Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help (8 page)

Milrose did not feel like thinking about this at the moment. And so, as generally happened by default when he did not wish to think, he thought about food. “What do you think we get for breakfast?”

“I don’t know. Cold porridge and stale bread? That’s the tradition, isn’t it.”

Dinner, in fact, had not been that bad. Massimo Natica had left the room briefly, counselling them to avoid touching the cattle prod, and had returned with a tray laden with food. Not great food, but passable.

He had also brought ridiculous pyjamas—three sets each—so that they might have something ridiculous to wear. I suppose this indicates, Milrose had thought grimly, that we’ll be here for at least three days.

During the silence following the contemplation of tomorrow’s breakfast, Milrose noted that Arabella had begun to climb the ladder towards his most elevated bed. His heart, which seemed to be doing unexpected things, did a triple back flip with a half gainer.

He wondered whether she had a birthmark, where it might be, and what it might look like. He could very much imagine her having, for instance, a birthmark on the sole of her foot in the shape of a sneezing gondolier. This wonderment would plague him increasingly, despite his allegiance to Ms. Corduroy’s birthmark. Clearly, thought Milrose, I am capable of pondering two birthmarks at once. I suppose that makes me unfaithful, mentally. And perhaps shallow. But that was okay, as Milrose Munce did not mind being shallow.

Arabella’s ascent, however, was purely practical. She wished to be much closer to Milrose so that
they could converse quietly. It was not clear that Massimo Natica was listening in on their conversation, but neither was it clear that he was not.

Arabella, who was mildly afraid of heights, was happy when her brief climb was complete, and she was lying, heart athump, in the second-highest bed.

“There is a spring in this mattress,” said Arabella, “which is very slightly less stiff than the other springs. It causes a tiny depression. Which depresses me.”

“You are ridiculous,” said Milrose fondly.

“I wonder,” plotted Arabella, “whether, when Massimo Natica goes out to fetch our next meal, we might ambush him in some exciting way when he returns.”

“I was thinking much the same thing. What I wouldn’t give for a nice chunk of potassium just now.”

“That is an element in the periodic table?”

“Yes. A personal favourite. Combined with water, it would do excellent things to this Massimo Natica. Rubidium’s even better stuff, but it’s been banned from the lab ever since Dave …” Milrose caught himself. He considered Arabella’s delicate sensibilities. “Uh, never mind.”

Milrose Munce furrowed his brow, which set his brain in motion. What would Ms. Corduroy have come up with in this situation? She who was so adept at conjuring malevolent punishment? Certainly she would be smiling, with her patented
evil smile, and agreeably evil thoughts would be drifting into her happy mind. Milrose smiled a devilish smile, hoping that this might aid him in emulating Ms. Corduroy’s thought processes. It did. “Got it,” he announced.

“Yes?” said Arabella, with the closest thing to excitement that she ever permitted herself.

“We’ll stand on either side of the door. You’ll hold the cattle prod, and I’ll hold a straitjacket. When he enters, you know, bearing our cold gruel, you’ll zap him with the cattle prod; and while he’s twisting up in pain, I’ll put him in the straitjacket. Then we’ll prop him up against the wall, where the jacket is supposed to be hung, so as not to interrupt his precious historical display.”

“Yes,” said Arabella, with the same approximation of excitement. “And I shall curtsy politely.”

“Yes!” said Milrose Munce, who was always happy to express full and delighted excitement. “And I shall say something sarcastic.”

“That will be a nice touch,” Arabella agreed.

M
ASSIMO
N
ATICA, UNSPEAKABLY WELL SHAVEN, OPENED THE DOOR AND ANNOUNCED THAT BREAKFAST WAS READY.

This was a terrible disappointment. It meant that he had already left to fetch the meal, and was now fully returned, which would give them no opportunity to prepare their ambush. The battle would have to wait until lunchtime.

“Something we have not yet addressed, and which clearly must be addressed over the course of our Professional engagement, is the matter of voices.”

“What, you don’t like the way we talk?”

“I mean the voices which you both apparently hear, even when nobody is speaking.”

Milrose caught Arabella’s worried eye.

