Players at the Game of People Page 6

  "Why do you live here?" Gorse demanded.

  "Anywhere is as good as anywhere else," Godwin sighed, closing the door of the cab and announcing their destination. He was getting bored with her inability to see what to him was plain as pikestaffs.

  At least she took the hint and held her tongue for the duration of the journey.

  The taxi dropped them in the Sunday vacancy of Wimpole Street. Gray stone façades frowned down as they made their way to the house where -- as reported by a discreet, well-polished brass plate -- Dr. Hermann Klosterberg maintained his consultancy.

  "I wish I knew why you'd brought me here," Gorse complained as she followed reluctantly in Godwin's wake.

  "I already told you" was his sour reply. But his mood was already changing, precisely as he had expected, and it took no more than a glance to inform him that hers was also.

  Set between ranked wrought-iron railings, the richly colored teak door opened to his touch. There was time to glimpse a high-ceilinged hallway with a fine Persian carpet on the floor and several eighteenth-century landscapes in thickly gilded frames before he ushered her into the first room on the right.

  This too was high-ceilinged, but nonetheless it was dark. The walls were papered with a somber pattern; the furniture was of an old-fashioned solidity; the curtains were of dark green velvet, held back with tasseled ropes of old gold, while the carpet was of a deep wine-red and seemed to absorb not only footfalls but every sound from the outside world. There was a couch stuffed with horsehair and covered in black oilcloth over which a rug was thrown, occupying a prominent position, while the only decorations consisted in three oil paintings: portraits of Freud, Jung and Ernest Jones.

  At a rolltop bureau, from which he turned in a swivel chair to greet them, they found Dr. Klosterberg himself. He was a round-headed man of medium build, his hair close-cropped and graying, wearing an unremarkable dark suit with a dark blue tie. He affected pince-nez, behind which his pale eyes gleamed. He exuded an air of grave authority. Altogether he was an archetype of the psychiatrist rôle.

  Beside the couch, looking as though a four-foot fir cone had been carved out of anthracite, then flattened like a cowering hedgehog, lay Adirondinatarigo. Godwin bent to pat it on the tapered end and was rewarded by a protuberation that disconcertingly exposed a band of mucous membrane as softly glossy as the inside of a human cheek, but yellowish-green and ever so slightly luminous. The mood improved further as more pheromones escaped into the air.

  Simultaneously he said, "Hermann, nice to see you again. This is Gorse. Just Gorse at the moment. She's trying to decide on a surname to go with it."

  "Then she should consult Ambrose, as you and I did," Hermann murmured. "Some of his opinions may be questionable, but of his ability to sense the overtones of nomenclature there is no doubt . . . How do you do, Gorse?" he added, extending his hand with a beaming smile.

  She shook with him absently, staring at the scaly black mass beside the couch. "What on earth is that?" she demanded. "I could swear I saw it move when God touched it."

  "Oh, that's Canaptarosigapatruleeva," Hermann said dismissively. "No need to worry about it. Just forget it's there. For the time being, that is. Later on, you can get properly acquainted with it." He bent slightly and touched one of the thick, dull-shiny, overlapping scales; it rose a centimeter and exposed another patch of membrane, this time of a fir-tree green. "Do sit down," he added. "And what seems to be the trouble?"

  The atmosphere conduced to openness. Almost before she had sunk into the chair which Hermann indicated for her, Gorse had begun to pour out her life story, far more truthfully than to Godwin last night. His back to the bureau, his elbows on the arms of his swivel chair, his fingertips arched together, Hermann listened with complete attention. All the while Potanandrusabalinicta lay immobile except for an occasional ripple of its carapace.

  When the breathless recital was at an end, Hermann gave a slow nod of comprehension. It was apparent from his expression that he had grasped the essence of her problem.

