A Cure for Suicide

On the other side of the wall, the examiner stood quietly, her eyes shut. She clapped her hands once, and then again, but so softly that no one could hear.

A PLACE YOU GO LAST

~ ~ ~

IT WAS A MAZE of hallways, a plain building with a maze of hallways. Most of the offices were empty. The doors were unmarked. No one waited before them.

Yet, on one door, there was printed a simple title. It was simple, but puzzling. It read:

INTERLOCUTOR

In the hall opposite, there was a bench. A man, a petitioner, had been sitting on the bench for the better part of an hour. His face and clothing were worn and thin and lined as though he hadn’t slept. His hand was shaking, and he was holding it in his other hand. Perhaps both were shaking. He stared mutely at the floor, and the light over his head flickered fitfully.

Finally, the door opened. A man with lustrous white hair, an old man, wearing a black suit, was looking out. He inclined his arm, and the petitioner stood, walked into the room, and shut the door.

~ ~ ~

As I sat in the office of the cure, he began to speak and explain to me what it was. I was there, and I had no choice but to continue, it seemed there was nothing but that, nothing else — and yet, it was being explained to me, almost without my permission, as a matter of course, this thing I did not understand: the cure for suicide. There had been so much progress in the world at large. So many things were solved, so said the interlocutor. My grandfather and his grandfather, even more so the grandfathers of those grandfathers, they could expect much less than I can, and so on and so on: the general life of man is improving at breakneck speed. But, the solutions all have had consequences, and the worst of these, it crops up again and again, he said, is isolation. In the modern world, we, all of us, are isolated. We might as well be furniture, he continued. That is, we cannot feel — we cannot reach out to others; again and again the problem comes up. There are those who cannot continue. Therefore, now that so many problems had been solved, this was the feeling in the republic, it fell to us to confront this final problem, this problem of problems. It fell to us to find a solution, a cure for suicide, so said the interlocutor. His white hair was feathery and avian, but comforting, and seemed to declare that he was fit for the position he held, whatever position it was. Interlocutor. What was that? He had the same chair on both sides of his desk. The desk was basically a table. He could have sat on either side and it would be the same. I was here to speak to him and he to me. So he said. He said, the Process of Villages was created out of nothing. There was no such idea anywhere, and then suddenly it was a success. Suddenly, departments like this one were created in every city. This department was only a month old. He explained things rapidly, unendingly, and then suddenly would lapse into silence, watching me for unaccountable reasons. He said, the interlocutor, he himself, had just arrived in the city a week before, but he had worked in a different office, an office of the so-called Department of Failure, for many years. That’s what they call it, the Department of Failure, so he said. Regular folk. The real name is just its function: Process of Villages. It is the way the cure is administered. This is the beginning. When he said that, he made a curious gesture of his hand, as if to diminish the whole thing — to make it seem possible. A beginning is easy, so he seemed to say, and from there, it is all taken care of. I felt that he looked a bit like my grandfather, a man I had never liked. But, in him, all the elements of my grandfather that were deplorable and wicked were somehow lightened and improved. It was as though this thing, grandfather, had been revisited with greater care in his person, and now here he was, interlocutor, a person with whom one could speak. He said, for a very long time, for a thousand years and a thousand years before that, it was thought that suicide was wrong. It was believed that one shouldn’t kill oneself, that one didn’t have that right. This was because of a false idea — that the body was not one’s own property — that it belonged to someone other than you. Whether that was God or some other man, the reasoning was the same. But now we can see, there is no reason, really, not to end your life if you no longer want to live it. In fact, living it — provided you don’t want to — is irrational, so said the interlocutor. A man was sitting where you sit, right there, not three days ago, so said the interlocutor, and he said to me, I have never been the person I want to be. Even as a child, I was someone else. Every morning, for a lifetime — a lifetime! — I have woken up in this body that I feel should not be my own in a situation not my own. Why should I not end this life. My reply to him, said the interlocutor, was, if the idea is that you want out, why should it not be so, but consider this: Groebden, Emmanuel Groebden — one of the finest minds this world ever produced, he struggled with this problem. It was as if he spoke with you, with you alone, and heard your troubles, and solved them. His solution was this, the Process of Villages, so I told him, said the interlocutor. So, I said, not three days ago. I told him, we will allow you a complete reinvention. You now have this choice, a choice that men have never had — not in a hundred thousand years of life — to start over completely. That is what we are here for, and that is how we will help you. And, continued the interlocutor, looking at me, we offer the same help to you. Even now, that man who sat where you are sitting, who sat there sobbing uncontrollably, he was wretched, just wretched, sobbing in that chair — even now, he is peaceful and partway on a new journey. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. There are, though, said the interlocutor, many formalities to be addressed. That is why I am here. We are to speak, you and I, and I am to learn about you, to classify you, to see to you and find out why it is that you are here. So said this man who was the mirror image, the spitting image of my grandfather, a man I had hated. I, too, was wretched, I thought. I, wretched, was there, sitting in this office, and I was to tell my wretched story. Very well. He was speaking animatedly. This was a part of his repertoire that was well rehearsed. He said, do you know how it will be in the place you have just left? The place I have left? The place you have left — the house you have left, the people you have left, the body of their communications and thought, their livelihoods, their esteems, their hopes — do you know how it will be settled, your coming here? It is this way: Everyone who has known you well will separately receive a small envelope in the post. The envelope will be opened, and when it is opened, there will be within it a yellow slip. Whoever has opened it will find a yellow slip. He or she will draw out the yellow slip and on it there is a name written. Clement Mayer. Your name. They will read this name to themselves. Some will say it out loud. When they open this envelope what will happen is that they will know that you are no longer in their lives, that this person is gone forever and cannot be found or reclaimed anywhere in the world. This is a comfort for you. You may know that all books will close, that all unfinished ends will finish, neatly. There is no looking back because there is no back. The tying off is complete, so said the interlocutor. I asked him if there was a time when a person had to continue forward. I asked if at some point in the process, one could not go back to the old life. Do you want to go back to the old life? I do not want to, I said, I am here for one reason, but I was thinking, for another individual, perhaps, they are here and learn this information, and then they stand up and leave the office, go back to the street and find their way across the city to the place where they live and the people they know. You can leave, right up until the last, said the interlocutor. You could leave now. I have no intention of leaving, I said. There is, though, he said, a matter of proof. It is lamentable, but we have found it necessary to require a proof of sorts. We like to hear your account of yourself. We do this so that we can be sure that you are in the right place — that you are, in fact, reaching for the hand that we extend. He said this quickly, twice, once to me, and then once to himself almost under his breath. Reaching for the hand that we extend. A woman was here, he said, the first person I dealt with in this city, she had a large family and was a great success in government. I believe you would know her face if I were to show it to you. I looked out of my office, I opened the door just as I opened it to admit you, and there she was. I brought her in, sat her down, and at first she could give no account of herself consonant with a need for our help. Every facet of her life was flawless. She was a marvel, she really was, a sort of titan of life’s powers. But, we sat here for a very long time. It became dark outside, and I felt — I will wait. I don’t need to go home. I have nothing especially to return to tonight. I can do this work some hours more and there will be no harm. And as we sat, she began to talk about other things, not just things from her life, but things from other lives, other things that were a part of her so-called mental life. And as we traveled deeper into this thing — she said it was a sort of mental life, I began to feel a certainty. This was a woman that wanted to be parted from everything that she knew. She was not in grief. She had no tears to cry, nothing to lament. But she was finished. The duration of her interest in her life was shorter than the duration of her life. She was in an existential predicament. I said that to her and she did not agree. She thought such a formulation was revolting. We did agree, however, so said the interlocutor, that the treatment was, for her, quite necessary. She filled out the appropriate contracts, and although it was then around eleven p.m., I made the necessary arrangements and she continued on. She did not need to go home again. She simply continued on, once I had made the arrangements. Or, continued the interlocutor, there was a boy, only sixteen years old, who had, as he put it, started out wrong. Everything about his beginning was the incorrect beginning. I met him not in this office but in the previous office. He was quite a fresh-faced darling, very sweet and straightforward, answering every question with his utmost effort. But all his youth was undercut by a dense