“It has been reported to me by the staff of your
exalted school that you have both, on numerous occasions, been found discussing matters with the unpopulated air in front of you. Long one-sided conversations have been witnessed. And you, Milrose, have been seen laughing at jokes whose punchlines were not delivered.”

“Can’t be helped, Massimo babe. Family trait. My great-grandmother used to deliver long nagging tirades at her needlepoint. And she would conspire with her brooches.”

“Part of our process here is to cure you of your debilitating family traits.”

“Sure, man. Cure away. I hate it when the compost sings to me. Highly distracting. Terrible voice, too. And really lousy taste in music.”

“Tell me, Mr. Natica,” said Arabella with cool calculation. “Do
you
ever find yourself hearing voices from places where voices ought not to issue?”

“Absolutely not! Which is why I confer Professional Help, rather than receiving it.”

“Never heard even a little peep of unexpected chatter, guy?” asked Milrose.

“I assure you, that is not in my nature. And were it, I should have to immediately resign my position and join you in this most effective therapy.” Massimo Natica laughed heartily at the absurdity of this scenario.

“How do you propose that we silence these
voices, Mr. Natica?” asked Arabella, with her very best insincerity.

“Ah. Well, that will tax my Professional powers to their fullest. But it can be done.”

“Speaking of your Professional powers, dude—where’s your diploma?”

A pause followed this question. Was this a potential opening, an avenue of assault, a chink in the superlative suit? Could he possibly be without diploma?

“I have always considered Professionals who prominently display their diplomas to be unProfessional.”

“I can certainly understand that,” said Arabella. “And your admirable lack of vanity makes it impossible for you to descend to the level of those narcissists. Who did you say your tailor was?”

“Natica, buddy. I have no problem with your keeping your diploma in a drawer. As long as there is, you know, a drawer.”

“I cannot understand why my furniture would concern you in the slightest. Now then. Let us discuss the tactics we shall employ to rid your unfortunate heads of these intrusive and unwelcome voices.”

“Cattle prod?” asked Milrose.

“Certainly not. Although we
have
found cattle prods effective in this regard.”

“Pitchfork?”

“I’m afraid the pitchfork has never proved much use in the silencing of voices.”

“Surely it would be hard to hear voices with a pitchfork stuck deeply in the brain?”

Massimo Natica smiled. The precise content of that smile—apart from the teeth—was difficult to discern. Milrose Munce wondered whether this little parodic suggestion might have been a tactical error. Best not to give ideas to this possibly fraudulent Professional.

“Perhaps, Milrose, perhaps. But that would fall into the category of antique therapies, and I like to employ only the latest techniques. Now, what we shall do is this. Arabella, I would like you to stand behind Milrose. Very good. Now, I would like you to say something.”

“Diploma,” said Arabella.

“Uh, yes. Very good. Did you hear that, Milrose?”

“Hard not to. Given that I have ears and all.”

“Good. This is going marvellously.”

“Gosh, this is modern,” said Milrose.

“Thank you,” said Massimo Natica. “Now. Arabella. I would like you to simply mouth a word, without making any noise.”

“Fraud,” mouthed Arabella, without making any noise.

“Good,” said Massimo Natica, who of course had not heard the mouthed word. “Milrose. What did you hear?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“A simple question. What precisely did Arabella just say?”

“Er, ‘unprofessional’?”

“Is that what you said, Arabella?”

“No. I said ‘fraud.’”

Massimo Natica’s smile was stuck, it seemed, like a scratched record.

“Lovely. Yes. Good. Now, I would like you to say a few words, out loud, but in between those words I would like you to occasionally insert a mouthed word.”

“This is great fun,” said Milrose, yawning.

“You are a fraud,” said Arabella. Between the words
a
and
fraud
she mouthed the word
consummate.

“Now what did you hear, Milrose?”

“You are a fraud,” announced Milrose, with great pleasure.

“Superb!” said Massimo Natica, through clenched teeth. “You are not having trouble with voices at all today. Not at all. You are hearing what is said, and not hearing what is not said.”

“To get to the other side?” said Milrose.

“I beg your pardon.”

“That’s the answer, isn’t it?”

“The answer to what?”

“The question you just asked. ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’”

“I didn’t ask any question,” said Massimo Natica with concern.

“Oh no,” said Milrose, with false alarm. “I must be hearing voices. Even worse: voices telling bad jokes.”

