William Deverell - Trial of Passion

“How come the inquisitor gets all the long speeches in this scene? Am I feeling ridiculous in this suit, or what? I better go up and change, get on my way. Hi, Remy, I spent all my money and had to walk home. That won’t do. I don’ wanna know the time.”

Dr. Kropinski seems to have decided not to cork this gushing pour of words.

“Charles, you’re so pathetic. All night sucking up to the inquisitor, grabbing the seat right beside him — you’re totally ignoring your date, you ass. I don’t think she likes me, thinks I’m some kinda prima donna. Oh, why don’t they just all go home? What’s going on with me anyway? Feeling so glazed over. Hot flashes. On fire. Too much firewater. Why did I do that coke, I never . . Oh, God, Remy will have a fucking bird… .”

She seems to have utterly exposed herself to us, naked of mind, candid almost beyond belief. But where is her discursive patter taking us? Now she giggles.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Oh, back when we were dancing, he. . he had a kind of hard on. I bumped into it, had to pretend I didn’t notice.”

Is this good, bad, indifferent? Wally, craning down at her, seems to stiffen, too. I can almost feel the heat behind me from Jonathan’s embarrassment.

Dr. Kropinski says, “Excuse me for a second, my dear,” then approaches me in whispered conference.

“This is, I fear, unusual. She becomes her former self with a vivid personal reliving one rarely sees. But her discourse is scattered. I think it is the setting, too many people — she senses their energy; it confuses her. Do I carry on, yes?”

“Your patient is not in harm?”

“I think she is strong enough for this.”

“Please proceed.”

But a gremlin of worry is teasing me. What if she is affecting this garrulous hypnotic state? Is this talented female lead, with all her vivid reliving, seeking to salvage honour and marriage, seizing on this chance to make final credible proof of her complaint? Has she mentally armed herself against falling under the hypnotizer’s spell in a ruse to seduce Ms. Foreperson and her crew with a siren’s song?

And in her gusto to take up my challenge to restore her memory is she also beguiling me? The Commander, unlike Ulysses, is not tied to the mast as he seeks passage between the rocks of doom. Is it gullible Beauchamp who has been mesmerized today? But surely my fears are telling me false. I have never encountered a witness so open and gregarious, so generous with her feelings. .

But now a change comes over her, a sadness. Her eyes close; her voice begins to falter.

“You said they wouldn’t torture me. . you lied. . ” A long silence follows. A strangled cough from a juror, then the court is silent as death.

“Where are you now, dear?”

“At his house. . I think.”

“Who said they wouldn’t torture you?”

“The holy church. .” She opens her eyes wide, and suddenly her contralto becomes a child soprano, stubborn, frightened. “I won’t go to Sunday school. Please don’t make me. I’m a good girl, Mother, I’m a good girl.”

Dr. Kropinski tries to get her attention. “Kimberley — ”

But she is jumping around, lost in a childhood time warp. “I just wanna see the bunnies. Please, don’t. “The pleading of a terrified girl. “Don’t, oh, please, please. That hurts! Help me! Oh, help me!”

“Kimberley, you are with me. You are a woman of twenty-three. You are fine now.” I sense her immediate relief at hearing her therapist’s voice. She relaxes, offers a weak smile.

“You are fine?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I can’t bear to look at the jury, to assess their reaction. My eyes are glued to the witness. Is this an act? It cannot be. I dare not believe she could effect such brilliant disguise. If so, I will prostrate myself at her feet in admiration.

“Come back with me to Jonathan’s house. Did you fall asleep?”

“I think I did.”

“What is happening when you wake up?”

Now her eyes close again, and her deeper woman’s voice interrupts. “I’m on his bed ” Suddenly she is wailing, “I’m tied up! He’s hurting me! Blood! Blood! I’m bleeding!” She is struggling in her chair, shaking, now working feverishly with invisible bonds. “He’s going to drown me!” She begins to heave herself from the chair and then abruptly stops, suspends herself, seems to float, then slowly subsides back, breathing heavily, staring into space. Dr. Kropinski looks quickly at me, with concern, as a deep silence falls heavy upon the room, time slowly flowing, Kimberley breathing more gently now.

“Where are you?” asks the doctor.

“I am in the courtroom,” she says dully. “I want to end this now. Please.”

Dr. Kropinski looks at Wally, who nods, giving assent. I am fearful of objecting, of making some hazardous intrusion into her trance, but I want to cry out: No, no, we must not end this. What have we accomplished? An entire room of memories remains unfurnished.

“I will count to three, yes — ”

I hear my voice, low, urgent: “Not yet. Take her back. Back to Jonathan’s parlour.”

Though her eyes are open now, they are looking only at Dr. Kropinski. “I don’t want to go back. . I don’t want to know.”

Wally appears about to intervene, and I am half on my feet, palms flat on the table. “She needs to know,” I say.

The doctor raises a hand to still me. “Do you not want to remember, Kimberley?” he asks her.

She shakes her head in sadness.

Dr. Kropinski sighs. Clearly, he now intends to bring her out of her fugue state.

I speak to her directly now. “Be brave, Kimberley. Remember, you are Saint Joan.”

Unexpectedly, she responds with a chipper voice. “I am, you know. I feel like Joan sometimes. Leader of men.” She laughs. “Poor things, bewildered by a woman. Jonathan, too, he keeps looking funny at me, like he doesn’t understand. . God, when are those characters going to leave? “

Dr. Kropinski seems encouraged to proceed. “Why do you want them to leave?”

“I just want to be alone with him, just for a minute….we wouldn’t actually, I wouldn’t stay long. . ” Her voice grows weary.

“Kimberley?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t sleep. You are on a sofa. Tell me what is happening before you fall asleep.”

Kimberley closes her eyes and frowns in concentration. “Do I sleep?” she says softly. “I don’t think so. . I hear voices. They are whispering to me: Stay, fly away, stay, fly away. Two minutes alone with him. . we’ll just talk. That’s time enough, that’s an eternity. A never-to-be-repeated kiss at the door, telling him that I. . so he will know what might have been. They are going, goodbye, goodbye, the taxi is here. Go with them. Fly away, fly away. I. . Jonathan. .” And abruptly her memories short-circuit again, and she wails, “He’s gonna kill Mummy and Daddy, Dr. Kropinski!”

In despair, I fully expect he will now free her from her transfixed state — she is in much difficulty again, crying. But I am startled by a curt change in this sage healer’s bedside manner. He seems determined now to break through the barriers that block her memory, speaks as to a fussing child. “Stop crying. Be strong. You are a healthy, vigorous woman. What happens now as the others leave Jonathan’s house?”

A silence. Then in a husky voice, Kimberley says, “I know you are there, Jonathan. You think I am asleep, but I can smell you, I can hear you breathing.” Now she whimpers, “Don’t. . oh, don’t. . Please.”

Are her sparks about to jump the gap again? Dr. Kropinski has clearly decided he cannot leave her in trauma’s limbo and orders, “Stay with Jonathan! What is he doing?”