Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Julie knew my number?”

“Yeah. Is that a surprise? So what’s the story? You got the info you wanted for your book and you’re outta there?”

“Just taking a break.”

“Do me a favor, okay? Either in or out. This is a businessman you’re dealing with. They think a yes is yes and a no is no. Subtlety’s not their strong point. He’s got to know if he can rely on you.”

“I see.” I lapsed into thought.

It must have been a long pause, because Edgar laughed and said, “Hey, Rafe! I’m a busy man. I’m the biggest boy on my block. You can’t keep me waiting on the phone. The American economy will collapse.”

“Whose idea was it, Edgar?”

“Idea?”

“I’m sorry. I mean, to ask me to lead this fall retreat thing? You or Stick?”

“I like the retreats. I like an intimate management team. Happy families and all that. But, and this is one of the reasons I think Stick is a good manager, the encounter group leaders at these places are pathetic. Stick thought you might come up with better techniques. If you do, I’ll package you on a video, and we’ll make infomercials. My brother can produce it— Dr. Neruda’s Five Keys to Success.”

I was baffled. “Infomercial?” I asked.

Edgar chuckled. “Don’t worry. I was kidding. Are you having second thoughts about spending so much time in corporate land?”

“Something like that.”

“Come up to New York tomorrow. Stick invited me to lunch with the head of our new European division. You should join us.”

“Didier Lahost?”

“Yeah, some name like that. A French businessman. What a nightmare. I’m going to be bored out of my mind. Come along and entertain me. It’ll give you time to think and you can tell Stick your decision face-to-face.”

“I don’t want to crash a meeting.”

“Ain’t no meeting, just a how-do-you-do. The food’ll be good anyway. We’re eating at the Carnegie Deli. I love taking Frogs to eat Jew food.”

“There are delis in Paris,” I said.

“What do you want to bet Monsieur Lahost has never darkened their door?”

Another look at Copley wouldn’t hurt, I decided. I told Edgar to expect me and then dialed Stick. While I did, I wondered why Julie had my number. Perhaps her mother was worse; she had a mild stroke six months ago. I should call her and perhaps visit my cousins in Great Neck. I hadn’t seen them since Sadie’s funeral three years ago. This isolation from the world was silly — I was no superman. I needed my family.

“Well hello, stranger,” Laura returned my greeting with a happy note of welcome. “We’ve been trying to find you. Hold on.”

Stick’s stern voice was there immediately. “Where are you?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” I said. “I’m not your employee. I don’t have to account to you for my whereabouts and my time.” I was surprised by my anger and momentarily ashamed. But why hold anything back? This man wasn’t my patient.

For a moment there was nothing but that weird absolute silence — not a hint of electronic contact. Then, very softly, Stick said, “I am paying you to be a consultant.”

“Every penny has gone back into Minotaur. I can show you the receipts. I bought furniture and plants so your labs wouldn’t resemble an unfinished basement.”

He stayed in a low key. “You’ve done a fine job. Centaur’s testing fifty percent faster than our competition. Jack’s looking more relaxed, too. Said to me this morning he was bringing the family along when he makes his West Coast swing.”

“How was your doubles game?”

“I canceled it. What about this Saturday? We could play at my country club.”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Edgar invited me to your lunch at the Carnegie Deli.”

Another silence. I waited. Finally Stick said in a normal volume, “Good. I’d like to know your opinion of Didier.”

“Okay. Also, I haven’t decided if I want to stay on long enough to lead your retreat sessions. I’ll let you know about that tomorrow.”

Stick remained in neutral. “I need to know one way or the other,” he said coolly. “To make plans.” I said nothing. He waited until the silence was uncomfortable and continued, “Would you consider a full-time position with a meaningful salary, say … one hundred K?”

“No,” I answered immediately. “Our financial arrangement is satisfactory. I’ll let you go, Stick. It’s time for your daily swim.”

“What? Oh.” He sounded enervated. “No, I’ve changed my exercise program. I’m doing machines now.”

For a moment, I had no words. Was he teasing me? Worried he was playing a game, I asked sheepishly, “You’ve dropped the two-mile swim?”

“Yeah …” His voice was weary and sad.

I didn’t draw a breath. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I was almost frightened to ask — what if his gym was having trouble with the pool filter? “Why?”

“Too boring. And it’s not challenging enough. I’d have to swim longer to get the same benefit I can in half the time on the machines. I thought we discussed this. I thought I told you I was giving it up.”

“Probably you did. Okay, Stick. See you tomorrow.” A chill actually ran down my back. I shook my shoulders to be rid of it. I considered whether he could be this clever. No. There was no way he could know what it meant to me.

In the tradition of listening to the patient for answers, Copley had provided the solution to the problem of his condition: our conversation about his father had had an effect. Three days before, I had gently suggested the association in his office. I commented after Stick’s story of being thrown in the pond that he must enjoy his daily swim. At the time I hardly thought the remark was subtle. Surely Stick didn’t need me to explicate that the reason he relished swimming briskly for two miles was its reminder of triumph over his sadistic father. His conscious mind had missed my point, but not his subconscious. What once was an enjoyable reenactment had become predictable, its emotional power sapped by awareness. The effect was similar to traditional therapy’s — only in reverse. Neurotic patterns can be broken by bringing the original motivation to the surface. Copley’s swim had lost its pleasure by awakening that frightened little boy: it no longer made him feel strong. An effective adaptation had been spoiled by self-knowledge.

I wasn’t sure, of course. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps it wouldn’t work with behavior driven by less painful memories. Another question: was the subtlety important? Confronting Stick’s and Halley’s psyches with open analysis seemed to have failed miserably, but had it softened him up for the penetration of my quieter observation? Also, why did Stick think he had already told me he was giving up his daily swim? Had he been talking to me in his head? That would be an indication of transference. I noted that my mean tone, my angry reaction to being questioned, seemed to cow him. Could I effect a transference of his sadistic relationship with his father to me and replay his childhood so that he emerged as a neurotic? If I interfered with his successful adaptation to the pain of childhood, could I create conflict where now there was none?

A few hours later, when I decided to drive to the city, I was excited. Why not? If talking therapy can make an ineffective neurotic into a functioning well-adjusted person, shouldn’t it also work in reverse?

I phoned Mary Catharine. After I reminded her of who I was, we had a long talk. Although she seemed to have no memory of our conversation in her bedroom, she was far enough along in her drinking day — this was just after lunch — to be easily drawn into reminiscences of Halley’s childhood.