Dr. Olivano was surprised. "Here? In Pombareales?"
“Not exactly. The next rung on the ladder is Adrian Moncurio, a professional tomb robber. At Pombareales he is known as Professor Solomon, and is famous for his lead doubloons.”
“Ah! Now I am beginning to understand! We are closing in on Casa Lucasta!"
"So we are. Irena Portils may be Moncurio’s legal spouse, though I suspect not. Still, she is probably the only person on Earth who knows where to find him."
Dr. Olivano nodded. “What you have to say is interesting, but you may accept, as an article of faith, that Irena Portils will tell you nothing."
“That was my own feeling, after I saw her walking along the street. She seems a determined woman and under great strain."
"That is an understatement. I took her some forms to be filled out, routine inquiries regarding the family situation. The law insists upon knowing the father's address, but Madame Portils would reveal nothing. Not name, age, birthplace, occupation, or current address of her missing spouse. I pointed out that if she persisted the law might take away her children and put them in an institution. She became very agitated. “Such information is important to no one but me. He is off-world; that is enough for you to know. If you take my children I will do something terrible.” I believed her, and said that perhaps it was not necessary after all. Later I wrote in a false name and address, and everyone was satisfied. But it’s clear that Madame Portils herself is a border line case. She hides behind a mask as best she can, especially when I come to call, since I represent the awful majesty of the Institute. I know that she hates me; she can't help herself – especially since the children seem to like me."
"Can they be cured?"
“That's hard to say, since no one can define their affliction. They fluctuate; sometimes they seem almost normal; a few days later they are lost in their reveries. The girl is Lydia; she is often rational – unless she is put under stress. The boy is Myron. He can glance at a printed page and then reproduce it in any scale, large or small, letter by letter, word for word. The drawing is exact, and he seems to derive satisfaction in finishing the job – but he can't read, and he will not speak.”
"Can he speak?”
"Lydia says that he can, but is not so sure after all that it was not the wind talking to her as it often does. If the wind blows at night, she must be watched or she will climb from her window and run through the dark. This is when she becomes difficult, and must be sedated. They are a fascinating pair, and I am in awe of them. One day I set up a chess board in front of Myron. I explained the rules and we started to play. He barely glanced at the board and trounced me in twenty moves. We played again. He looked at the board only long enough to move his piece and beat me with contemptuous ease in seventeen moves. Then he became bored and lost interest."
"He does not read?"
“No, nor does Lydia."
“Someone should teach them."
“I agree. The grandmother lacks skill and Irena is devoid of patience and far too capricious. I would suggest a tutor, except that they can't pay.”
“What about me?”
Olivano nodded slowly. “I thought it might be coming to something like that. Let me place the issues before you. First, I believe that you are sincere, and that you deserve all the help I can legitimately give you, but my first duty is to the two children. I can't be an accomplice to any program which might be to their harm.”
"I would not harm them,” said Wayness. “I only want to get a status in the household so that I can discover Moncurio's address.”
“This is clear.” Dr. Olivano’s voice had taken on a quality Wayness could describe only as ‘institutional’.
Despite her best efforts, her own voice rose in pitch: “I don’t want to sound over-dramatic, but the destiny of an entire world and thousands of people weigh on me.”
“Yes. So it would seem.” Dr. Olivano paused, and chose his words with delicacy. “If in fact, your estimate of the situation is correct.”
Wayness looked at him sadly. “You don’t believe me?”
“Consider my position,” said Dr. Olivano. “In the course of a year I speak with dozens of young women whose delusions are on the whole more convincing than your recital. This is not to say that you are not telling me the truth, as you see it – or even, for that matter, as it actually exists. But from this particular vantage, I have no way of knowing, and I must consider your proposal for a day or two.”
Wayness looked bleakly up the road. “Apparently you want to verify what I have told you. If you call Pirie Tamm at Fair Winds the call will be intercepted. I will be traced to Pombareales and probably killed.”
“That, in itself, would seem an obsessional remark.”
