A Touch of Infinity (8 page)

“Well, Mr. Smith,” Dr. Blausman began, “suppose you tell me something about yourself, what made you seek me out, who referred you to me, your problems—”

“I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of psychoanalysis, Doctor.”

“That doesn't matter. It's important that my knowledge should be a little more than rudimentary. Which I hope it is. But for the moment, forget about psychoanalysis. I am a psychiatrist, and I prefer to think of my work as psychotherapy. Does the thought of psychoanalysis disturb you?”

“I suppose it does. The couch and all that—”

“You can lie down if you wish, or you can sit in a chair. That's not important, Mr. Smith. The point is to get at the root of what troubles you and to see whether we can alleviate the pain. We do that by establishing a relationship. So, you see, you have to be rather forthright. It is true that in the course of therapy, even lies can be revealing, but that's not a good way to begin.”

“I don't understand you.”

“I think you do. I must know who you are. Otherwise—”

“I told you that my name is Alan Smith.”

“But it isn't,” Blausman said gently.

“How do you know?”

“If I were not adept enough at my discipline to know, you would be making a mistake in coming to me.”

“I see.” The patient sat in silence for a moment or two. “And if I refuse to give you any other name?”

“Then I am afraid you must seek help elsewhere. There is a sufficient unknown in a person who meets me forth-rightly. In one who doesn't—well, it is impossible.”

The patient nodded and appeared to reflect on the doctor's words. “How confidential is your treatment?”

“Totally.”

“Do you make tapes?”

“No.”

“Do you take notes?”

“In most cases, yes. If there were sufficient reason not to keep notes, I would forgo it.” When the patient still hesitated, Dr. Blausman said, “Perhaps you would prefer to think about it and return tomorrow?”

“No, that won't be necessary. I also pride myself on being a judge of character, and I think I can trust you. My name is Franklin Hardy. General Franklin Hardy. I am a three-star general, second in command at the War Board. A three-star general who is second in command at the War Board does not consult a psychoanalyst.”

“Have you thought of resigning or taking a leave of absence, General Hardy?”

“I have thought of it—yes. My pride will not allow me to resign, and the situation today is too grave for me to take a leave of absence. Also, I don't think I am unable to perform my duties. My country has a large investment in me, Dr. Blausman. I don't feel it is my right to play fast and loose with that.”

“And how did you come to me? You are stationed in Washington, are you not?”

“At the Pentagon.”

“So if we were to have three sessions a week—and I am afraid that would be minimal—you would have to do a good deal of commuting. Isn't that a burden?”

“I want this kept secret, and that might be impossible with a local man.”

“But why me?”

“I read a paper of yours and I was very impressed by it. Your monograph on the Amnesia Syndrome.”

“Oh? But surely you don't feel you have amnesia?”

“Perhaps—I don't know.”

“Very interesting.” Dr. Blausman stared at the General thoughtfully. “Since you read my paper, you are aware that there is an enormous variety of amnesia, loss of identity being most common in the public mind. You obviously do not suffer that. There are childhood amnesias, adolescent amnesias, traumatic amnesias, and a hundred other varieties, due to shock, brain injury, drugs, senility—well, I could go on and on. Why do you feel you suffer from amnesia?”

The General considered this for a while, and then he spoke flatly and abruptly. “I am not sure I know who I am.”

Dr. Blausman smiled slightly. “Most interesting indeed. But in what sense? I have many young patients who feel a desperate need to know who they are. But that is in a religious, philosophical, or teleological sense. What meaning has their presence on earth?”

“Not exactly.”

“You told me that you are General Franklin Hardy. I could ask you to show me your papers, but that's hardly necessary.”

“Not at all.” The general went into his pocket and revealed a series of identity cards. He smiled a very engaging smile. “Of course, they are not my only source of information. I have been with the army for twenty-seven years, and there are no gaps in my memory. I have served in World War Two, in Korea, and in Vietnam. As you may recall.”

