Against the Wind (8 page)

The next morning, Joseph learned, directly from Dr. Laporte, that he could not leave the hospital without one final test.This consisted, as Dr. Laporte had just been informed, of a meeting with the chief psychiatrist himself, who had “serious questions” about his leaving. The meeting was to take place at eleven o'clock in the director's office, in the presence of Dr. Laporte and the other staff members who had cared for Joseph.

Joseph was neither afraid nor worried, just angry. Outraged that his fate rested in the hands of a single man who did not even know him and whom he had never even set eyes on. But he had no choice, and that was exactly what made him fume.

At ten to eleven, he went to the office of the director, Joseph Ibraïm (it irked him that they had the same first name), and waited in the corridor to be called in. It was Dr. Laporte who asked him to come in.

Joseph had never seen anything like it. Dr. Ibraïm sat enthroned at a huge desk, like a judge, with the whole team – most of whom had become Joseph's friends – seated in armchairs around him. There were a dozen young men and women sitting on straight chairs along the wall as if they were at a trial, with notebooks and pens in hand, ready to take notes.They were wearing white coats and sitting motionless, and were not looking at Joseph. Joseph learned later that they were psychiatry interns who were there for an examination that would be evaluated by “the great Ibraïm.”

Ibraïm motioned to him to sit down, there, on a straight chair across from him, right in the middle of the room.

Joseph looked Ibraïm straight in the eye – he looked like an aging, weary Orson Welles – and waited. He knew, without having to be told, that he was not supposed to speak first. He looked around him, and his incredulous eyes met those of Dr. Laporte, Rebecca, Dena, everyone he had spent the past three weeks with in total innocence. They all looked away and turned toward Ibraïm, and Joseph understood that, like him, they were subject to Ibraïm's authority. This thought gave him the strength to quietly await his verdict.

And Ibraïm spoke! In a stern, categorical tone, he directed Joseph to give the reasons for his being in the hospital and to explain why, after being depressed to the point of wanting to die, he now considered himself ready to return to “normal life” after so little time in hospital.

Joseph complied. He recounted, without too many details – because he sensed that details would only annoy Ibraïm – how he had come to be there and why he wished to leave. Why and how. How the madness he had encountered the first day had frightened him and made him want to leave.Why, because of the law, he had been
obliged
to stay. How he had come to better understood madness and his own existential pain. How he had been helped here (he named, in order, Dr. Laporte, Rebecca and Dena, and turning his eyes toward them, he saw that this recognition pleased them). Why he would never come back to the hospital for minds – no, never again!

Without losing his cold authority or what looked like hostility or scorn, Ibraïm said to Joseph, “Young man, that was very eloquent, but I still don't understand why you look so sad.When I look at you, I see only sadness. I haven't seen a smile on your face since we've met. How do you explain this?”

While the scribes scratched away on their notepads, Joseph looked Ibraïm in the eye and answered that he had not seen a smile on
his
face either, and that he was sure that if Dr. Ibraïm spent entire days and nights here without going home or even walking in the streets of the city, he too would become terribly sad, “infinitely sad, just seeing this emotional misery, this sorrow, this pain.”

Ibraïm looked at all the files spread out on his desk. Joseph thought that these papers must be about him, that they must contain the results of examinations and tests and reports of all kinds. Rifling through them as if he had taken a speed-reading course, Ibraïm appeared somewhat discouraged, but sure of himself. He told Joseph, “You're free, young man. You can go back home. Let me give you some advice. Be very careful. The mind is our most precious ally. Try not to let things go so far before asking for help. Don't wait so long.”

He walked over to Joseph, shook his hand and indicated that he could leave, saying, “Good luck to you, Joseph,” with a slight smile behind which Joseph glimpsed a longing as old as the world.

After the noon meal, taking advantage of nap time, Joseph said a few last goodbyes.

On the other side of the iron door, which had been unlocked for him, he felt what prisoners must feel when they regain their freedom. But Joseph also knew that Véronique was standing behind that door, perhaps waiting for the sound of his footsteps going down the corridor, leaving the floor and the hospital for minds with Véronique inside it. All his muscles were aching as if his body had been in a battle to tear itself away from Véronique's body.

He hurried downstairs and outside, and hailed a taxi to go home.

The hospital for minds, June 13, 1968

Joseph, my love! Since you left for New York (what a good idea to make arrangements with a gallery there!), I have kept talking to you in my head. I have so many things to tell you, and I can't wait for you to come back!

