Fifteen. In the psychiatrist’s chair
My father’s visit to the psychiatrist is a triumph. The consultation lasts a whole hour, and the consultant hardly gets a word in edgeways. He is a most cultured and intelligent type, my father says. An Indian, by the way. He is fascinated by my father’s theory of the relationship between mechanical engineering as applied to tractors and the psychological engineering advocated by Stalin, as applied to the human soul. He is sympathetic to Schopenhauer’s observation of the connection between madness and genius, but reluctant to be drawn into a debate about whether Nietzsche’s supposed madness was an effect of syphilis, though he admits under pressure that there is some merit in my father’s case that Nietzsche’s genius was merely misunderstood by less intelligent types. He asks my father whether he believes that he is being persecuted. “No, no!” my father exclaims. “Only by her!” He points at the door behind which Valentina is lurking. (The doctor wanted to discover whether I am suffering from a paranoia, my father said, but of course I did not fall for this trick.)
Valentina is miffed at being excluded from the consultation, since she believes it was she who first brought my father’s madness to the attention of the authorities. She is even more miffed when my father emerges with a beam of triumph on his face.
“Very intelligent doctor. He says I not crazy. You crazy!” She barges into the psychiatrist’s office and starts to berate him in a variety of languages. The doctor calls the hospital porters and she is asked to leave. She flounces out throwing offensive remarks about Indians over her shoulder.
“OK, Pappa, so the visit to the psychiatrist was a success. But what happened to your head? Where did you get that cut?”
“Ah, this too is Valentina’s doing. After she failed to have me certified as insane, she attempted to murder me.”
He describes another ugly scene as they emerge from the porticoed entrance of the hospital, still shouting at each other. She pushes him, and he loses his footing and falls down the stone steps, banging his head. It starts to bleed.
“Come,” says Valentina, “You foolish falling-on-ground man. Get in car quick quick quick we go home.”
A small crowd has gathered around them.
“No, go away, murderer!” my father cries, flailing his arms about. “I will riot go home with you!” His glasses have fallen off and one of the lenses is smashed.
A nurse steps out of the crowd, and looks at my father’s head wound. It is not deep, but it bleeds copiously. She takes him by the arm.
“Might be just as well to pop into Casualty and have it looked at.”
Valentina grabs his other arm.
“No, no! He my husband. He OK. He coming home in car.”
There is a tug of war between the two women, my father in the middle, all the time protesting ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ The crowd of onlookers has swelled. The nurse calls the hospital security guards and my father is taken to Accident & Emergency, where his wound is dressed, Valentina still stubbornly clinging to his arm. She will not let him go.
But my father refuses to leave A & E with Valentina. “She wants to murder me!” he calls out to anyone who comes within earshot. In the end, a social worker is called, and my father, his head dramatically bandaged, is admitted to a residential hostel for the night. Next day, he is escorted home in a police car.
Valentina is waiting for him when he arrives, all smiles and bosom.
“Come, holubchik, my little pigeon. My darling.” She pats his cheek. “We will not argue any more.”
The policemen are charmed. They accept her offer of tea, and sit around in the kitchen far longer than is necessary, discussing the vulnerability and foolishness of old people, and how important it is that they be properly looked after. The policemen advance instances of elderly people who have been duped by doorstep criminals and knocked over in the street by muggers. Not all old people are so lucky as to have a loving wife to care for them. Valentina expresses horror at these wanton instances of brutality.
And maybe she is genuinely repentant, says my father, for after the policemen have gone she does not turn on him in a fury, but takes his hand and places it on her breast, stroking it with her fingers, chiding him gently for mistrusting her and allowing this shadow to fall between them. She does not even abuse him for taking her box of papers and hiding it under his bed. (Of course she found them-of course my father did not manage to return them to the boot of the car.) Or maybe someone (Mrs Zadchuk?) has explained to her the meaning of the last sentence of the solicitor’s letter.
I have sent Mrs Divorce Expert a copy of the solicitor’s letter, and she has sent Mrs Flog-‘em-and-send-‘em-home a newspaper cutting. It tells the story of a man from the Congo who has lived in the UK for fifteen years, who is now to be deported because he entered the country illegally all those years ago, even though he has established a life for himself, built up a business, become a figure in the local community. The local church has mounted a campaign on his behalf.
“I think the tide is turning,” says Vera. “People are waking up at last.”
I have come to quite the opposite conclusion-people are falling asleep over this issue, not waking up. The remote voices in Lunar House are asleep. The blue-chip voices in far-flung consulates are asleep. The trio on the immigration panel in Nottingham are asleep-they are just going through the motions like sleepwalkers. Nothing will happen.
“Vera, all this stuff about deportation, and these high-profile cases with campaigns and letters to newspapers-it’s just to create an illusion of activity. In reality, in most cases-nothing happens. Nothing at all. It’s just a charade.”
“Of course that is what I would expect you to say, Nadezhda. Your sympathies have always been quite clear.”
“It’s not a matter of sympathies, Vera. Listen to what I’m saying. Our mistake has been to think that they would remove her. But they won’t. We have to remove her.”
Wearing the stilettos of Mrs Flog-‘em-and-send-‘em-home has altered the way I walk. I used to be liberal about immigration-I suppose I just thought it was all right for people to live where they wanted. But now I imagine hordes of Valentinas barging their way through customs, at Ramsgate, at Felixstowe, at Dover, at Newhaven-pouring off the boats, purposeful, single-minded, mad.
“But you always take her side.”
“Not any more.”
“I suppose it’s because you’re a social worker, you can’t help it.”
“I’m not a social worker, Vera.”
“Not a social worker?” There is silence. The phone crackles. “Well what are you?”
“I’m a lecturer.”
“So-a lecturer! What do you lecture about?”
“Sociology.”
“Well that’s it-that’s what I mean.”
“Sociology’s not the same thing as social work.”
“No? Well what is it?”
“It’s about society-different forces and groups in society and why they behave as they do.”
There is a pause. She clears her throat.
“But that’s fascinating!”
“Well, yes. I think so.”
Another pause. I can hear Vera lighting a cigarette on the other end of the line.
“So why is Valentina behaving as she is?”
“Because she’s desperate.”
“Ah, yes. Desperate.” She draws a deep breath, sucking in smoke.
“Remember when we were desperate, Vera?”
The hostel. The refugee centre. The single bed we shared. The terraced house with the toilet in the back yard and the squares of torn newspaper.