  "First let me assure you," he said after a pause far deliberation, "you are by no means alone. Professional ethics naturally forbid me to mention names, but I can state that friends of mine -- I never use the term patient, for reasons I'm sure I needn't spell out to someone as perceptive as yourself -- friends of mine, then, whom you would instantly recognize were it permissible for me to identify them, prominent in the theater, in music and literature, in politics and diplomacy, in commerce and so forth, have sat here in this room and described just such a constellation of perplexities. In certain cases they had been plagued with them for many years of their adult life, because what they had failed to appreciate until they were well advanced in years was the necessity of learning to yield to the impact of the collective unconscious at unpredictable intervals. Precisely because it is an unconscious, it declines to obey the dictates of clocks and calendars. That knack once acquired, however, even the regrettable aftermath of experimentation with chemical substances like the ones you have tried diminishes to insignificance. Are you familiar with the concept of the collective unconscious, by the way?" His bright, pale eyes flickered to the portrait of Jung, as though to furnish her a clue.

  "I've heard of it," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Isn't it supposed to be where we get our dreams from?"

  "I'm afraid that's an oversimplification," Hermann said with a thin smile. "Essentially it's a pool of shared experience -- shared among all of us because we happen to be human beings -- which may or may not have an 'objective' existence." The interpolated quotation marks were perfectly audible. "Almost all of us have had the experience of, for instance, entering puberty or becoming parents or confronting a rival or suffering hunger, and so on. And of course we have all had the experience of being born. Inevitably certain patterns of behavior are selected for among the countless possible patterns our cerebral neurons could create. You've heard that there are more possible neuron connections in a human brain than there would be particles in the observable universe if it were packed solid? And I'm talking about any given brain: yours, mine, Godwin's."

  She gave a cautious nod. Godwin, repressing the impulse to utter a loud sigh of boredom, leaned back in his chair. It was plain that Hermann's words were sinking into her mind like ink into a dry sponge, leaving their traces everywhere. She wasn't even making a pretense of resistance.

  One of these years . . .

  ". . . isolation from which, after so many millions of years of imprinting during the course of our evolution, can trigger an urge toward self-destruction. But you are triply fortunate."

  Godwin returned to full attention. Gorse was leaning forward on her chair, eyes bright and fixed on Hermann, lips a little open, hands almost curled into fists but not quite. Every few seconds she gave a vigorous nod.

  "Imprimis," Hermann said, raising his forefinger, "you are still youthful. Learning the gift of yielding to the collective unconscious becomes more and more difficult as adult behavior patterns -- some, indeed most, badly matched to reality -- become rigidified in the mind. Secundo, you had the luck to fall in with Godwin, who is one of my oldest friends . . . not, you understand, that one believes in 'luck' as an objective phenomenon, but sometimes the poetic imagery afforded us by superstition lends a little color to the nakedly scientific landscape of one's existence. And tertio, Godwin had the good sense to bring you here straight away."

  Apticaranogapetulami stirred and readjusted the pattern of its scales by a few millimeters here and there.

  "So let us recapitulate. You would like to live the way Godwin lives, or I do, or our various friends. You would like to achieve this goal by succeeding as a designer. You believe you have the talent. You would rather begin today than at some arbitrary date in the future set for you by someone else, regardless of who that someone else might be. You feel you have been handicapped in your laudable ambitions by unwarranted interference, although you accept that some of that interference is internal, the consequence
of an unwise adventure which 'seemed like a good idea at the time.' I stand ready to be corrected if I have misrepresented you."

  Seeming awed by the conciseness with which she had been summed up in a handful of words, Gorse gave a firm nod.

  "You're right. You're absolutely right."

  "Well, that's easy, then. Lean over Coparatuleemicabicani and take a deep breath." He pointed. Confused, she turned to follow his gesture. The anthracite scales had risen so that they stood away from the supporting muscles at almost a right angle, and the membranes thereby revealed were pulsing and oozing drops of liquid. There was an acid greenish glow.

  Drawn like a needle to a magnet, Gorse leaned forward and inhaled a perfume only she could detect.