But at least I'll be spending this afternoon with you. Dena asked me what I would like to do in occupational therapy today. I told her my therapy would be writing. She smiled. I think she guessed who I'm writing to.

I'm sitting at the little table where you used to paint – in your place, because it makes me feel closer to you and because the light is more beautiful. I understand why you chose this spot and why you kind of reserved it for your entire stay here, without even saying it and without anyone ever coming and bothering you (all of them still respect this territory, they've understood that it's mine too). There's a warm sun shining in from the west. We've opened the windows. I can see Mount Royal, and the traffic on Côte-Sainte-Catherine doesn't bother me but gives me a sense of real life.

People are doing all kinds of things. Everything has been quiet since this morning. As you know, that's rare here. I love you, Joseph. And I know you love me. For the first time in my life, I know I am truly loved. And that I truly love too. At the age of twenty-nine, can you imagine? I have friends, of course. But I'm talking about love. When I think back to the few affairs I've had – in every one of them, I thought at some point that this was love – it's as if I see a little cemetery inside me. Something dead, anyway, or worse, dead before even being born. Like aborted loves. Stillborn. But I don't want to dwell on this, as they say. I have a feeling that, since I met you, that's a waste of time, futile, pointless.

Joseph, I can't put off telling you the big, wonderful decision I finally made yesterday. I had been thinking about it for a long time, toying with the idea without getting too close – I thought it was too much for me! It was like a dream, a great dream that I believed was unattainable, impossible for me. I'll tell you what it is first and then explain. Joseph, I'm going to open a piano school. For children (about three to eight years old). Not right away. In a few months (it's pretty much decided, I'm getting out in a couple of weeks – I'll tell you later how I see things between us). I want to start modestly. Cautiously. I've even begun the process.

But first, let me go back to the beginning. About four or five years ago during a tour in Switzerland, I met an Austrian pianist (do you remember, I talked about her once or twice? – her name is Édith Salzac) who had been trained in the Orff method of teaching music to children and was planning to open a school in the States, where she was going to immigrate.We wrote each other after that, but after I got sick – as I was when you first met me – I didn't reply to her letters.

Édith was an excellent interpreter (especially of the Romantics). She had decided to give up her career as a concert pianist (she found that life too demanding) and open this school. She really believed in this new teaching method. I'll explain it a bit … basically, the children are first introduced to music by listening to pieces played by their teacher (on the teacher's instrument) and improvising on that music with their own instruments (all of very high quality), beginning with xylophones, cymbals, drums and triangles, and later adding flutes and piccolos – and even the piano – until they're ready to choose an instrument (if they have the talent and the desire, and of course, with the consent of the parents, but the initiative has to come from them). They then take private lessons – or go to special schools.

I did an internship with Édith in Germany (in Freiburg) in one of those schools. There aren't any in Quebec yet. Édith opened hers in Massachusetts, not far from Boston. It's called Great Music for the Very Young, and it's even twinned with an excellent free school, Oak Valley School, which is located in an old farmhouse in the mountains of Massachusetts. She organizes music camps in the summer. The site is magnificent. I went there in 1966. I intend to go back. Maybe we could make a little trip there together next fall? You could revisit galleries in Boston at the same time. We'll talk about it again, won't we, Joseph?

Oh, my love, I'm so thrilled with this idea that it's practically cured me.

I started thinking about my career again right from my first sessions with Doctor Hélène. I had barely begun talking about it when my dream began to seem possible. Doable. I didn't want to tell you right away, I wanted to wait until my decision was really definite. We had so many things to work out. And to say to each other.

I must admit that meeting Édith – and the choice she made – helped me put my finger on something I didn't even want to imagine, something so frightening I didn't dare confront it: I no longer liked the life my career forced me to lead. I was tired of tours, concerts, recitals and all the other public obligations of performing. The competitions and the constant rehearsing – since I was very young – had ground me down so much that I no longer knew who I was. I had become an image and I had lost myself in that image. I had lost my way. How can I tell you, I was so far from myself or what I thought was me, smothered at the centre of myself. Or asleep. Or completely stifled. Dead.

But I love music and I want to make a living from it. It's a passion. A joy. I know you understand. The moment I saw you painting, I knew it. And going over and over these things in my head, I realized that I could live from music, with music, while giving up my public career as a performer.

Which leads me to us. Yes, Joseph, I want to live with you, at your place! We would make it our home. Yes, I want to move my things into your place when I leave here! Yes, I'll move my piano!

