"Very funny. At six o'clock sharp, Mr. Chase." Judge spoke with the smooth authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "I will have several interesting points to discuss with you, I'm sure. Have a good day now."
The inner office of Fauvel's suite on the eighth floor of the Kaine Building, in the center of the city, did not resemble the standard psychiatrist's therapy room as portrayed in countless films and books. For one thing, it was not small and intimate, not at all reminiscent of the womb. It was a pleasantly large space, perhaps thirty feet by thirty-five, with a high shadow-shrouded ceiling. Two walls held bookshelves floor to ceiling; one wall was dressed with paintings of tranquil country scenes, and the fourth was all windows. The bookshelves contained a handful of expensively bound volumes — and perhaps three hundred glass dogs, none larger than the palm of a man's hand and most a good deal smaller. Collecting glass dogs was Dr. Fauvel's hobby.
Just as the decor of the room — battered desk, heavily padded armchairs, foot-scarred coffee table — didn't match its function, Dr. Fauvel was unlike any stereotypical image of a psychiatrist, whether by intent or by nature. He was a small but solidly built man, athletic-looking, with hair that spilled over his collar in a manner that suggested carelessness rather than style. He always always wore a blue suit cut too long in the trousers and in need of a hot iron.
"Sit down, Ben," Fauvel said. "Like something to drink — coffee, tea, a Coke?"
"No, thank you," Chase said.
No couch was provided. The doctor did not believe in pampering his patients. Chase sat in an armchair.
Fauvel settled into the chair to Chase's right and propped his feet on the coffee table. He urged Chase to follow suit. When they were in a pose of relaxation, he said, "No preliminaries, then?"
"Not today," Chase said.
"You're tense, Ben."
"Yes."
"Something's happened."
"Yes."
"But that's life. Something always happens. We don't live in stasis, frozen in amber."
"This is more than the usual something," Chase said.
"Tell me about it."
Chase was silent.
"You came here to tell me, didn't you?" Fauvel urged.
"Yeah. But…. talking about a problem sometimes makes it worse." "That's never true."
"Maybe not for you."
"Not for anyone."
"To talk about it, I have to think about it, and thinking about it makes me nervous. I like things calm. Still and calm."
"Want to play some word association?"
Chase hesitated, then nodded, dreading the game that they often used to loosen his tongue. He frequently exposed more of himself in his answers than he wished to reveal. And Fauvel did not play the game according to established rules, but with a swift and vicious directness that cut to the heart of the matter. Nevertheless, Chase said, "Go on."
Fauvel said, "Mother."
"Dead."
"Father."
"Dead."
Fauvel steepled his fingers as if he were a child playing the see-the-church game. "Love."
"Woman."
"Love."
"Woman," Chase repeated.
Fauvel did not look at him but stared studiously at the blue glass terrier on the bookshelf nearest him. "Don't repeat yourself, please."
Chase apologized, aware that it was expected. The first time that Fauvel had expected an apology in these circumstances, Chase had been surprised. They were therapist and patient, after all, and it seemed odd for the therapist to foster a dependent relationship in which the patient was encouraged to feel guilty for evasive answers. Session by session, however, he was less surprised at anything that Fauvel might suggest.
The doctor again said, "Love."
"Woman."
"Love. "
"Woman."
"I asked you not to repeat yourself."
"I'm not a latent homosexual, if that's what you're after."
Fauvel said, "But the simple 'woman' is an evasion."
"Everything is an evasion."
That observation appeared to surprise the doctor, but not enough to jar him out of the stubborn, wearying routine that he had begun. "Yes, everything is an evasion. But in this case it's an egregious evasion, because there is no woman. You won't allow one into your life. So, more honesty, if you will. Love."
Already Chase was perspiring, and he did not know why.
"Love," Fauvel insisted.
"Is a many splendored thing."
"Unacceptable childishness."
"Sorry."
"Love."
Chase finally said, "Myself."
"But that's a lie, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Because you don't love yourself "
"No."
"Very good," Fauvel said. Now the interchange of words went faster, one barked close after the other, as if speed counted in the scoring. Fauvel said, "Hate."
"You."
"Funny."
"Thanks."
"Hate."
"Self-destructive."
"Another evasion. Hate."
"Army."
"Hate."
"Vietnam."
"Hate."
"Guns."
"Hate."
"Zacharia," Chase said, although he had often sworn never to mention that name again or to remember the man attached to it or, indeed, to recall the events that the man had perpetrated.
"Hate," Fauvel persisted.
"Another word, please."
"No. Hate."
"Lieutenant Zacharia."
"It goes deeper than Zacharia."
"I know."
"Hate."
"Me," Chase said.
"And that's the truth, isn't it?"
"Yes." After a silence, the doctor said, "Okay, let's back up from you to Zacharia. Do you remember what Lieutenant Zacharia ordered you to do, Benjamin?"
"Yes, sir."
"What were those orders?"
"We'd sealed off two back entrances to a Cong tunnel system."
"And?"
"Lieutenant Zacharia ordered me to clear the last entrance."
"How did you accomplish that?"
"With a grenade, sir."
"And?"
"And then before the air around the tunnel face could clear, I went forward."
"And?"
"And used a machine gun."
"Good."
"Not so good, sir."
"Good that you can at least talk about it."
Chase was silent.
"What happened then, Benjamin?"
"Then we went down, sir."
"We?"
"Lieutenant Zacharia, Sergeant Coombs, Privates Halsey and Wade, a couple of other men."
"And you."
"Yeah. Me."
"Then?"
"In the tunnel, we found four dead men and parts of men lying in the foyer of the complex. Lieutenant Zacharia ordered a cautious advance. A hundred fifty yards along, we came to a bamboo gate."
"Blocking the way.
"Yeah. Villagers behind it."
"Tell me about the villagers."
"Mostly women."
"How many women, Ben?"
"Maybe twenty."
"Children?" Fauvel asked.
Silence was a refuge.
"Were there children?"
Chase sank down in the heavy padding of the armchair, shoulders drawn up as if he wished to hide between them. "A few."
"They were imprisoned there?"
"No. The bamboo was an obstacle. The Cong tunnels ran a lot deeper than that, a lot farther. We hadn't even reached the weapons cache. The villagers were assisting the Vietcong, collaborating with them, obstructing us."
"Do you think they were forced to obstruct you, forced by the Vietcong… or were they willing agents of the enemy?"
Chase was silent.
"I'm waiting for an answer," Fauvel said sternly.
Chase didn't reply.
"You are waiting for an answer," Fauvel told him, "whether you realize it or not. Were these villagers being forced to obstruct your advance, forced at gunpoint by the Cong in the tunnels behind them, or were they there at their own choice?"