Wayness could not restrain a short rueful laugh. “I have already escaped one attack in Trestle. I dropped an urn something of the sort on the man's head. Think his name is ‘Barro’. A shopkeeper named Alcide Xantief who gave me information was not so lucky. He was murdered and dropped into the Canal Daciano. Are these obsessions? You can call the police at Trieste. Even better, if you will come with me to the hotel, I will call Pirie Tamm at his bank, and you may ask him whatever you like about me and the Conservancy.”
“No point in trying now,” said Dr. Olivano. “It would be the middle of the night.” He straightened in the seat. “It would also be unnecessary. Today, I had made up my mind to do something, even if it was wrong. I cannot justify taking the children away; Irena apparently does not abuse them; she feeds them and keeps them clean, and they are not unhappy, at least, not overtly so. But what of twenty years from now would we find Lydia still sorting out pieces of colored paper and Myron building five-dimensional castles in the sandbox?”
Olivano spoke on, looking out past the eucalyptus trees and across the desolate pampas. “The next thing I know, you appear. Despite everything, I don’t believe you are crazy, or delusional.” He turned her brief glance. Today I will take you to Casa Lucasta, and introduce you as a junior case worker who has been assigned to assist with the children for a short period, as an experiment.”
“Thank you, Doctor Olivano."
“I think, on the whole, that it would be better if you did not live in the house.”
“I think so too," said Wayness, remembering Irena Portils' desperate face.
"I suppose you know nothing of psychotherapy?"
“Nothing, really."
“No matter. You will not be required to do anything complex. You must give Lydia and Myron sympathetic companionship, and try to bring their attention up from within themselves. This means that you must contrive activities which they will enjoy. Unfortunately, it is hard to know what they like and what they do not like, since they make a mystery of everything. Above all, you must be patient, and never show scorn or vexation, since if you do, they will withdraw and cease to trust you, so that all your work will be lost."
"I will do my best."
“Above all else, including life, death, honor, reputation, truth, is – need I say it? – discretion. Do not involve the Institute in a scandal. Do not let Irena find you rummaging through her drawers, or examining her mail.”
Wayness grinned. “I won’t let her catch me."
"One difficulty remains. You are not a convincing social worker. I think I should better introduce you as a student in the School of Psychotherapy, working as my assistant. Irena won’t think this at all strange, as I have introduced such folk before.”
“Do you find her difficult to work with?”
Olivano grimaced and gave no direct response. “She keeps her composure, but only, it seems, after great effort, which puts me on tenterhooks. I feel she is always dancing along the edge of a cliff, and I can never really come to grips with her. As soon as I touch upon something sensitive, she starts to fidget, and I must desist, or risk an outburst of some sort.”
“What of the grandmother?”
“That is Madame Clara. She is sharp and shrewd, and notices everything. The children baffle her and she is brisk with them, I think that she stings their bottoms with a length of cane when it suits her. She resents me and surely will distrust you. Ignore her as best you can. You will get no information from her. She probably has none to give. Well then, are you ready?”
“I am ready, and also nervous.”
“No reason for that. Your name shall be Marin Wales, since there is a student of that name who is not in residence at the moment.”
Olivano turned the car around and drove back up Calle Maduro to Casa Lucasta. Wayness looked dubiously at the two-story white house. She had been worried as to how she might gain admittance; now that the means was opened to her, she worried more than ever. Yet, what was there to fear? If she knew, she told herself, perhaps she might not feel so queasy. Well, there was no help for it. Olivano had already alighted and was waiting for her with a faint smile on his face. “Don’t be nervous. You are a student and not expected to know anything. Stand to the side and observe; nothing more is expected of you at the moment.”
“But later?”
“You will be playing with two interesting if abnormal children, who will probably like you – which is truly my principal fear, that they may learn to like you too much.”
Wayness gingerly stepped from the car, noticing as she did so Irena’s face watching from an upper window. The two crossed the yard to the front door, which was opened by Madame Clara. "Good morning,” said Olivano. "Madame Clara, this is my assistant Marin.”
