Mesmerised (16 page)

The Homeopaths Convention

May 23rd

‘An artist, under pain of oblivion, must have confidence in himself, and listen only to his real master: Nature.’

Auguste
Renoir

Maybe I need
Chamomilla
. I have just emptied a dozen boxes on the floor, kicked the contents and banged my fists upon the wall like a tempestuous child. I’ve been through every piece of correspondence from Clemens. I’ve read every aphorism in the Organon of Medicine and still I don’t know what remedy to give Bella. Hastily, I undo the buttons on my shirt and tear it from my body, toss it away from me and watch as the cotton flares amongst the flaming logs in the grate.

I sit on the sofa
I have drawn up close to the fire. My face smarts and burns and I’m happy for the discomfort. I recognise that I am in desperate need of good advice. I don’t have time to write and wait for a reply from Clemens and even if I did, his answers are often illegible these days and not filled with such great wisdom; he is a very old man. And then it comes to me. I prod the fire maniacally with the poker separating the logs so that soon there will only be dying embers there. I put on my coat and walk across town to the Hospital Ste Marguerit, where Tessler finished his studies in 1851. I have no logical reason to go there. Instinct is taking me, an instinct that I am starting to question. Just the other day Charcot stopped me in one of the corridors.

‘Don’t you think,
Doctor Gachet, that when a human being thinks differently from the rest of society that it is time for that person to start questioning himself?’

It is early evening. The air is comfortingly warm.
The sun has already slipped down from the horizon and the fading light is true to the season. The hospital is still open to visitors although I get the sense that the porters are going through some ritual in preparation to close the doors. I report to the concierge.

‘Name?’ she says quietly, seemingly a softer woman than Madame Lemont.

‘Doctor Paul Gachet.’

‘You work here?

‘No, I … .’

‘That’s funny, I’ve seen your name, where is it?’ she says, flicking her way through
well-worn pages in a ledger.

‘No, no,’ I say, wondering what to do when this conversation finally gets to the point.’

That’s right, you’ve come for the meeting?’

‘The meeting.’

‘Yes, The Homeopathy Conference, it’s been going on all day.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I say, clapping my hands. I received an invitation to this gathering a while ago. My peers are here to discuss the future of homeopathy.

‘Ward four,’ she says, pointing with her pen down the corridor.

I lean against the doorjamb. Jean-Paul
Tessler is long gone. Outside Ward 4 there is a plaque on the wall that reads
The Samuel Hahnemann Ward
but the large oval room is empty of beds and patients. The air is dusty and rough like pumice in my throat. In the centre there are a dozen chairs placed in a circle. Men in dark coats occupy them all. When I enter the room no one turns around, no one looks up. They are all engrossed in a heated debate.

‘No, no, no,
don’t you understand, you
must
give a single remedy that corresponds to the whole picture of the disease. It is impossible to cure the patient otherwise. You can palliate. You can suppress symptoms. But as Hahnemann said in the Organon you have to give ‘a medicine which among all medicines has the power and the tendency to produce an artificial morbid state most similar to that of the case of disease in question’. He said ‘a medicine’, not medicines. One medicine. I rest my case,’ said a man of about my age.

A
nother responds, ‘Well, there you are, you see, you haven’t understood a thing. In later writings, even Hahnemann himself used more than one remedy to affect a cure and that bears true in my practice.
Rhus tox
helps with the pain in the majority of cases of rheumatoid complaints. Mercury cures syphilis even for the allopaths. Belladonna, scarlet fever, I could go on. If someone came to me with rheumatic symptoms and syphilis, I’d give two remedies. If their symptoms improve I will be pleased. I don’t know why you have to make it any more complicated than that.’

Someone else stands up.
‘I agree, but what about our colleagues in the Faculty of Medicine? If we explain this remedy is for this and that remedy is for that they will understand how it works. The methodology will be familiar. They’ll stick a label on the bottle and sell our cures in a shop and then who will come to us?’

‘It won’t matter,’ the original voice intervenes and rises to his feet. Because what you are practising Sir, might be in the name of, but it is
not
homeopathy.’ He points his finger theatrically at his opponent, who responds.