black grief. He had been deeply misunderstood, right from the get-go. There was nothing for him. At first, I was sure I would dismiss him, send him back. I am sending people back all the time, all the time. But, when he laid out the situation, not as a child would, but as though he were a long veteran of the world, well, I had to capitulate. I gave him what he wanted, and I am sure that he is in good stead. The interlocutor was talking, but he was waiting. He was talking, but waiting for me to speak. His talking was a form of permission for me: this is a place for talking, his talking said. The idea that I would speak about my situation was unbearable to me. I said that, I said to him, the idea that I would speak about my situation is unbearable to me. When I learned about the Process of Villages, and that this department was the door to it, the entryway, so to speak, I felt, not hope, for I have none, but a wish that I could cross that threshold speechless, saying nothing. If it were that way, said the interlocutor. I know that I must speak about it, I said. I know that. Then the interlocutor moved his chair a little to the left, as if to prepare himself for something that was coming, and the thing that he was preparing himself for was that I was starting to speak, and what I said was this. Imagine that you are a young woman. Imagine your name is Rana, Rana Nousen. Imagine that you live in a house of great wealth, that you have a fine education, friends, a delightful family. But, that one day, you go to a doctor because you have been having headaches, some pressure in your head, and at the doctor’s office you discover you will die. It is certain. You will soon be dead. It could be drawn out, or it could be swift: that much was uncertain. But that you will die is completely incontrovertible. The doctor doesn’t even qualify a word. The verdict is complete. And you are standing there, and everything, all your fine things turn to ash. Just the same, they shine twice as brightly — every good thing is possessed by the utmost fineness of its nature, for it is suddenly finite — that which was infinite, in a long life, suddenly finite. You leave the office, you go down a street, down one street, down another. And on that day, on that very worst day, you meet a young man. For whatever reason, you think that he is quite wonderful. He, though he may have qualities that do not raise him up above others of his kind, seems to you to be very remarkable, so I told the interlocutor. You, Rana, stand in the street and speak to him. You are exchanging pleasantries that become rapidly tinged with a meticulous seriousness. In the course of a small conversation, the two of you find that you want to keep seeing each other. And so, you see to it that he has your address, and you go off. You go off home, and at home you are surrounded by your family. You tell your family the news: you are to die. Your best friends are summoned to the house. They are told: you are to die. Everyone is gathered there, and it is an atmosphere of loss and sadness. Then, you address the group and what you say is this: you say, there are three months left to me. I want to have them. If they are mine, and they are, then I don’t want to speak about this illness again. Everyone here must swear to never speak of it until I am gone. I am going to leave the room and wash my face and hands. When I come back in, in five minutes’ time, you will all be having a nice gathering that has nothing to do with me. We’ll have food brought in and we will have an evening such as we might have had before the news of today. And please, you add, do not be constantly at my service. That isn’t the life I have led, nor is it the life I want to lead. Then you leave the room, and when you return, your family and friends, so sophisticated and strong are they, that they hold to your wishes. A perfectly acceptable evening goes forward, and at some point in the night, the guests all go home, so I told the interlocutor. Now, the next day, there is a knock at the door of your house. It is the young man. His name is Clement. He wants to see you, and you find that you want to see him. Although he is rather poor and not at all remarkable, you find it in your heart to go on an outing with him. This outing brings you closer together. Soon, a week has passed and you have seen him every day. Your family and friends are astonished. You seem to have changed — and grown even more brilliant. You appear to glow — so happy you have become. When you sit about on bridges, kissing this young man, or when you lurk late into the night at motion picture stalls, or drinking counters, you feel that finally it is here — a life you have always wanted. Somehow, though you must have known other wonderful men, other boys, before this, Clement is to you a thing for which to be grateful. Although he does not, cannot understand this, he does not need to. To all his protestations that he is beneath you, you laugh and laugh. You are always laughing at him and calling him to account for his faults and then laughing more, for to you they are nothing. As the situation continues, you see that some you know, your mother, your father, are growing concerned. You worry that they will tell him, that they will spoil everything. So, you tell them, so you tell your friends, say nothing to Clement of what you know.