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From the social point of view, the only advantage of the disease was that it had become the norm, and internment was no longer necessary except in cases where the poisoning was so severe that the patient's behavior began to affect others. Most embittered people, though, could continue to live outside, constituting no threat to society or to others, since, because of the high walls with which they had surrounded themselves, totally isolated them from the world, even though they appeared to participate in it.
Dr. Sigmund Freud had discovered the libido and a cure for the problems it caused, in the form of psychoanalysis. Apart from discovering the existence of Vitriol, Dr. Igor needed to prove that a cure for it was also possible. He wanted to leave his mark on the history of medicine, although he had no illusions about the difficulties he would face when it came to publishing his ideas, for "normal" people were content with their lives and would never admit to the existence of such an illness, while the "sick" fed a gigantic industry of mental hospitals, laboratories, conferences, and so on.
I know the world will not recognize my efforts, he said to himself, proud of being misunderstood. After all, that was the price every genius had to pay.
"Is anything wrong, doctor?" asked the girl. "You seem to have drifted off into the world of your patients."
Dr. Igor ignored the disrespectful comment.
"You can go now," he said.
Veronika didn't know if it was day or night. Dr. Igor had the light on, but then he did every morning. It was only when she reached the corridor and saw the moon that she realized she had slept far longer than she had thought.
ON THE way to the ward, she noticed a framed photograph on the wall: It was of the main square in Ljubljana, before the statue of the poet Preseren had been put up; it showed couples strolling, probably on a Sunday.
She looked at the date on the photograph: the summer of 1910.
The summer of 1910. There were all those people, whose children and grandchildren had already died, frozen in
one particular moment of their lives. The women wore voluminous dresses, and the men were all wearing a hat, jacket, gaiters, tie (or "that colored piece of cloth," as the insane call it), and carrying an umbrella under one arm.
And how hot would it have been then? The temperature must have been what it would be today in summer, ninety-five degrees in the shade. If an Englishman turned up in clothing more suited to the heat--in Bermuda shorts and shirtsleeves--what would those people have thought?
"He must be crazy."
She had understood perfectly what Dr. Igor meant, just as she understood that, although she had always felt loved and protected, there had been one missing element that would have transformed that love into a blessing: She should have allowed herself to be a little crazier.
Her parents would still have loved her, but, afraid of hurting them, she had not dared to pay the price of her dream. That dream was now buried in the depths of her memory, although sometimes it was awoken by a concert or by a beautiful record she happened to hear. Whenever that happened, though, the feeling of frustration was so intense that she immediately sent it back to sleep again.
Veronika had known since childhood that her true vocation was to be a pianist.
This was something she had felt ever since her first lesson, at twelve. Her teacher had recognized her talent too and had encouraged her to become a professional. But, whenever she had felt pleased about a competition she had just won and said to her mother that she intended to give up everything and dedicate herself to the piano, her mother would look at her fondly and say: "No one makes a living playing the piano, my love."
"But you were the one who wanted me to have lessons."
"To develop your artistic gifts, that's all. A husband likes that kind of thing in a wife; he can show you off at parties. Forget about being a pianist, and go and study law, that's the profession of the future."
Veronika did as her mother asked, sure that her mother had enough experience of life to understand reality. She finished her studies, went to university, got a good degree, but ended up working as a librarian.
"I should have been crazier." But, as it undoubtedly happens with most people, she had found this out too late.
She was about to continue on her way when someone took her by the arm. The powerful sedative was still flowing in her veins; that's why she didn't react when Eduard, the schizophrenic, delicately began to lead her in a different direction--toward the living room.
The moon was still new, and Veronika had already sat down at the piano--in response to Eduard's silent request--when she heard a voice coming from the refectory, someone speaking with a foreign accent. Veronika could not remember having heard it in Villete before.
"I don't want to play the piano just now, Eduard. I want to know what's going on in the world, what they're talking about over there, who that man is."
Eduard smiled, perhaps not understanding a word she was saying, but she remembered what Dr. Igor had said: Schizophrenics could move in and out of their separate realities.
"I'm going to die," she went on, hoping that her words were making sense to him. "Today death brushed my face with its wing and will probably be knocking at my door if not tomorrow, then soon afterward. It's not a good idea for you to get used to listening to the piano every night.
"No one should let themselves get used to anything, Eduard. Look at me; I was beginning to enjoy the sun again, the mountains, even life's problems, I was beginning to accept that the meaninglessness of life was no one's fault but mine. I wanted to see the main square in Ljubljana again, to feel hatred and love, despair and tedium--all those simple, foolish things that make up everyday life, but that give pleasure to your existence. If one day I could get out of here, I would allow myself to be crazy. Everyone is indeed crazy, but the craziest are the ones who don't know they're crazy; they just keep repeating what others tell them to.
"But none of that's possible, do you see? In the same way, you can't spend the whole day waiting for night to come. Or for one of the patients to play the piano, because soon that will end. My world and yours are about to come to an end."
She got up, tenderly touched the boy's face, and then went to the refectory.
When she opened the door, she came upon an unusual scene; the tables and chairs had been pushed back against the walls, forming a large central space. There, sitting on the floor, were the members of the Fraternity, listening to a man in a suit and tie.
