Howard Norman - Next Life Might Be Kinder

“Derek,” I said, “he left the ballroom before we did. He knew we weren’t home. He used his passkey.”

“Sam,” Derek said, “maybe you want me to drag Padgett — and by the way, I have my own judgments about him — drag him out of his room and kick the hell out of him in the alley next to the garbage cans. But what if later I find out it wasn’t him did this thing? Just consider that. Please consider my position here. We have to follow procedure. Now, Mr. Isherwood will be in at eight o’clock this morning, and I’m going to talk to him first thing, I promise you both that. I’m going to get these photographs developed first thing, too. If you can think of anything else I can do for you in this circumstance, tell me. Ring me right up. I mean it.”

“It’s just that this chaise longue means a lot to me,” Elizabeth said. “And Alfonse Padgett — I just thought of this — he delivered it to our apartment. He knew it was here.”

“I’ll put that right into my report,” Derek said. “I’m going back to my room and start to type it up.”

Derek, with some formality, shook Elizabeth’s hand, then shook my hand. “I’m sorry this happened,” he said. “I’m sorry it happened at all, especially on my watch. Believe me, there’s all sorts of things happen in a hotel. House detectives can tell all sorts of things out of school, if they’re so indiscreetly inclined, they could. I’m very upset to see you suffer this violation.” Derek left and closed the door behind him.

Elizabeth took an antique quilt out of the bottom drawer of her bureau and laid it over the chaise longue. “Let’s go to bed, Sam,” she said. “Maybe neither of us will be able to sleep, but if we can’t sleep, at least we’ll stay awake together. I hate that goddamn creep bellman.”

“We could tune something in on the shortwave. Try for Amsterdam. Or London.”

“Good.”

With Dr. Nissensen, January 9, 1973:

Dr. Nissensen was wearing a black suit and tie, white shirt, black dress shoes. This was far from his familiar, casual attire. I’d never seen him in a suit before. “Wedding or funeral?” I asked.

He looked down, surveying his clothes, and smoothed his tie with his hand. “Now that you’ve winnowed it down to two possibilities, is it important for you to know?”

“Not important.”

“Which would you prefer it to be?”

“Funeral.”

“Ah, well, I asked for that, didn’t I? Yes, Mr. Lattimore, sadly, I have to attend a funeral later today.”

Silence a moment.

“He’s in our apartment,” I said. “In the Essex Hotel.”

“Who is in the apartment you and Elizabeth previously occupied?”

“Istvakson.”

“I see. And how did you discover this.”

“I went in to watch the movie being made. I found out that he’s been living in room fifty-eight. Can you believe it? Lizzy’s and my one and only apartment.”

“Hardly arbitrary. Part of his needing to thoroughly identify with you, a requirement to keep his soul progressing. Are you thinking along those lines?”

“I’m thinking Istvakson makes me more sick by the minute.”

“Perhaps you’d be less sick if you hadn’t inquired in the first place.”

“The point is, isn’t it, that I did inquire. And he’s living in our apartment.”

“I admit there’s a perversity to it. Far past — what? — artistic license.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

A moment of silence. I felt that Dr. Nissensen was debating whether to say something or not.

“For your information,” he said, “the funeral is for my dry cleaner’s wife. I’ve known them for thirty years. In fact, over the weekend I’d left all my sports coats to be dry-cleaned, and yesterday, when I went to pick them up, the dry cleaner was closed. That left me with just this suit and tie to wear. So, it’s ironic, in its own way, that the one thing I have to wear is the proper thing to wear today.”

“Well, thanks for tying up those loose ends.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence another moment.

“I had an upsetting dream. I hate talking about dreams. You know I hate it. But this one…”

“Was upsetting.”

“I drove to the police station in Halifax. I walked in and right away went to a room that had a big stenciled word on the door. It said Forensics. I opened the door and I was taken aback. Because there was Lily Svetgartot, and she was dressed in a white lab coat. The whole room looked like one big chemistry lab. Microscopes. And she was as cool as a cucumber. And I handed her Elizabeth’s copy of The Victorian Chaise-Longue —”

“Not Elizabeth’s dissertation, but Laski’s novel.”

“The novel itself, yes. She puts it under a big microscope and says, ‘Come back in five hours and I’ll tell you if I’ve found Elizabeth’s fingerprints’—no, no—‘found fingerprints other than yours on the book.’ Then I left the police station, and I couldn’t find my pickup truck.”

“Excuse me a moment,” Dr. Nissensen said. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table next to his chair. He took a sip, set the glass down, and said, “Fingerprints—”

“—means verification. Because in a past session I told you that Elizabeth asked me to put her copy of the novel on the beach, and that she picked it up to check a reference. So you’re suggesting that if I allowed Lily Svetgartot to examine the fingerprints, it might be that I am having doubts it’s actually Elizabeth I see on the beach. Fuck that. I don’t need verification.”

“I’m afraid that no matter how strong the will, a person can’t control where the mind goes in sleep.”

“I don’t care about rumor.”

“That’s quite funny, Sam. To see insights into the human condition as rumor. Are we done with the dream?”

“For today.”

“That’s fine. We’ll pursue it later if you want.”

“Maybe in ten years.”

“Saying ‘ten years’ doesn’t show much confidence in our—”

“Finding some closure?”

“I have purposely not used that word.”

I needed to keep something from Dr. Nissensen. Ever try to have privacy in a therapist’s office? I looked over at Theresa Nissensen’s charcoal drawings and said to myself, I love those, but kept it to myself.

“Sam, I’m going to break professional protocol here. It might be inappropriate for me to even mention it. Certainly it’s an imposition. Perhaps it doesn’t technically fall under therapist-client confidentiality, because this person didn’t actually become a client. It’s sort of a gray area. But considering my concern for your strong, even violent feelings toward Mr. Istvakson—”

“Istvakson? What about him?”

“He inquired about an appointment with me.”

I stood up, then sat down.

“Naturally, I declined. All sorts of professional conflicts there. But it does speak to the extremes of his—”

“Yeah, his fucking research. ”

After the session, in my pickup truck en route to Port Medway, I figured out who had probably provided Istvakson the information that I was a client of Dr. Nissensen’s.

TWO DAYS AFTER the Victorian chaise longue was damaged, Derek Budnick asked to meet with Elizabeth and me. It was midmorning and we’d been working. Again, we all sat at the kitchen table. Elizabeth made a cup of coffee for Derek. He had a satchel and took out some papers, which he set on the table. “Mr. Isherwood and I interviewed the entire staff one by one, individually,” he said. “We felt this was the best approach. Best not to point the blame when we don’t have actual proof. What I’ve brought here”—he touched the papers—“is affidavits. All signed and dated. Every single employee of the Essex Hotel, including the fact that Mr. Isherwood questioned me, and I questioned him. For the record.”