The Thanatos Syndrome

up. “Could I ask you a question, Tom?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œDo you think we’re different from the Germans?”
    â€œI couldn’t say. I hope so.”
    â€œDo you think present-day Soviet psychiatrists are any different from Dr. Jäger and that crowd?”
    â€œI couldn’t say. But what is the point, Father?”
    Again the priest’s eyes seem to glitter. Is it malice or a secret hilarity? “Of my little déjà vu? Just a tale. Perhaps a hallucination, as you suggest. I thought you would be interested from a professional point of view. It was such a vivid experience, my remembering it in every detail, even the florist-shop smell of geraniums—much more vivid than a dream. Some psychological phenomenon, I’m sure.”
    I look at him. There is a sly expression in his yes. Is he being ironic? “No doubt.” I rise. “I’m going to pick up Claude. Come in tomorrow for a CORTscan. If you don’t feel well, call me or have Milton call me. I’ll come for you.”
    We shake hands. Something occurs to me. “May I ask you a somewhat personal question?” His last question about the Germans irritated me enough that I feel free to ask him.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhy did you become a priest?”
    â€œWhy did I become a priest.” The priest at first seems surprised. Then he ruminates.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œWhat else what?”
    â€œThat’s all.”
    He shrugs, appearing to lose interest. “In the end one must choose—given the chance.”
    â€œChoose what?”
    â€œLife or death. What else?”
    What else. I’m thinking of the smell of geraniums and of the temporal lobe where smells are registered and, in some cases of epilepsy or brain tumor, replay, come back with all the haunting force of memory. And play one false too. I don’t recall geraniums having a smell.

17. THE IRON GATE at Belle Ame is closed. I get out to open it, hoping it is not locked. It unlocks and opens even as I reach for it. In the same instant headlights come on beyond the gate not ten feet away. They are double lights, on high beam but close enough and low enough not to blind me.
    It is the Ranger four-door parked, waiting.
    â€œOkay, Doctor. You can hold it right there. That’s fine.”
    It’s the driver, the one dressed in the business suit. The other man is getting out of the Ranger. He is wearing a business jacket over the bib overalls.
    â€œPlease park your car over there, Doctor,” says number one, opening the gate and pointing past the Ranger. He’s Boston or Rhode Island, the park is almost pâk, the car almost but not quite câ. Not as broad as Boston. Probably Providence. Otherwise he’s Midwest Purvis, old-style FBI, hair: crewcut; suit: Michigan State collegiate.
    Why?”
    â€œWe have a federal warrant, Doctor.”
    â€œFor what? What’s the charge?”
    â€œWe don’t need a charge.” He reaches for something under his jacket, behind him—cuffs?—but flips open a little pocket book, showing a badge. “ATFA, Doctor. Please park your car there.”
    â€œTake it easy, Mel,” says number two. “The doctor’s not going anywhere, are you, Doc?” He’s upcountry Louisiana, strong-bellied, heavy-faced, not ill-natured, but sure, sheriff-sure. He could have been one of Huey Long’s bodyguards. He’s wearing a suit jacket over his overalls. Why bib overalls? Because he’s too fat for jeans? “Doc, we got orders to hold you for parole violation. I’ll park your car for you.” He says päk, cä. They are not unfriendly.
    â€œWhere’re we going?”
    â€œAngola, right up the road.”
    â€œThat’s a state facility.”
    â€œWe have very good liaison with state and county officers, Doctor,” says Providence Purvis, picking up some Louisiana good manners. “I’m sure we can clear it up in no time. Don’t worry. You’re not going to the prison farm. We have a holding facility there, quite a decent place actually—for political detainees and suchlike.”
    â€œHe’s talking about parish, Doc,” says Louisiana Fats, pronouncing it pa-ish. “I’ m out of the sheriff’s office in East Feliciana, on loan to the ATFA. It’s the feds have the holding facility.”
    â€œLet’s go, Dr. More,” says