The Thanatos Syndrome

Anyhow, nothing like our old funky, fertile South. No, it was a smell, a high-pitched sweet smell, almost chemical, yet sweet too, something like the cutting room of a florist’s shop—like old geraniums? Of course it is impossible to describe a smell. But it came back! I would wake in the morning to that high silvery ringing and the chemical geranium smell. I slept in a narrow bed covered not by a blanket or a quilt but by a soft goose-down bolster, like a light mattress. It was like an old-fashioned Southern feather bed with the mattress upside down. There was also the vague but certain sense that something was about to happen.”
    He stops. I say nothing. Now he’s back propping temple on his three fingers, looking at me sideways, almost slyly. “How is such a memory possible? Many things have happened to me, but in this case nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. A boy lying in bed.”
    I look at him for a while. The kerosene lamp seems to drizzle, sending out sprays of weak yellow light.
    Presently I ask him, “Was it about then that you had your— ah—spell?”
    â€œWhat spell? I didn’t have a spell. Do you mean seizure? a fit? a convulsion? I didn’t have a convulsion. Why do you ask?”
    â€œMilton said you had a—what he called a spasm.”
    â€œNo. It is true I have spells of dizziness, but what I had was this peculiar dream which was not a dream.”
    â€œWas Milton up here at the time?”
    â€œWell, yes. He brought me something to eat.”
    â€œWas that before or after your—” I pause.
    â€œMy what? Go ahead and say it.”
    â€œI was about to say hallucination, because as you describe it, it was that vivid.”
    He’s still eyeing me sideways, but now through almost closed lids. “Hallucinations are generally abnormal, aren’t they? I mean, like a symptom of mental illness or something in the brain?”
    â€œSometimes.” I rise and repack Lucy’s bag. “I have to go now. I’m worried about the children, especially Claude Bon. I’d like you to come in for an ECG and a scan. I think you’d better come into the hospital for a general checkup. But if not, please call me or have Milton call me if you need anything.” I look at his hand, which is still on the azimuth. It is as withered as Don Quixote’s, yet, when he clasped mine, as strong as the Don’s too. “As your physician I am obliged to advise you to resume eating and drinking. You’re already dehydrated. Frankly, I cannot tell how much of your—ah—inactivity is due to depression and how much to a religious commitment. The latter is out of my territory. But you have my medical advice. Don’t hesitate to call on me, even though I’m not certain I will be here tomorrow. If I’m not available, call Dr. Gottlieb. He’s a good man.”
    He watches me with the same expression as I snap the bag and move past him to the trapdoor.
    As I pass, he seizes my arm. I wait, expecting an affectionate goodbye squeeze, perhaps by way of thanks. But he doesn’t squeeze and doesn’t let go.
    â€œYes?”
    He tilts his head even more, to see me. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell you something.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œSomething happened to me in Germany. I have never told anyone.”
    â€œI’m sure it’s interesting. But I have to go. I’m worried about Claude Bon. I’m going to pick—”
    â€œI’m afraid this concerns you. I didn’t want to tell you, but I’m afraid I have to. There is something you need to know.”
    Father Smith’s dry talon of a hand is still on my arm. Something stirs in the back of my head. For some reason I think of the time a priest came to get me out of a classroom to tell me my father was dead. There is in his voice and in the feel of his hand on my arm the same grave pressure, the same sweet urgency.
    Then he gives a shudder, just exactly as one might for no reason at all, or as Negroes used to say, because a rabbit just ran over your grave. But then, to my alarm, the hand supporting his head falls away, pronates, the fingers bunching. It curls inward like a burning leaf. His head falls to one side. Fearing he might fall off the stool—his body slumps a little toward me, but not alarmingly—I catch him, ease him off and down to the floor. He makes no objection. I lay him out