Because – more news – the day before yesterday, after the arrangements were made by telephone, I was given a “leave” to spend the afternoon at Vincent-d'Indy School. Marie, Rebecca's assistant, went with me. It was fantastic. I can't wait to tell you all about it. I met my old teachers, colleagues and friends. They all understood my new choices. On Friday, I'm going back to practise all afternoon. (Joseph, I'm so happy, so thrilled, I'm not afraid of the piano anymore!) They offered to rent me a studio for my school (really inexpensive, we'll have to talk about it), at least for the first year.

As I said, I want to start modestly. Slowly but surely. Yes, Joseph, I will accept financial help from you in the beginning. You'll see, I'll reimburse it as soon as I can. One thing is clear to me: I don't want to ask my parents for any more money. Not even to move. They never gave me anything for free. I always had to beg for it, to lower myself by making promises.

When I think how I humiliated myself, as proud as I am, by going back and “being supported” by them, as they said, adding – and this is what hurt the most – “but we're rich, dear, very rich, in fact. But, at your age, with your failed career…”My mother would go on in a feigned sympathetic voice as if she were on the verge of tears, “What in heaven's name did we do to deserve this?”

Thinking back to those scenes, to that nightmare that went on for so many months, to being trapped in that smothering cocoon, I think I must have sunk very low to submit to that. And I was the cause of it too. I want to understand, Joseph, I want one day to understand how and why I demeaned myself like that.

We have all the time in the world. Things are falling into place, little by little. I'm letting things come and I'm confident. Oh, what a beautiful journey the two of us have begun!

Even for the move, I don't want to go to their house alone. I'd rather protect myself. I still feel vulnerable with them. (They came on Sunday, you should have seen them, it was awful. I could see their games so clearly. I'll tell you about it.) I'd like it if you went with me when I go there to prepare things. On moving day, we could maybe ask Denis to come with us.What do you think?

To get back to my story, the decision about the school has clarified the whole piano thing (in large part, anyway – we're in no hurry, as you say). You see, now I feel like starting to practise and play again. But for me. For us. At home. And in the school, with the children. Or in friends' homes, sometimes, if there's a good piano and there's a party. Do you understand?

Yes, you do understand, Joseph, I know it. And I love you for that too. I've never met anyone who understands things as well as you do. And who understands me.

Have you noticed that when I write, I don't have trouble finding the words? I've always been like this. If you only knew how many notebooks I filled before I met you! I've always done it. Since adolescence, I mean. I've always written smoothly and flowingly – it seems to help me put the unclear, disparate, frayed pieces back together. I don't know why, but I can't do it when I'm speaking. It's as if speech is made up of pieces of thoughts or vague images.Maybe that's why therapies for the mind use speech.

(I stopped writing for twenty minutes. Everyone here is upset. Albert, the fat psychopath everyone hates, has had another crisis. This time he tried to attack Mrs. White. He literally jumped her. Poor Mrs. White was scared half to death before they could get control of that pervert. You should have seen her. Her whole body was shaking. Afterwards, she wept without tears. While they were taking him away for an injection – there were two orderlies, the two giants – I went and hugged her. I consoled her and rocked her like a little girl.)

Oh, yes! I wanted to tell you, Joseph: I've stopped almost all my meds. Except for a very mild tranquillizer, a tiny dose, when needed. Not often.When I feel myself going into the pain too much and drifting I don't know where. When a thick layer of fog surrounds me and covers me to the point where anyone would lose their way. But it's so rare now that I can foresee the day when I won't need them at all anymore.

I asked Rebecca to take this letter to your place when she leaves the hospital, before supper. That way, you'll have read it when you come back on Saturday, and when we see each other again, you'll know. We'll be able to talk about everything. I can't wait till Saturday!

I can't wait, Joseph! I miss you everywhere. All the time. I think of you and dream of you. I dream of you and want you. I miss you terribly. I miss our love so much. I'll be so glad the day I'm free! I want the day we'll be able to make love freely to come quickly! Until then, I kiss you all over in my thoughts. I love you, Joseph.

Love,
Véronique

P.S. It's four thirty. I have to go to group therapy. I don't like it much, as you know. But I try. Nobody calls me Mute anymore. Phew! You should see the sun.Magnificent! Half the room is bathed in pinkish orange. It's as if we were all in a play. Mitchell sent me a drawing, and Douglas, a poem. He's so sad, so sad. We've seen so many people here who are more unhappy than we are! A thousand kisses and hugs, V.