‘Your way
is too complicated, too elitist. And how many cures do you actually manage to facilitate whilst you’re messing around being intellectual and searching for the one, elusive, curative remedy?’ He looks round, obviously proud of himself. Another man stands and then everyone is standing.

‘Homeopathy has rules – the law of similars – like cures like – the most similar remedy to the complaint must be given.’ The original speaker moves forward, pushing his adversary backwards as he emphasises each set of words. His opposer falls into a chair, slides backwards and clunks to the ground.

‘It really does depend how you apply the law of
similars,’ someone says.

‘A similar remedy doesn’t have to be exclusive
, doesn’t have to be the only one,’ someone else replies.

Someone hits someone. There are shouts of ‘Hey,
hey hey.’ More chairs fall on their backs. Two dozen fists fly seeking a target. Ha! A homeopathy brawl. I have seen enough. I doubt they will hear it – they don’t seem to hear anything outside their own fixed ideas – but I let the door slam loudly anyway, hoping that they do.

Montmartre Night

25
th
May

‘By adding to this the state of the mind and disposition accurately observed by the patient’s friends and the physician himself, we have thus constructed the complete picture of the disease … .’

Samuel Hahnemann,
Organon of Medicine.

A grown man hiding behind a tree seems absurd. And yet here I am. It is eight o’ clock. Dusk, the in-between time that always sparks excitement within me. Fresco style clouds fade into darkness. The workday mood is over. Even the birds are silent now.

I wait to catch Catherine as she embarks on her journey home. Every few minutes I take a chance to peer out from behind my post. Charcot’s light is on in his office
. Ipsen has already left. I saw him sauntering off, swinging his satchel.

Now Catherine stands in the doorway. Perfectly poised, she sniffs the air like a gazelle. A shadow moves across the wall in Charcot’s office. He could come to stand by the window at any moment and I have to make a choice. Catherine starts walking away from her job towards her private life. I make my decision and run across the green, my breath like a hurricane in my ears. My legs and chest ache, reminding me how lacking in wellness I am. I feel as if even the trees are watching me. I don’t look u
p to see if Charcot has observed me. I keep my head ducked and watch the ground moving rapidly under my feet. When I reach Catherine I grab her by the arm and pull her to the side, up close to the building, where I know we can’t be spied from the inside. Her eyes scream alarm. I place my hand over her mouth. I am desperately trying to catch my breath.

‘One chance,’ I pant. ‘One chance is all they’re going to give me. I
need to work it out, Catherine. The remedy Bella needs, I don’t know it. I have to do some research. Help me.’

‘How?’

Some phantom life form is breathing down my neck. I look around, no one’s there.

‘By making an urgent appointment tomorrow morning to see Charcot.
Then tell him you have word from me and that I am sick. Extend my humble apologies to Ipsen about a further delay in Bella’s treatment. Tell him, I am using homeopathy on myself and have every faith that I will return to work within the next few days.’

I turn my head again and see Charcot. His belly precedes him.
He stares ahead as he walks out of the door. Too fiercely, I push Catherine around the corner, use my body as her shield.

Helped by the driver, he climbs into a waiting hansom and settles himself inside the carriage facing the horse. There is no way that I won’t be seen if he
looks this way at the pertinent moment. I hold my breath. The preambles reveal themselves to me in sound: crunching of pebbles, snorting of horses, whip cracking. Then hooves start to take on a rhythm. Rusty wheels moan.

‘Gee up there,’ the coachman sings.

And the carriage is in front of me, black and shiny with plush, red leather, seats. Charcot keeps his focus ahead. The coach turns down the long driveway. I expect him to twist his neck and look behind. He doesn’t, at least not until the hansom is out of sight. I let go of Catherine.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, drawing my hand across my mouth.

She moves a few steps away from me, nods her head tentatively says, ‘I have to go home.’

‘Will you make the appointment?’ I call, as she walks away.

‘I will,’ she calls back, running now towards whatever awaits her. My chin is down. I look up but it is already too dark to see her on her way. I explore my jacket pocket and pull out a match and strike it against a stone. From the other pocket I take out the piece of paper given to me by Victorine. The writing is unclear. I think it reads:

Père Laffaire,

1, Rue Marceau,

Faubourg Montmartre.

