he struck another and struggled to his feet.
The light switch was on the light above the sink.
Wonder of wonders! Ingenious! A light switch on a light! Idiot!
He pulled its chain.
In the recording part of his brain, he made a note to have The Universal Designer of Bathrooms brought before the Universal Court of Safety Precautions. Light switches dangling over water taps in a mental institution. Insanity!
Pilgrim.
Jung could see him in the mirror. Or, at least, a part of him. The top of his head. A shoulder.
He was lying naked in the bathtub.
Jung stood frozen.
He knew that he had to call the others but his mouth would not open.
In seconds that felt like hours, he had bruised his knees yet again and was kneeling down by Pilgrim’s side.
The bottom of the tub was scarlet.
Oh dear God—he’s succeeded.
But he had not.
Even as Jung reached out for Pilgrim’s wrists, the body convulsed and almost sat up.
It waved its hands in the air and dropped them back to its sides, where they began a frantic search under sodden thighs and buttocks. At last, the right hand rose exultant.
In it, there was a spoon. A small spoon with serrated edges.
The words half a grapefruit for breakfast raced through Jung’s mind. Half a grapefruit eaten with a serrated spoon.
With his left hand, Pilgrim grasped Jung’s lapels and drew him down towards his face.
His mouth opened.
He held out the spoon.
His eyes were filled with anguish.
“Please,” he whispered. “ Please, ” he said and thrust the pathetic spoon in Jung’s direction. “Kill me.”
Jung undid the fingers on his lapel and stood up.
He collected some towels and draped them over Pilgrim’s body, putting still more in the sink, into which he had already begun to run cold water.
Placing the spoon in his pocket, he went over to the door and opened it.
Before turning back towards the bathtub, Jung looked out into the other room, which was ablaze with sunlight, and said to his colleagues: “you may come in, now. He has spoken.”
11
It was Menken and Kessler who accompanied Pilgrim to the surgery, where the wounds on his wrists were dealt with. Even though a great deal of blood had flowed, the damage was not as severe as it would have been had Pilgrim used a knife. But knivesdeployed on the trays that went to patients who ate in their rooms were always of the sort with blunt ends and dull edges—knives with which no harm could be done at all.
After the others had departed, Furtwängler gave a sigh and raised his arms in a helpless gesture. “Well then,” he said—sinking onto Pilgrim’s bed, “what am I to do with you?”
“With me? ” Jung asked. “Why me?”
“We might have prevented all this, if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Nothing would have prevented it,” said Jung. “I mean—imagine! A man tries to kill himself with a spoon. Sounds like fair desperation to me. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You curried favour with him. The minute you held the jacket for him he knew he had you in the palm of his hand. I despair. You did this with Blavinskeya. You raved about the wonders of the Moon. You did it with the Dog-man. You allowed his minder to walk him on a chain. You told the Man-with-the-imaginary-pen you thought he had created the most beautiful writing you had ever read! I swear you don’t want to bring them back. You want to leave them stranded in their dreams!”
Jung turned towards the bureau and fingered a photograph there in a silver frame. It showed a woman who appeared to be in mourning—eyes cast down, chin lowered, black beads and dress.
“It isn’t true,” he said, “that I want to abandon them to their dreams. But someone has to tell themtheir dreams are real.” Then he added: “and their nightmares.”
“They aren’t real. They’re what they are—the manifestations of madness.”
“The Moon is real,” Jung said. “A dog’s life is real. The imagined word is real. If they believe these things, then so
The light switch was on the light above the sink.
Wonder of wonders! Ingenious! A light switch on a light! Idiot!
He pulled its chain.
In the recording part of his brain, he made a note to have The Universal Designer of Bathrooms brought before the Universal Court of Safety Precautions. Light switches dangling over water taps in a mental institution. Insanity!
Pilgrim.
Jung could see him in the mirror. Or, at least, a part of him. The top of his head. A shoulder.
He was lying naked in the bathtub.
Jung stood frozen.
He knew that he had to call the others but his mouth would not open.
In seconds that felt like hours, he had bruised his knees yet again and was kneeling down by Pilgrim’s side.
The bottom of the tub was scarlet.
Oh dear God—he’s succeeded.
But he had not.
Even as Jung reached out for Pilgrim’s wrists, the body convulsed and almost sat up.
It waved its hands in the air and dropped them back to its sides, where they began a frantic search under sodden thighs and buttocks. At last, the right hand rose exultant.
In it, there was a spoon. A small spoon with serrated edges.
The words half a grapefruit for breakfast raced through Jung’s mind. Half a grapefruit eaten with a serrated spoon.
With his left hand, Pilgrim grasped Jung’s lapels and drew him down towards his face.
His mouth opened.
He held out the spoon.
His eyes were filled with anguish.
“Please,” he whispered. “ Please, ” he said and thrust the pathetic spoon in Jung’s direction. “Kill me.”
Jung undid the fingers on his lapel and stood up.
He collected some towels and draped them over Pilgrim’s body, putting still more in the sink, into which he had already begun to run cold water.
Placing the spoon in his pocket, he went over to the door and opened it.
Before turning back towards the bathtub, Jung looked out into the other room, which was ablaze with sunlight, and said to his colleagues: “you may come in, now. He has spoken.”
11
It was Menken and Kessler who accompanied Pilgrim to the surgery, where the wounds on his wrists were dealt with. Even though a great deal of blood had flowed, the damage was not as severe as it would have been had Pilgrim used a knife. But knivesdeployed on the trays that went to patients who ate in their rooms were always of the sort with blunt ends and dull edges—knives with which no harm could be done at all.
After the others had departed, Furtwängler gave a sigh and raised his arms in a helpless gesture. “Well then,” he said—sinking onto Pilgrim’s bed, “what am I to do with you?”
“With me? ” Jung asked. “Why me?”
“We might have prevented all this, if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Nothing would have prevented it,” said Jung. “I mean—imagine! A man tries to kill himself with a spoon. Sounds like fair desperation to me. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You curried favour with him. The minute you held the jacket for him he knew he had you in the palm of his hand. I despair. You did this with Blavinskeya. You raved about the wonders of the Moon. You did it with the Dog-man. You allowed his minder to walk him on a chain. You told the Man-with-the-imaginary-pen you thought he had created the most beautiful writing you had ever read! I swear you don’t want to bring them back. You want to leave them stranded in their dreams!”
Jung turned towards the bureau and fingered a photograph there in a silver frame. It showed a woman who appeared to be in mourning—eyes cast down, chin lowered, black beads and dress.
“It isn’t true,” he said, “that I want to abandon them to their dreams. But someone has to tell themtheir dreams are real.” Then he added: “and their nightmares.”
“They aren’t real. They’re what they are—the manifestations of madness.”
“The Moon is real,” Jung said. “A dog’s life is real. The imagined word is real. If they believe these things, then so
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