My Life as a Man (43 page)

“Doesn’t it?”

“Two street whores in Italy, a friend in a car in Madison
…
and Karen? No! I call it practically
monkish,
given the fact of my marriage. I call it pathetic, that’s what! From the beginning of his marriage, the Italian-American poet had some crazy idea that now that he was a husband his mission in life was to “be
faithful—
to whom never seemed to cross his mind. It was like
keeping his word
and
doing his duty—what
had gotten him married to this shrew in the first place! Once again the Italian-American poet did what he thought to be ‘manly’ and ‘upright’ and ‘principled’—which, needless to say, was only what was cowardly and submissive. Pussy
-whipped, as my brother so suc
cinctly puts it! As a matter of fact, Dr. Spielvogel, those two Italian whores and my colleague’s wife back of the shopping center, and Karen, constituted the only praiseworthy, the only manly, the only
moral
…
oh,
the
hell with it.”

“I think at this point we are only saying
the
same thing in our different vocabularies. Isn’t that what you just realized?”

“No, no, no, no, no. I just realized that you are never going to admit to me that you could be mistaken in any single particular of diction, or syntax, let alone in the overriding idea of that paper. Talk about narcissism as a defense!”

He did not bris
tl
e at my tone, contemptuous as it had become. His voice
through
out had been strong and even—a touch of sarcasm, some irony, but no outrage, and certainly no tears. Which was as it should be. What did he have to lose if I left?

“I am not a student any longer, Mr. Tarnopol. I do not look to my patients for literary criticism. You would prefer that I leave the professional writing to you, it would seem, and confine my activities to this room. You remember how distressed you were several years ago to discover that I occasionally went out into the streets to ride the bus.”

“That was awe. Don’t worry, I’m over it.”

“Good. No reason for you to think I’m perfect.”

“I don’t.”

“On the other hand, the alternative is not necessarily to think I am another Maureen, out to betray and deceive you for my own sadistic and vengeful reasons.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You may nonetheless drink that I am.”

“If you mean do I think
that
I have been misused by you, the answer is yes. Maureen is not the issue—that article is.”

“All right, that is your judgment. Now you must decide what you are going to do about the treatment. If you want to continue with your attack upon me, treatment will be impossible—it would be foolish even to try. If you want to return to the business at hand,
then
of course
I am prepared to go forward. Or
perhaps there is a third alternative that you may wish to consider—perhaps you will choose to take up treatment with somebody else. This is for you to decide before the next session.”

Susan was enraged by the decision I did reach. I never had heard her argue about anything as she did against Spielvogel’s “brutal” handling of me, nor had she ever dared to criticize me so forthrightly either. Of course her objections were in large part supplied by Dr. Golding, who, she told me, had been “appalled” by the way Spielvogel had dealt with me in the article in the
Forum;
however, she would never even have begun to communicate Golding’s position to me if it were not for startling changes that were taking place in her attitude toward herself. Now, maybe reading about me walking around in Maureen’s underwear did something to boost her confidence with me, but whatever had triggered it, I found myself delighted by the emergence of the vibrant and emphatic side so long suppressed in her—at the same time that I was grea
tly
troubled by the possibility that what she and her doctor were suggesting about my decision to stay with Spielvogel constituted more of the humbling truth. Certainly in my defense I offered up to Susan what sounded even to me like the feeblest of arguments.

“You should leave him,” she said.

“I can’t. Not at this late date. He’s done me more good than harm.”

“But he’s got you all wrong. How could that do anybody any good?”

“I don’t know—but it did me. Maybe he’s a lousy analyst and a good therapist.”

“That makes no sense, Peter.”

“Look, I’m not getting into bed with my worst enemy any more, am I? I am out of that, am I not
¹
?”

“But any doctor would have helped you to leave her. Any doctor who was the least bit competent would have seen you through that.”

“But he happens to be the one who did it.”

“Does that mean he can just get away with anything as a result? His sense of what you are is all wrong. Publishing that article
with
out consulting you about it first was all wrong. His attitude when you confronted him with what he had done, the way he said, ‘Either shut up or go’—that was as wrong as wrong can be. And you know it! Dr. Golding said that was as reprehensible as anything he had ever heard of between a doctor and his patient. Even his writing stinks—you said it was just jargon and crap.”

“Look, I’m staying with him. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

“If I answered
you
like that, you’d hit the ceiling. You’d say, ‘Stop backing away! Stand up for yourself, twerp!’ Oh, I don’t understand why you are acting like this, when the man has so clearly abused you. Why do you let people get away with such things?”

“Which people?”

‘Which people? People like Maureen. People like Spielvogel. People who
…
”

“What?”

“Well, walk all over you like that.”

“Susan, I cannot put in any more time thinking of myself as someone who gets walked over. It gets me nowhere.”

“Then don’t be one! Don’t let them get away with it!”

“It doesn’t seem to me that in this case anybody is getting away with anything.”

“Oh, Lambchop, that isn’t what Dr. Golding says.”

Spielvogel simply shrugged off what Dr. Golding said, when I passed it on to him. “I don’t know the man,” he grunted, and that was that. Settled. As though if he did know him, he could tell me Golding’s motives for taking such a position—otherwise, why bother? As for Susan’s anger, and her uncharacteristic vehemence about my leaving him, well, I understood that, did I not? She hated Spielvogel for what Spielvogel had written about the Peter who was to
her
so
inspirational and instructive,
the man she had come to adore for the changes he was helping to bring about in her life. Spielvogel had demythologized her Pygmalion—of course Galatea was furious. Who expected otherwise?

