Christopher Evans: Fidelity

When Malcolm came down with the news, Neal had already been at work for two hours and had finally got his new novel moving again after a sticky patch. Malcolm sauntered into the room and said, in his offhand manner: “Claire’s in hospital. Attempted suicide.”

It was the kind of bad news he had almost expected.

“Is she all right? What did she try?”

“Pills. They’ve pumped her stomach and she’ll be OK. The hospital says she doesn’t want to see you.”

His immediate reaction was one of annoyance that he’d have to suspend work on the book just when he had it moving again; but his irritation was quickly swamped by his concern for Claire.

“Can I take the car?”

“Feel free,” Malcolm said.

It was a two hour drive from the lodge to central London. Neal would have liked company for the journey, but Malcolm was negotiating an import deal for Korean antiques and he hadn’t wanted to impose further on him. He had been staying at the lodge for the past week, having fled there immediately after his latest bust-up with Claire to subsist on Malcolm’s ever-generous hospitality. The basement room was hermetic and he’d produced some of his best work there. He and Claire had regular fallings-out and he felt greatly in debt to his wealthy patron. “Don’t worry,” Malcolm would insist whenever Neal showed up, as big-hearted as he was large of frame. “Stay as long as you want. You know how much I enjoy having you around”. Malcolm would then tell him that the only way he could really repay him would be to abandon Claire and become his lover, a submission he was constitutionally incapable of making.

This was the third time Claire had attempted suicide. Doubtless, like the two previous occasions, it was more a dramatic gesture, a plea for attention, than any serious desire to end her life. Claire was a gifted poet, but highly emotional and unstable. At his meanest Neal would accuse her of having a Sylvia Plath complex. They had been living together, on and off, for six years—periods of blissful emotional and intellectual harmony interspersed with dreadful fights provoked by Claire’s hysterical reaction to even the mildest of criticism. He had lost count of the number of times he had walked out on her in anger, only to relent days later under the pressure of her pleading, apologetic phonecalls. They were slowly tearing one another apart, locked in an insane, destructive passion for one another.

The poet and the novelist. Their liaison had enchanted the more upmarket gossip columnists with its glittering surfaces. In an age of few celebrities, with the arts teetering on the brink of sterility, suffocated by the palliatives of the Welfare State, their brilliant partnership had received close scrutiny from the news-starved media. They chronicled its vicissitudes with a tedious diligence, providing vicarious excitement for the vast majority of people who led quiet, well-tailored lives, content in their anonymity.

Well, no more. It had to end. He would be considerate to Claire, but firm. He would tell her that it was all over, really over this time, that the only way they could ever survive and lead tolerable existences was to ensure that they never saw one another again. It was the only way. It would be hard, for a while, but they would both get over it eventually and begin to flourish in their separate lives. Yes. Yes. Cheered by this sudden sureness, he slipped a mintranq between his teeth, putting the car on auto.

Neal reached the hospital just after noon. The young female doctor was courteous but adamant.

“She refuses to see you, and I think she’s quite right. It’s better that she’s not exposed to any stressful situations at the present time.”

“Can I come back tomorrow?”

“You can, but she’ll be even less able to see you then. We’re operating on her in the morning.”

“Operating? I thought you pumped her stomach? It was pills, wasn’t it?

There are no complications?”

“She’s scheduled for psychosurgery. No doubt she’ll agree to see you when she’s convalescing after the operation. Give it a few days.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, disinterested. As if it were a routine pronouncement.

“Psychosurgery? You wouldn’t dare.”

“It’s not a question of daring. The idea was hers. We brought no pressure to bear whatsoever.”

“I don’t believe you. She’d never agree to it.”

Now he had her full attention. She gave him a “let’s-be-reasonable” look.

“You know very well that we are ethically and legally bound against coercive measures with respect to psychosurgery. Claire asked for the operation.”

“She wouldn’t. She’s always hated the idea.”

“Well, she’s finally come to her senses.”

His anger didn’t intimidate her in the slightest. She was good-looking in a scrubbed, professional way, not a hair out of place, as crisp and polished in manner as she was in appearance.

“No,” he insisted. “She did it because she was distressed. It’s just a product of her present state of mind. Surely you can see that?” “Her present state of mind is a product of the fact that in the past she has refused psychosurgery. Now she’s given us the opportunity to break the vicious circle.”

Neal wanted to slap her. “I won’t allow it.”

“You have no say in the matter. She’s already signed the consent form.”

“I’ll fight it. She was under sedation when she signed, wasn’t she? Then she was acting when the balance of her mind was disturbed by drugs. I’ll sue.”

“The balance of her mind was disturbed before she decided to sign. Cases like this are commonplace; they make up perhaps a third of our patients. There are innumerable legal precedents. You’d lose.”

“I can’t believe that’s what she really wants.”

“She’s at the end of her tether. It’s what she wants.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Not at all. We’re not proposing to make a robot out of her, you know. We have a detailed biography and a complete psychoprofile culled from the unconscious memory. The diagnostic computers have already identified the recurrent areas of distress and have recommended the appropriate chemotherapy. The drugs are quite specific in their mode of action. All we intend to do is to eliminate the affective disorders of her personality, not alter her entire psychic structure. Claire’s ill. We’re going to make her well again.”

“I have to see her.”

“You can. After the operation.”

He took a long walk through the tidy streets, where people sat contentedly at outdoor cafйs and bars. Some even smiled at him as he went by. All was harmony in the world since the advent of psychosurgery; people hurried into operating theatres in times of stress as readily as they had once turned to pills or drink or violence. Crime was almost extinct, and there had not even been a minor war for the past two decades—among the developed nations, at least. But they were paying a big price. The birth rate was falling, and everyone was becoming complacent and mentally stagnant. He and Claire were perhaps the only serious artists still working in the country. The others produced pap for mass consumption, and declared that suffering and soul-searching were obsolete in life and therefore in art.

Neal had always rejected this utterly. He and Claire had fought a rearguard action against it all their working lives and had gained their notoriety as a result. But although they were both minor celebrities, their work did not sell well and Malcolm’s patronage had been invaluable. Malcolm looked like a wrestler but had the soul of an aesthete. It was fortunate that there were still people like him who, while not artists themselves, nevertheless appreciated the value of the true creative spirit.