Norman Invasions (27 page)

A frightening moment in the treatment took place when Dr. Roberts, by means of hypnosis, regressed Brunetto to infancy. I heard the screams of pain even in my own office, several doors away. By associating pain with the reason for its existence, namely, the superstition, Dr. Roberts hoped to render the superstition intensely aversive to young Brunetto, so aversive that he would shun it at all costs, that he would repudiate it on the deepest level and would welcome any opportunity to undo its effects, by, for example, submitting to a redemptive surgery. And Brunetto did thereafter, a day or two later, agree to the operation. In this sense, one supposes that Dr. Roberts' treatment was vindicated. Indeed, he seemed to regard it as a master stroke, a coup, a triumph, or one would gather that, from conversations in the staff cafeteria.

There is a distinction, of course, between what occurs and how it is understood, or interpreted. Let us suppose we wished to convince someone that lions are not dangerous. First, this would be a mistake, because lions are, in fact, dangerous. Second, an aversion to lions might certainly be induced by having one be mauled by lions. This pain would doubtless encourage one to avoid lions in the future, but it would not show that lions were harmless, or might be ignored with impunity. Analogously, by associating pain with belief in the evil eye one might reinforce the belief, rather than diminish it, or negate it. One might make it seem more terrible, not false. On a subconscious level fear, however illogically, is taken as a sign of reality. Griffins may not exist but if one believes himself to have been attacked by a griffin, one is not likely to disbelieve in them.

I wondered what would be the case, if, supposing that there might be something within an individual, lurking within, parasitic, in its way, the parasite might be so intimately associated with the individual that it would feel its pain, or pleasure. One wonders. If scalding water were poured on a dangerous, wild animal, captive in a pit, what would be the reaction of the animal? Would it remember? Certainly one would not care to meet it, later.

The operation, in due course, was performed, and to all intents was successful.

In the course of my practice at the hospital, where I did clinical work twice a week, I had made the acquaintance of Giacomo. I was surprised, however, when he came to see me one day, a week or so before the operation, and expressed his reservations about the impending surgery. My colleague had discussed the case with me, in general terms, and so I did my best to support and reinforce his work, explaining the emptiness of superstition, its tendency to oppress human happiness, the power some try to obtain by recourse to it, the nature of psychological suggestion, and so on. I probably told Giacomo pretty much what he had already heard from Dr. Roberts.

“How do you know these things?” Giacomo asked.

“Science,” I told him.

“What means ‘science'?” he asked.

“Knowledge, basically,” I said. “Knowledge.”

“Maybe there are other sciences,” he said.

“You are afraid,” I said, “that Brunetto is a bearer or possessor of the evil eye, a
jettatore
?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Brunetto,” I said, “is a fine young man.”

“My brother, too, was a fine man,” said Giacomo.

“Brunetto would not hurt a fly, even if he could,” I said.

“The thing can hurt and kill,” he said. “Brunetto is no more than its cave, its den, its lair.”

The conversation made me uneasy. Clearly Giacomo accepted, or largely accepted, the myth, or theory, of the evil eye. In his view, I supposed, if the operation was successful, we would be, in effect, freeing something dreadful, something frightful, releasing it from its prison, to do its work, whatever that might be. I thought of unwittingly pressing a switch, which might activate the timer on an explosive device, of opening a jar which might contain a gas, or deadly bacteria, releasing these things into the atmosphere, of opening a door, behind which writhed vipers.

How much did I really know about the world, I wondered.

My colleague, I knew, was much more at ease with his own world view than I with mine. In Greece and Rome he would have accepted auguries and omens, in the Middle Ages werewolves and witches, in a later time indivisible atoms and action at a distance, or phlogiston and the ether. In our time he had accepted what he had been taught, as uncritically as innocent millions before him had accepted what they had been taught. If there was a lesson here, or a pattern, it would seem to be change. Could we now, in effect, with the inconsistent vagaries of quantum theory and relativity, the contradictions of cosmology, and such, be substantially at the end of wisdom's road? Or would there be, in time, new darts launched, new balloons floated, new guesses hazarded, new, mighty truths proclaimed, new arrogances, new scratchings at the wall of mystery?