“I feared as much.”

“Darn,” said Milrose. “Cattle prod.”

“I think we should save that as a last resort,” said Massimo Natica. Milrose again immediately regretted this comment. “Well, then. Professional Help it is. I have a whole plethora of techniques.”

“I hope we don’t have to go through the entire plethora,” said Arabella.

“Yeah, me neither. ’Cause at the end of the plethora lurks the cattle prod.”

“Okay now. Milrose, I want you to cover one ear with your hand. If you hear a voice, let me know which ear it enters.”

“Will do. Do you also want to know which ear it exits?”

“That is unimportant.”

“Okay, your voice just came in through the covered ear.”

This perplexed Massimo Natica, so much that he reached for the next technique in his plethora.

“Okay now. Arabella, I want you to put your left ear up against Milrose’s right.”

It is hard to express how greatly Milrose enjoyed this new technique. He did his best to play along,
hearing voices in the correct ear, so that he would not have to remove his cheek from Arabella’s warm counterpart.

“When I put my ear to yours, Milrose, I can hear the sea.”

“Thank you, Arabella. I am hollow, it’s true.”

“It’s a nice noise. Soothing.”

“Does it
say
anything?” asked Massimo Natica with excitement.

“It says ‘whoosh,’” said Arabella.

“Which what?”

“Not ‘which.’ ‘Whoosh.’”

“What language is that?”

“One of the oceanic languages, I imagine.”

“Fascinating. Okay now. Together, I want you to repeat after me: ‘Down, voice! Away!’”

“Down, voice,” said Arabella, with an astonishing lack of enthusiasm. “Away.”

“Down, voice!” said Milrose. “Down, boy! That’s a good voice. Here’s a cookie for you.”

“And what do you hear now?”

“I hear a voice scampering off into the distance,” said Arabella.

“Wonderful! We are making tremendous progress!”

“Good,” said Milrose, cheek to cheek. “I can feel that this is by far the most effective technique. A couple of weeks of this, and I’ll be cured of those unsightly voices for sure.”

“My cheek is getting warm,” said Arabella.

Milrose blushed. He knew that her cheek was getting warm because he was flushing. What is the difference, pondered Milrose, between blushing and flushing? I suppose you never blush a toilet …

“Those voices are getting fainter!” said Milrose. “I can hear it! This is a stunning technique. You are indeed a Pro, Massimo. Right up there with the best of them. After a few months of this, I’m going to be a new man.”

“Good!” said Massimo.

“Yup. After a few years of this, I’m going to be about as cured as they get. Smoked meat.”

“Milrose, if we spend entire years cheek to cheek, I suspect we shall melt into each other.”

“Yeah. Romantic, huh?”

“I was thinking of it more as a medical issue.”

The technique was beginning to render Milrose delirious. He was close to being able to hear all sorts of generally absent noises: the waltz of the spheres, for instance. You can cure me all you want, thought Milrose. As long as I’m not cured.

The morning was passed thus conjoined, and Milrose spent much of that time wondering whether Arabella was enjoying the experience as much as he was. She, of course, remained madly inscrutable, as always.

At last lunch was announced. “Well now,” said Massimo. “That concludes our first morning of Help.
Patients are often excited to discover how helpful Help is, even this early on in the process. You are probably very excited.”

“How many ‘patients’ have there been, as a matter of interest?” asked Arabella, with a voice that expressed the very opposite of excitement.

“Oh, lots. You are very lucky to have my undivided attention. Why, sometimes every single bed is filled with a student requiring Professional Help, and I suspect, sadly, that some of them do not receive the individual care that they deserve.”

“How tragically unfortunate for them,” said Milrose.

“One moment,” said Massimo Natica. “One moment and we shall lunch together.”

Milrose and Arabella glanced at each other, suddenly nervous and giddy. How much time would they have in which to prepare their ambush? Milrose had spent much of the morning trying to figure out a way to include the pitchfork in the mix.

Mr. Natica sauntered casually to the door, and he inserted his repulsively modern key in the lock. When he turned the key, the whirs and clicks ensued, this time accompanied by the sound of a small mammal being mercilessly teased. He opened the door. Arabella and Milrose unconsciously assumed the stance of sprinters about to plunge into a race.