The flame dies. There are no lamps to light these grounds. I stub my toe and stumble on the rocks that surround the lawn. I hold my foot and hop to the end of the driveway.

‘
Merde
!’

After several attempts to put my foot down, I eventually turn left
, limping towards Montmartre.

Although sinister things do happen in its shadows, Faubourg Montmartre has its own pulse and it welcomes with vivacity. It is the land that Hausmann forgot on the outskirts of the city. Many labourers of Paris and poor romantic fellows of the art-world live and conjugate here. Narrow winding streets, many built on an incline. Buildings squashed together like prisoners in a cell. Small houses that are crumbling, home to two or three families sometimes more, and the rents are very low. Such a contrast to the broad haughty newness of the tree lined avenues of Champs Élysées, Bois de Boulogne, Ave Clichy and even Pigalle. But as I approach the first narrow street my heart is warmed by lamps burning behind stained glass windows that in the moonlight throw smudged colours across pebbles on the ground. The sound of an accordion floats down from the courtyard at the foot of Rue Ravignan. Before me a hill of winding lanes, I begin to climb.

I guess that
rue Marceau is right at the top, close to a spate of gardens lovingly nurtured by ambitious growers. Wheat – hence the big windmill – grapes, vegetables. Camille’s partner Julie once grew flowers on this land that she sold on the main streets in the centre of Paris. Also close is the beer garden, Moulin de la Galette. The sound of gaiety from there is magnetic. I find myself taking off my hat and dipping it in my pocket, whilst walking faster towards the promise I have made to myself of just one beer. But on such a balmy evening the place is overcrowded. There is not a seat to be had.

Here, even the poor dress up in finery
: seamstresses especially; off-duty prostitutes; flirting househusbands wearing their one good suit. I people-watch for a few moments. A girl twists around on a bench laughing with a group of boys. A couple buy beer for an elderly woman whilst their children scrabble for coins beneath their wooden table. I wonder if Père Laffaire is here somewhere. He could easily be that portly man with a woman on his lap. I am jostled. It doesn’t take long for me to decide that the beer will have to wait.

I have to ask several people if they’ve heard of Rue Marceau as there are a number of streets around here that are not even marked. At the same time I enquire if they know either Père or Bella
Laffaire.

‘Ah,’ a woman says. ‘Of course I know. It is the street of the cobbler Marceau.’

They are all corner buildings in this enclave. Not one of them
is attached. Built crudely out of wood, the twenty or so dwellings are little more than huts. The first house has its door open and lamplight splashes out from inside. I walk up to it, hesitantly, crunching brittle grasses underfoot. A woman sits on the bare floorboards. She has four children around her. The party of five eat food with their hands. A boy of ten or maybe twelve is the first to look up. He has rounded cheeks, a frown and large deep-set beseeching eyes. He is wearing a double-breasted coat with large silver buttons, and his nose runs. So, this is the right place. The woman looks up.

‘What do you want?’

‘I have news of Bella.’

She looks down again, and scoops a wedge of mashed potato in her hand.

‘Bella Laffaire? He said he went looking for her. Some woman paid her bail, he said. He’s spent nights crying out there. Not in here. He said he can’t stand it that she’s disappeared. I told him not to come back until he’s over it because I don’t care about Bella Laffaire.’ The woman stares me out whilst popping something small and round into her mouth. She chews then swallows. ‘Where is she then?’ she asks.

‘Look, can I come in? This is a little delicate.’

‘I’m not sure,’ she says. A thin stream of oil glistens in the lamplight as it dribbles down her chin.

‘I have your husband’s not
e here,’ I say, uncrinkling the piece of paper, holding it out, leaning forwards through the doorway although still too far away for her to take it from my hand.

‘Now let’s get one thing clear. He’s not my husband. I would never marry him. He doesn’t deserve it. And that Bella used to help him out, feeding the brats whilst I earned a few
sous at the launderette,’ she says, slapping the hand of one of the children who grabs something off her plate. ‘The tart helped him out in other ways too.’