“What do you know of these things?” asked Giacomo.

“Very little, I am sure,” I granted him.

“I think you smart fellows are right,” said Giacomo. “There is much nonsense in talk about these things.”

“Yes,” I said, encouragingly.

“But I am afraid,” said Giacomo.

“Of what? I asked.

“Of the part,” said Giacomo, “that is not nonsense.”

He then left my office, though I would have been willing to continue the conversation.

The operation took place a few days later.

I shall try to relate certain subsequent events with no more commentary than seems necessary for clarity.

I will say, in way of preface, that I think these things all have a natural explanation, that nothing supernatural is involved. On the other hand, I think that they suggest, on some level or another, that nature may be more complex, or subtle, than we commonly suppose. I deliberately avoid adjectives such as ‘greedy', ‘self-seeking', ‘fierce', and ‘sinister', as they suggest the limitations of anthropomorphism.

Yet suppose, if only as a fancy, for it somehow seems appropriate, that some fiendish thing was incarcerated in a dungeon, in absolute darkness, for years, chained down, rendered innocuous, unable to move, capable of little more in that frustrating, enclosing, confining stygian darkness than brooding and hating, and consider how, over the years, that hatred, day by day, drop by drop, might increase, filling the stony crater of its foul soul, forming therein, as it were, a dark lake, ever rising, of waiting, inflammable pitch, ready to burst into vengeful flame at the first touch of light. Who would be so foolish as to move aside the stone that seals that pit? Who would be so unwary as to carry a torch into those recesses, who so unwise as to explore that darkness?

It was a Tuesday afternoon in September, a bright, cool day, that the bandages were to be removed. The room was a private room, and a pleasant room, light and airy. It was in the west wing of the hospital, on the twenty-third floor. A bouquet of flowers, in a blue vase, was on a stand near Brunetto's bed, making the room fragrant.

Five people were present, other than the patient, Dr. Hill, who had performed the operation; Dr. Roberts, his therapist; myself, as an interested observer, invited by Dr. Roberts; the young man's uncle, Giacomo Silone; and the nurse in attendance, Miss Henry. It was she who had brought the celebratory flowers, ensconced in their vase, on the stand near the bed. They were within an arm's reach of the bed and Brunetto could reach out and touch them, feeling the softness of the petals. Brunetto loved flowers and their tactualities and perfumes to him were doubtless analogous to the beauties of the visual world to the sighted. Now, it was hoped that he, in a matter of moments, could see them as well.

Dr. Hill's pleasantries that afternoon seemed to me a bit forced. I think he was a little apprehensive, as is not unusual in such cases. It is difficult to know in advance the degree to which such an operation achieves or fails to achieve the hoped-for success. Much depends, for example, not merely on the condition of the optic nerves, but, as earlier suggested, on the condition of an extensive and subtle network of neural pathways. He had every reason, however, based on the operation itself, as far as I could tell, to warrant the optimism which he seemed determined to project.

Roberts, who regarded Brunetto with almost proprietary benevolence, was at hand, to learn the results of the operation and, if necessary, to supply any assistance or support compatible with his field. particularly if, tragically, the operation proved ineffectual. Too, I think he wanted to be present at what he hoped would prove, in its way, to be a credit to his own therapeutic skills, for he regarded himself, correctly enough, I believe, to have been instrumental in bringing Brunetto to this climactic and hopefully joyful day. He had invited me, I think, primarily that he might be provided with a professional witness, one who could understand and appreciate what he had done, overcoming as he had profound traumas and deeply rooted resistances, a professional witness who might comprehend and objectively validate his achievement, to be manifested in this rewarding moment. I suppose we are all, to one extent or another, vain and insecure. But I was glad to be present, independently, for Roberts was my friend and, too, of course, I hoped the best for Brunetto and his uncle, both of whom I had come to know over the last few days, and particularly the uncle.