Dr. Blausman nodded. “I read the papers.” He waited a long moment. “Go on, sir.”

“All right, let me be specific. Three nights ago, I awakened. I am not married, Doctor. As I said, I awakened about four o'clock in the morning, and I was not General Hardy.”

“You are sure you were awake?”

“Absolutely sure. I was not dreaming. I got out of bed, and I was someone else.”

“In a strange place? I mean, was your bedroom strange to you? Was it completely dark?”

“No, I could see. I don't draw the blinds, and there was moonlight. Was it strange to me?” He frowned and closed his eyes. “No—not entirely. I appeared to have a vague memory of a room that should have been completely familiar. I wondered what I was doing there. I felt that I should know.”

“And then?”

“And then I was myself again, and it was over. But I couldn't get back to sleep. I was terribly shaken. I am not a man with poor nerves. I cannot remember being so shaken before.”

Dr. Blausman glanced at his watch. “I'm afraid our time is over for today. Can you come back on Wednesday, the same time?”

“Then you will—?”

“Help you? Treat you? Yes, however you wish to see it.”

When the doctor took his break for lunch, he said to his secretary, “You can make up a new history for Mr. Smith, Miss Kanter. He'll be back on Wednesday.”

“Did you crack the mystery?”

“If you think of it that way. He's General Franklin Hardy.”

“What!”

“Yes, General Hardy.”

“And—and you—hell, it's none of my business.”

“Exactly. I am not a moralist or a jurist, Miss Kanter. I am a physician.”

“But, my God, Vietnam is not just a war. You know his record.”

“What would you say if he came here bleeding, Miss Kanter? Would it be proper to put a tourniquet on him? Or would it be more moralistic to allow him to bleed to death?”

“Are you asking me, Doctor?”

“No, I am telling you, Miss Kanter.”

“You don't have to get angry. Mine is a normal, human reaction. Anyway, it is a comfort to know that he has flipped out.”

“He has not, as you put it, flipped out. Furthermore, this is to be absolutely confidential. He asked for my confidence, and I gave it to him. No one is to know that he is a patient of mine, not your father, not your mother, not your boyfriend—no one. Do you understand?”

“Loud and clear.” Miss Kanter sighed.

Sitting opposite Dr. Blausman in a comfortable chair, his legs stretched out, General Hardy remarked that he had not thought of therapy in just this manner.

“It's the end product that counts, General—to find out why. Do you dream a great deal?”

“As much as the next one, I suppose. I don't remember them.”

“I'd like you to takes notes. Keep a pencil and pad next to your bed. Now the night this happened—it was not the first time?”

“No, not the first time.”

“When was the first time?”

“Two years ago, in Vietnam. We had been set back on our heels by Charlie's big offensive, and we had taken some pretty heavy losses. There was a lot of loose talk, and at one of our meetings the use of tactical atomic weapons was put on the agenda. Against my will, mind you. No sane or reasonable man can even think of tactical atomic weapons without going into a cold sweat, but since they were determined to talk about them, I decided to let them talk and get it out of their systems. After all, they could do nothing without my vote. I listened to the discussion, and there was one idiot there—who shall be nameless—who was all for using the tacticals and ending the war in hours. Of course it wouldn't have ended the war—no way—but he was off on a laboratory kick, that we'd never know how they worked until we worked them, and this was the one place it made sense to experiment. I kept my mouth shut, because there is nothing to defeat an argument like its own loopholes, and then it happened.”

“What happened?”

“I was no longer General Hardy. I was someone else, and I was listening to this featherbrain and laughing inside at his whole proposition.”

“Laughing? In what way?”

“Not contempt, not disapproval—I was laughing the way you laugh at a kid who has a new toy and has gone hog-wild with it. I was amused and—” He broke off.

“What were you going to say?”

The General remained silent.