‘Was she living here with you just before she disappeared?’

‘That one live here! You’d have to kill me first.’

‘Forgive me for asking, but I’m a doctor at the Hospital
Salpêtrière and I need to find Bella’s family.’

‘He
tells
me he’s her family.’

‘What’s she like, Bella?’

The woman spits. A fountain of saliva sprays the children’s food and nearly reaches me at the door. I take a step backwards.

‘If you see him, will you tell him that I called?’

I turn around. There is a man standing directly behind me. His fingernails are grimy. His lips are plump inside the edges of a shapeless beard. He carries a lantern that he holds up to my face.

‘Monsieur
Laffaire?’ I ask.

The man laughs. His breath has the same smell as the fiery alcohol in my dispensary.

‘Naaah,’ the man replies and walks on like a liberated scarecrow, the grass breaking beneath his feet. A little shaken, I make my way along a narrow beaten path back towards a cobbled road. It’s early in the year but I can hear the crickets hum. My mouth is dry. I decide to go and have that beer.

The man with the accordion has come to Moulin de la Galette. His music brings a sense of abandon as couples leave their tables for the dance floor. Over at the marquee I order my drink.

‘I’m looking for Père
Laffaire.’ I say to the bartender.

‘He’s heard you’ve been asking around. He’s been waiting for you,’ he replies, cocking his head towards a young man that I vaguely recognise from the cafés in the Boulevard des
Italiens. He has long hair past his shoulders, gripping cold eyes and an athletic physique. His clothes are a gentleman’s but there is a frightful scar on his left cheek and beside it the skin on his chin is puckered as if from an old burn. I surmise he is a wrestler brought up on the streets. He makes his way towards me all lightness and smiles.

‘We can talk over here,’ he says, paying the bartender for our drinks then leading me over to a table whilst the froth of my beer cascades over my glass soaking my hand.

‘I know who you are Doctor Gachet,’ he says, sitting opposite. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet you. You’re a great doctor. I admire your work. I’ve heard all about your cures. Alfred Pissaro, Suzanne Leenhoff, Gustave Bonnet.’

‘Who told you?’

‘I get around,’ he says, leaning back in his chair, the scar on his forehead twitching slightly. ‘I know a lot of things. For example, I know you give Victorine Meurent a special medicine to ward off syphilis. Now there’s a lucrative business I wouldn’t mind getting involved in.’

I get up to walk away.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘You haven’t finished your drink.’

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

‘I consider myself a relation of Bella’s.’

‘But you didn’t write the note and give it to Victorine?’

‘You are very astute doctor. No, that wasn’t me. But I did have it in my diary to pay you a visit. La Sâlpètriere isn’t it, the hospital where you work? Do I speak to you, or is there another doctor I need to talk to about Bella’s homeopathic treatment?’

I sit down again, a little stunned.

‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘The evening is fine. It’s early. Relax.’

I stare at my glass
. A trail of bubbles swim to the top.

‘I’ll come straight to the point. Bella at the hospital
… .’ He looks at his nails and sucks on his teeth. ‘ … is costing me money. Oh, and I forgot, I happen to know your lady friend, Blanche Castets. Not normally my type. Too difficult to deal with.’ He takes a pipe from his pocket and stuffs it with tobacco. He strikes a match and puffs red sparks. Fragrant smoke rises in strands. ‘But we had a nice meal together. If she had her way she won’t be seeing me again, I think she finds me a little fierce. She likes the ballet by the way. Oh don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt her … as long as I get what I want.’

‘I’m starting to find you offensive,’ I say, rising to my feet
.

‘And I’m finding you trying
,’ he says banging his pipe down onto the table. ‘I can’t speak any plainer.’ His face is reddened and very close to mine. ‘I don’t make requests, Doctor Gachet. You can have Bella but you have to pay for your little experiment. Think again about what you find distasteful because life can get a lot more distasteful than this.’ He downs his liqueur in one, scrapes his seat backwards and walks away. He is gone in a second, past the trellis and the early jasmine. I watch after him as he slips between foliage and a white shop front fascia, remembering I’ve seen him before, with Bella, in a café, a long while ago.