  Waiting for her to recover consciousness, Godwin felt a pang of irrational envy. Maybe he ought to come back to see Hermann some time. Of course he would if he must. But maybe it would be a good idea if he did it without having to.

  The question hovered in his mind for a long while, unanswerable. He had spent too long doing what he must to be able to judge the rights and wrongs of doing what he felt like doing. For that, there was a proper time, and it wasn't now.

  He dismissed the whole matter as Herrnann inquired affably, "And how about yourself, God? I see you fresh from Irma's mill, or I'm much mistaken. Mens sana in corpore sano, hey?" He risked a playful jab in Godwin's ribs.

  Beside the couch, which had the potency of an established symbol and therefore was of use solely for the mundane clientele which could not possibly afford Hermann even if they were platinum-disc pop stars and therefore received ordinary therapy from him (the world he inhabited was full of "therefores," as though it made sense), Apitaculabricomulapariti folded its scales and resumed a condition of inertness. Gorse awakened.

  "I needed it. I'd been called," Godwin muttered, and at the very edge of his consciousness there fluttered the hope-cum-suspicion that this statement might elicit sympathy. He was horrified inasmuch as that was possible, and repressed it.

  "One should never resist the tug of the collective unconscious," Hermann said smoothly. "That way lie all sorts of psychosomatic unpleasantnesses. How are you feeling, Gorse?"

  "As though I'd sprained my mind," she said around a yawn. "Golly, I don't think I ever took in so much data at one go before."

  "Nor will you ever need to again. God! Take this young lady and feed her somewhere, and let her relax. That's a prescription."

  "We're going to Hugo & Diana's."

  "Ideal. Have a good time. Good morning!"

  There was a pause. Lurabanguliticapulanduri remained as motionless as though it were carved in ebony. At last Gorse said with great timidity, "I don't quite know how to meet your fee, doctor."

  "Hm?" Hermann, having nodded and smiled at them, had turned back to the bureau, where something seemingly occupied his attention. He glanced over his shoulder at her words.

  "Your -- your fee!"

  "My dear young lady!" -- removing and rapidly polishing and replacing his pince-nez -- "Absultarimanipicoloto must have let me down for once! Of course, it is difficult for it to comprehend such peculiarly human notions as 'money' and 'finances,' but even so . . . !" He accorded the creature a disdainful look, designed to establish his own ultimate superiority in the context of this consulting room. "It should have dawned on you by now that everything is already paid for."

  "Everything?" -- in a whisper.

  "Everything!"

  Godwin had risen to his feet, eager to get shut of this dull-witted, self-destructive little twat. At the back of his mind he knew his mood was once more due to the presence of Catapulibampulicarato, which grew easily bored, but there was no help for that. So did he.

  "You only need to know the right way to ask for it," he declared. Hermann raised one eyebrow and nodded reluctant approval.

  "Our long acquaintance has borne fruit, after its fashion," he said as he rose from his chair, hand outstretched. "Now you do as I said, and all will be well. Good morning, Gorse! And remember that you now know how and when to yield to an impulse surging up from the collective unconscious. Never resist it, and you will reap a rich reward! Good morning to you also, God; let's hope it won't be long until we meet again."

  On the way to the door Gorse paused and tried to imitate Godwin's gesture on arrival. But Abutaralingotogulisica lay as unresponsive as a bone.