Giacomo seemed agitated. It was the first time I had ever seen him in a suit and tie. He seemed to feel out of place in such finery. Oddly, he kept his right hand inside his jacket.

Miss Henry was the primary nurse into whose care Brunetto had been consigned. As I had dropped in on Brunetto at various times after the operation and during his convalescence, I had noted the attachment which seemed to have been formed between himself and his nurse. Certainly she had been more often at his side than would have seemed necessitated by purely medical considerations, and, indeed, had occasionally been found in attendance at hours other than those required by her shift. I think I have mentioned that Brunetto, aside from his disfiguration, now hopefully a thing of the past, was a handsome young man. Too, I had gathered that his kindliness, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence, his humor, his good nature, his open and generous character, left little to be desired. One can only conjecture how the blind Brunetto understood the soft hands, the gentle words, the considerate attentions of his nurse, but, could he have seen her as we saw her, what he saw would have been sure to please him. Each, it seemed, had found another, to whom each was willing to give his heart.

“How do you feel?” asked Dr. Hill.

“Well, sir,” said Brunetto. “Thank you, sir.”

“Take my hands,” said Dr. Hill. “We are going to sit in a chair, here, beside the bed.”

He helped Brunetto into the chair.

“Nurse,” said Dr. Hill. “Draw the blinds. Darken the room.”

She did as he asked.

“I am going to remove the bandages, Brunetto,” said Dr. Hill.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“We don't know how this will turn out,” he said. “The room has been darkened, but there may still be pain. That will pass. You can close your eyes, if it hurts too much. As you have not had sight since infancy, you will probably have to learn to see. One learns to see, to recognize shapes, to understand how close, and how far, objects are from you, and so on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you afraid?” asked Dr. Hill.

“Yes, sir,” said Brunetto.

“Steady,” said Dr. Hill, softly.

Brunetto held out his hand, and it was grasped in the small hand of Miss Henry.

“Steady,” said Dr. Hill, soothingly.

In the reduced light of the room I was aware that Giacomo, who stood near me, was almost inflexible, as though with terror. He seemed rigid. A tear had run from his left eye. His jacket had come open a little and I could see his hand within. It was clasped about the rounded handle of what might be a stiletto or dirk. Alarmed myself, I had no desire to alarm him. I put my hand gently, reassuringly, restrainingly, on his arm. He did not resist or pull away. His grip on the handle seemed to tighten. His gaze was fixed on Brunetto.

Fold by fold, wrap by wrap, Dr. Hill gently removed the bandages.

“There,” said Dr. Hill.

Miss Henry gave a small cry of distress and pulled her hand away from that of Brunetto.

He turned his head toward her, slowly, but it was not clear that he saw her, or recognized her. It was as though she might have been a stranger, not welcome, improbably present, intrusive, otherwise meaningless.

“What's wrong?” asked Dr. Hill, sharply.

“Cold,” she said. “His hand! It is suddenly so cold.”

“Physiological reaction to stress,” said Dr. Hill.

“Characteristic?” asked Roberts.

“Not unusual,” said Hill. “Brunetto, Brunetto!”

“I am not Brunetto,” said the patient.

“Can you see?” asked Dr. Hill.

“Yes,” said the patient.

“Does it hurt?” asked Dr. Hill.

“No,” said the patient.

“It is just lights and patterns now?” said the doctor.

“No,” said the patient.

Giacomo said something in Italian. He was tense, trembling. “It is not Brunetto,” he whispered, in English.

I cautioned the old man to silence, lest he disturb the patient, or the others. If the others heard, they gave no sign of it, for their attention seemed fully focused on the patient.

“You have waited a long time to see,” whispered Dr. Hill.

“Yes,” said the patient. “I have waited a long time.”

“You must learn to see,” said the doctor.

“I learned to see long ago,” said the patient. “Do you think, in the darkness, I would have forgotten? I have learned to see in a thousand bodies.”

Giacomo with a cry of agony pulled away from me and rushed wildly toward Brunetto, the blade of the dagger, a long, narrow blade, some nine inches in length, brandished over his head.