“I am not a Congressional Committee,” Blausman said softly. “I am not the public. I am a physician. I am not here to confront you or expose you, but to help you. If you don't want that help—well, the door is open.”

“I know the damn door is open!” the General cried. “Do you think I'd be here if I could live with this? I was going to say that I was amused and delighted.”

“Why didn't you say it?”

“Because the
I
is a lie. Not me. Not Franklin Hardy. The other one.”

“Why do you say the other one?” Blausman asked. “Why not the other man?”

“I don't know.”

“You have read about possession? By evil entities?”

“Yes.”

“It has interesting psychological references. Do you have the feeling—I only speak of the feeling—that you were possessed?”

“No!”

“You appear very certain.”

“I am certain,” the General said emphatically.

“Why?”

“Because this is myself. Because the syndrome—as you call it—is not being possessed or used or manipulated, but simply remembering. I remember who I am.”

“Who?”

“That's the damn trick. It passes too quickly.”

“At this meeting, how long did this memory last?”

“A minute. A little more, a little less.”

“And as I understand it,” Dr. Blausman said carefully, “during that time you were delighted and amused at the thought of using atomic tactical weapons. Will you accept that?”

“You're asking me do I have the guts to?” the General said harshly. “All right, I do. I accept your statement, but not as Franklin Hardy. I accept it as the man who was amused.”

“Whom you insist is yourself?”

“Yes. Do you understand now why I commute from Washington each day to see a psychiatrist?”

“What was the outcome of the meeting?”

“You know that. Atomic weapons are not firecrackers. We squashed the whole notion.”

On his next visit, Dr. Blausman returned to the nighttime incident, asking the General whether he had been awakened from sleep at other times.

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

Hardy thought for a while. “Fourteen—or thirteen.”

“Always the same time?”

“No. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later.”

“Does one occasion stand out more than any other?”

“Yes.” Then the General clamped his square jaw shut, and his pale blue eyes avoided the doctor's. The doctor waited.

“But you don't want to talk about it,” Blausman said at last. “Why?”

“God damn you to hell, must you know everything?”

“Not everything. I don't ask you who you are sleeping with, or for the secret plans of the War Board, or what your golf score is,” Blausman said gently. “If you had a piece of shrapnel in your left arm, I would not be fussing over your right foot. By the way, were you ever wounded?”

“No.”

“Amazing luck, with your experience. Now let's go back to this waking up at night. That one occasion you don't want to talk about. It is nothing you are afraid of.”

“How do you know?”

“You get disturbed but not frightened, There's a difference. What happened that night, General?”

“I woke up, and I was someone else.”

“You were someone else. What makes that night stand out?”

“You won't let go, will you?”

“Otherwise I am taking your money under false pretenses,” Blausman said gently. “So you might as well tell me about that night.”

“All right. I woke up. It was last May, and I was still in Vietnam. It was almost dawn. I was myself—not Hardy—and God almighty, I felt good. I felt like I had swallowed ten grains of Dexedrine and put down a pint of bourbon without getting drunk. Christ, what power, what sheer physical strength and joy! I wanted to run, to leap, to use my strength, as if I had been in a straitjacket for years. I felt that I was complete.”

“For how long?”

“Two or three minutes.”

“You went outside?”

“How did you know?” the General asked curiously. “Yes, I went outside in my robe. It was like walking on air, the sun just coming up, the kind of clean, cool, wonderful morning you get sometimes in that part of Vietnam. There was an iron fence in front of my quarters. Pointed bars, like a row of spears, an inch thick. I reached out and bent one of them, like I might bend rubber.”

“You're a strong man.”

“Not that strong. Well—then it was gone. I was Franklin Hardy again.”

“Why hesitate to tell me?” Blausman asked.

“I don't know.”

“Do you remember what you said a moment ago? You said that when you woke up, you were yourself, not General Hardy. That's rather odd, isn't it?”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“It is odd,” Hardy admitted, frowning. “I always said I was someone else, didn't I?”