to an exhibition of mine at the Tokyo Metropolitan twenty-five years ago. I had never seen so beautiful a child. Fifteen years later, when he became Ambassador to France, she came too. I could not believe my luck and showed up at the embassy at once, announcing my intention to convert to Shinto. He said my religion was not among his primary concerns. He has never approved of me but he likes my pictures. Pictures! Come.
“This is my studio.” It was a big whitewashed room on the top floor of the chateau. Canvases in progress stood on easels and more were propped against the walls. A chaise longue sat on a low platform and, beside it on a coat stand, was a kimono. A draped canvas stood on an easel nearby.
They passed into an adjoining room, where a big easel stood with a pad of blank newsprint, charcoal and some tubes of color.
“I have made a space here for you, your own studio,” the count said. “You can find relief here, Hannibal. When you feel that you may explode, draw instead! Paint! Big arm motions, lots of color. Don’t try to aim it or finesse it when you draw. You will get enough finesse from Sheba.” He looked beyond the trees to the river. “I’ll see you at lunch. AskMadame Brigitte to find you a hat. We’ll row in the late afternoon, after your lessons.”
After the count left him, Hannibal did not at once go to his
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