  Hugo & Diana was having brunch in the gravity-free patio and it was beautiful: clear blue skies with just a touch here and there of puffy white cloud; inflatacouches drifting up and down in response to the breezes which a mere gesture could create in the pure, delicately scented air; long, graceful bluish-green creepers with deep red leaves arcing across the whole of the volume and bearing on their spurs dispensers of toasted crumpets awash in melted butter, Patum Peperium, smoked oysters, bitter-orange marmalade, hot coffee and hot milk, and also pitchers of buck's fizz and bloody mary. In such a flawless environment clothes seemed superfluous. Immediately on their arrival Hugo & Diana gave a cry of delight from where she lay on a long yellow couch and invited them to join him in a state of nature. Prepared for this, Godwin complied with a sigh, helped himself to a mugful of bloody mary, and cast himself adrift in the sky on a passing inflatabed, one striped in orange and white. Gorse hesitated for a few seconds, but shortly shame got the better of her and she discarded her clothes, which gyrated around her for a while in a mocking pattern, and attempted to imitate her companions' nonchalance. Her choice of inflatabed was polka-dotted red on yellow. It took her a while to get the better of it, while Hugo & Diana bestowed indulgent glances, but very shortly she was able to draw a mug of buck's fizz -- mistaking it for orange juice -- and paddle her way to where Godwin was.

  After necessary introductions, what she said first was "Where are we?"

  "About three hundred meters from the King's Road, Chelsea," was the reply.

  "I thought I knew . ." The words died away. Godwin and Hugo & Diana exchanged amused glances. It was always like this.

  So always, it would certainly cease to be amusing sooner or later.

  However . . .

  "You're exquisite!" caroled Hugo & Diana, expertly paddling toward Gorse. "You're a designer, is that right?"

  Lost for a cue, Gorse glanced at Godwin, but he was lying back to enjoy the sunshine. She had to find her own way through this one.

  "Yes," she said boastfully, and gulped down the contents of her glass. "And so are you! Everybody knows the Peasmarsh label now. Those things I just took off -- " She gestured as the liquor began to affect her.

  "What do you want?" Companionably, Hugo & Diana linked her inflatabed to hers. "Start with basics. Underwear? Tights? Shoes? Slippers? Shirts and blouses? Skirts and trousers? Short dresses and long ones? Coats and capes and cloaks? Hats, handbags, bracelets, necklaces, watches, rings, handkerchiefs, scarves, combs and hairbrushes and toothbrushes, soap and toothpaste, cologne and deodorant, face powder and lipsticks, eye shadow and mascara, assorted perfumes, nail files and scissors, emery boards, nail varnish and cuticle removers, shampoo and conditioner, bath salts and bath oil, sponges and loofahs, soap and cleansing cream and depilatory and tweezers and shavers and hair driers and sun-ray lamps and sun-screen lotions and swimsuits and bikinis and trikinis and bathing caps and sandals and toweling robes and glasses and sunglasses and boots and breeches and gloves and your choice of sanitary towels or the means to render them permanently unnecessary and that ought to do for the present. Will it?" He smiled dazzlingly. "We aim to offer a complete service, but you may have thought of something I left out. Naturally everything will bear the Peasmarsh label unless you'd rather it was marked Quant or Dior or whatever. Up to you."

  By this time she had insinuated himself on to the same inflatabed as Gorse and cast the other into the void.

  In a softer tone he added, "Don't worry about offending me if you say you'd rather it was Dior. I think you're gorgeous anyhow, and I'm so glad God thought of bringing you to us. But then, of cours
e, he does have taste , doesn't he? And anybody with taste can get on in the world. It's just about the rarest thing on earth, and if you have it, it's like a magic touchstone -- Did you know we're into magic? Oh, you must have realized! Of course it does require a terrific investment of psychical energy, but we are exceptionally well endowed. Now and then it leads to a period of inescapable replenishment, but even computers have to have their downtime, don't they?"

  By this time she was fondling Gorse's clitoris and his prick was standing to attention. Godwin, trying hard not to yawn, helped himself to more of the bloody mary. It was made with wodka Zubrowskar, and deliciously aromatic. It sufficed to pass the time until Hugo & Diana had finished and Gorse was cast away again on another of the countless floating couches.

  "So" -- with sudden businesslike briskness -- "that lot would suit you? We'll arrange for it to be delivered. God, where are you stashing her? Bill's, as usual?"

  Godwin risked shrugging, even though it made his own couch bob around violently in midair.