Time and the Riddle: Thirty-One Zen Stories (3 page)

I never knew what else he would have told McCabe to do, because at that moment McCabe kicked in the door of Montez's apartment, and then there were two of them, McCabe and Robinson, standing in a litter of broken laths and chunks of plaster, just the two of them, standing in the litter and staring at each other.

McCabe looked up at me and said, “Stay back from the edge, because the whole lousy ceiling's coming down. I called emergency. We're going to empty the building, so tell that Gonzales woman to put on her coat and come downstairs.” Then he turned to Robinson. “You had to do it. You couldn't stay up there. You had to show you're an athlete.”

To which Robinson said nothing at all.

Back in the prowl car, later, I asked Robinson what he had seen.

“In Montez's apartment? The man has a lot of books. You know, sometimes I say to myself I should have been a teacher instead of a cop. My brother-in-law's a teacher. A principal. He makes more money than I do and he's got some respect. A cop has no respect. You break your back and risk your life, and they spit in your face.”

“You can say that again,” McCabe said.

“We once pulled four people out of a burning building on One hundred fortieth Street—my own people—and some son of a bitch clipped me with a brick, For what? For saving four people?”

“You know what I mean. When you stood there on the grass and looked around you, what did you see?”

“A lousy old-law tenement that should have been torn down fifty years ago,” said Robinson.

“You take a car like this,” said McCabe, “it's unusual to you. You pull a few strings downtown, and they say, OK, sit in the car and write a story about it. For us it's a grind, day in, day out, one lousy grind.” He took a call on the car radio. “Liquor store this time. West One hundred seventeenth, Brady's place. You know,” he said to me, “they rip off that place every month, regular as clockwork.”

The siren going, we tore up Amsterdam Avenue to 117th Street.

3
General Hardy's Profession

M
iss Kanter was not quite certain whether she was in love with Dr. Blausman or not, but she felt that the privilege of working for such a man repaid and balanced her devotion, even though Dr. Blausman never made a pass at her or even allowed her that peculiar intimacy that many men have with their secretaries. It was not that Dr. Blausman was cold; he was happily married and utterly devoted to his work and his family, and brilliant. Miss Kanter had wept very real tears of joy when he was elected president of the Society.

In her own right, Miss Kanter was skilled and devoted, and after five years with Dr. Blausman she had developed a very keen clinical perception of her own. When she took a history of a new patient, it was not only complete but pointed and revealing. In the case of Alan Smith, however, there was a noticeable hiatus.

“Which troubles me somewhat,” Dr. Blausman. remarked. “I dislike taking anyone who isn't a referral.”

“He has been referred, or recommended, I suppose. He mentioned the air shuttle, which makes me think he is either from Washington or Boston. Washington, I would say. I imagine that it would make trouble for him if it got out that he was going into therapy.”

“Trouble?”

“You know how the government is about those things.”

“You must have found him very appealing.”

“Very good-looking, Doctor. You know, I am a woman.” Miss Kanter seized opportunities to remind Dr. Blausman. “But very desperate for help. If he is government and high government—well, that might be very meaningful, might it not?”

“Still, he refuses to say who recommended him?”

“Yes. But I'm sure you'll get it out of him.”

“You told him my fee?”

“Of course.”

“Was his face familiar?”

“It was one of those faces that seem to be. But I have no idea who he really is.”

Neither did Dr. Blausman have any sure idea of who the new patient was. It was the following day, and across the desk from Dr. Blausman sat a strongly built, handsome man, with pale blue eyes, iron-gray hair, and a square jaw that would have done credit to a Western star of the thirties. He was about forty-five years old, six feet or so in height, and appeared to be in excellent physical condition. He was nervous, but that was a symptom that brought patients into the office in the first place.

“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 forth-right. 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 forthrightly. 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 make notes?”

“In most cases, yes. If there were sufficient reason not to keep notes, I would forego 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, 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 take 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.”