I must say, his immunity to criticism
was
sort of dazzling. Indeed, the imperviousness of this pallid doctor with the limping gait seemed to me, in those days of uncertainty and self-doubt, a condition to aspire to:
I am right and you are wrong, and even if I’m not, I’ll just hold out and hold out and not give a single inch, and that will make it so.
And maybe that’s why I stayed on with him—out of admiration for his armor, in the hope that some of that impregnability would rub off on me. Yes, I thought, he is teaching me by example, the arrogant German son of a bitch. Only I won’t give him the satisfaction of telling him. Only who is to say he doesn’t know it? Only who is to say he does, other than I?

As the weeks passed and Susan continued to grimace at the mention of Spielvogel’s name, I sometimes came close to making what seemed to me the best possible defense of him—and
th
ereby of myself, for if it turned out that I had been as deluded about Spielvogel as about Maureen, it was going to be awfully hard ever to believe in my judgment again. In order to substantiate my own claim to sanity and intelligence, and to protect my sense of trust from total collapse (or was it just to perpetuate my childish illusions? to cherish and protect my
naïveté
right on down to the last good drop?), I felt I had to make as strong a case as I could for him. And even if that meant accepting as valid his obfuscating defense—even if it meant looking back myself with psychoanalytic skepticism upon my own valid objections! “Look,” I wanted to say to Susan, “if it weren’t for Spielvogel, I wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for Spielvogel saying Why not stay?’ every time I say ‘Why not leave?’ I would have been out of this affair long ago. We have him to thank for whatever exists between us—he’s the one who was your advocate, not me.” But that it was largely because of Spielvogel’s encouragement th
at I had continued to visit her
almost nightly during that first year, when I was so
out
of sympathy with her way of living, was really not her business, even if she wouldn’t let up about his “reprehensible” behavior; nor would it do her fragile sense of self-esteem any good to know that even now, several years into our affair—with me her Lambchop and her my Suzie Q., with all that tender lovers’ playfulness between us—that it was Spielvogel who prevented me from leaving her whenever I became distressed about
those
burgeoning dreams of marriage and family that I did not share. “But she wants to have children—and now, before she gets any older.” “But you don’t want to.” “Right. And I can’t allow her to nurse these expectations. That just won’t do.” “Then tell her not to.” “I
do.
I
have.
She can’t bear hearing it any more. She says, ‘I know, I know, you’re not going to marry me—do you have to tell me that every
hour?’”
“Well, every hour is perhaps a little more frequent than necessary.” “Oh, it isn’t every hour-it just sounds that way to her. You see, because I tell her where things stand doesn’t mean she takes it to heart.” “Yes, but what more can you do?” “Go. I should.” T wouldn’t think she thinks you should.” “But if I stay
…
” “You might
really
fall in love with her. Does it ever occur to you that maybe this is what you are running away from? Not the children, not the marriage
…
but the love?” “Oh, Doctor, don’t start practicing psychoanalysis. No,
that
doesn’t occur to me. I don’t think it should, because
I don’t
think it’s true.” “No? But you are somewhat in love already—are you not? You tell me how sweet she is, how kind she is. How gentle. You tell me how beautiful she is when she sits there reading. You tell me what a touching person she is. Sometimes you are positively lyrical about her.” “Am I?” “Yes, yes, and you know that.” “But there is still too much that’s wrong there,
you
know
that.”
“Yes, well, this I could have warned you about at the outset.” “Please, the husband of Maureen Tarnopol understands that the other gender is also imperfect.” “Knowing this,
the
husband of Maureen Tarnopol should be grateful perhaps for a woman, who despite her imperfections, happens to be tender and appreciative and absolutely devoted to him. She is all
these things, am I right?” “She is all these tilings. She also turns out to be smart and charming and funny.” “And in love with you.” “And in love with me.” “And a cook—such a cook. You tell me about her dishes, you make my mouth water.” “You’re very hung up on the pleasure principle, Dr. Spielvogel.” “And you? Tell me, where are you running again? To what? To whom? Why?” “To no one, to nothing—but
‘why?’
I’ve told you why: suppose she tries to commit suicide!” “Still with the suicide?” “But what if she does it!” “Isn’t that her responsibility? And Dr. Golding’s? She is in therapy after all. Are you going to run for fear of this remote possibility?” “I can’t take it hanging over my head. Not after all that’s gone on. Not after Maureen.” “Maybe you are too thin-skinned, you know? Maybe it is time at thirty to develop a thicker hide.” “No doubt. I’m sure you rhinoceroses lead a better life. But my hide is my hide. I’m afraid you can shine a flashlight through it. So give me some other advice.” “What other advice is there? The choice is yours. Stay or run.” “This choice that is mine you structure oddly.” “All right,
you
structure it.” “The point, you see, is that if I do stay, she must realize that I am marrying no one unless and until I
want to do it.
And everything conspires to make me think that
1 don’t want to do it.”
“Mr. Tarnopol, somehow I feel I can rely on you to put that proviso before her from time to time.”

Why did I stay with Spielvogel? Let us not forget his Mosaic prohibitions and what they meant to a thin-skinned man at the edge of he knew not what intemperate act.