“Yes, come in then," said Madame Clara in a flat rasping voice and stood back: a small nervously active woman, somewhat heavy and hunched in the shoulders so that her head hung forward. Her gray hair – which did not seem overly clean – was gathered in an untidy bun; her eyes were black and sharp; her mouth, by reason of a stricture or a damaged nerve, was frozen into an up-curving wince, molding her face into a cast of chronic cynical suspicion, as if she knew and was amused by everyone’s ugly secrets.
Wayness looked into the dining room, to the side of the entry hail and discovered the children sitting bolt upright and wide-eyed at the table, unnaturally quiet and decorous, each with an orange clutched in their fingers. They looked incuriously toward Olivano and Wayness, Then returned to their private concerns.
Down the stairs came Irena Portils on long bony legs. She wore a green and yellow blouse with a russet-taupe skirt. It was an unbecoming outfit. The colors were not at all kind to her complexion; the blouse was too short, the skirt rose too high at the waist, emphasizing her rather wide abdomen. Nevertheless, when she first appeared at the head of the stairs, Wayness again thought to glimpse a tragic beauty, so fragile as to disappear at the instant of perception like a bursting bubble, leaving behind the reality of her despoiled and desperate features.
Irena looked at Wayness with surprise and no great pleasure. Doctor Olivano paid no heed, and spoke in a businesslike voice: “This is Marin Wales. She is an advanced student in the field and is functioning as my assistant. I have asked her to work with Myron and Lydia on an intensive basis, in order to accelerate the therapy, which does not seem to be going anywhere under present conditions."
“I don’t quite understand."
"It is simple enough. Marin will be here every day, for at least a certain period."
Irena said slowly: “That is very nice, but I am not sure that this is the best of ideas. It may cause a derangement of the household."
"In this case we must proceed as I have outlined. We cannot let the years go by and do nothing."
Both Irena and Madame Clara turned to examine Wayness more closely. Wayness attempted a smile but it was evident that she had made an unfavorable impression.
Irena turned back to Olivano. She asked coldly: "Exactly what is involved in this inconvenient scheme?”
“It will not be all that bad,” said Olivano. “Marin will spend as much time as possible with the children. She will in effect be their companion and try to engage their interest, using whatever tactics she thinks appropriate. She will bring her own meals and will cause you no extra work. I want her to observe the children’s daily routines, from the time they leave bed to the time they retire.”
“That seems a gross intrusion into our privacy, Doctor Olivano.”
“As you wish. Your privacy will be respected. I will remove Lydia and Myron to the hospital for the regimen we had in mind. If you will pack some things for the children, I will take them with me now and you need not be exposed to any inconvenience whatever."
Irena stood stock-still staring miserably at Olivano. Madame Clara, smiling her meaningless half-grin, turned and padded from the room and into the kitchen, as if divorcing herself from the proceedings. Lydia and Myron watched from the dining room. Wayness thought they seemed as vulnerable and defenseless as baby birds in a nest.
“Irena looked slowly at Wayness, taking her measure. She muttered, “I don’t know what to do. The children must stay with me.”
“In that case, if you will leave us alone, I will introduce them to Marin."
"No. I will stay. I want to hear what you tell them.”
“Then please take a seat in the corner and do not enter the conversation."
VIII.
Three days had passed; the time was early evening. Following instructions, Wayness telephoned Dr. Olivano at his home near Montalvo, thirty miles east of Pombareales. The face of a pretty blonde woman appeared on the screen. "Sufy Jirou here.”
“I am Wayness Tamm, calling for Dr. Olivano."
“One moment, please."
Olivano’s face came to the screen. He greeted Wayness without surprise. “You have just met my wife," he told her. “She is a musician, and lacks all interest in abnormal psychology. Speaking of which, what is the news from Casa Lucasta?"
Wayness gathered her thoughts. “It depends upon whom you ask. Irena would say ‘Bad.' Clara would say: ‘I have no news; I just do my work and hate every minute of it’. As for me, I have discovered nothing – not even the best place to look. I expect no confidences from Irena; she has barely spoken to me and clearly resents my presence."