‘It’s OK,’ said Adrian as he bent and undid the ropes that bound the young man’s feet.
The taxi driver, reluctant and sullen, demanded double the fare. The policeman’s answering laugh contained not a trace of humour as he banged the roof of the vehicle with the flat of his hand. The thunderous sound reverberated around the inside of the vehicle, setting the young man off again. The taxi pulled away.
Reluctant to leave his charge alone, Adrian waited inside the gates of the mental hospital, seated on a wooden bench. Next to him the young man drew his knees up to his chin and pulled his T-shirt up over his face. At an open window a woman, naked to the waist, stood shouting to unseen persons. There were people milling inside and outside the gates, though none appeared to be figures of authority. A couple of men were talking, bickering in the manner of long-term acquaintances. One had shown Adrian to the seat, but otherwise left him unattended. A bitch stealthily attempted to gain entry through the gates.
Adrian was uncertain what to do next. He called to one of the pair of men. Yes, yes, said the man, smiling and holding up his hand, telling Adrian to wait. Adrian resumed his seat on the bench. The heat had risen, he was beginning to sweat. A man stood outside the gate, his ears and nose plugged with paper, and shouted, ‘Don’t talk to me like that! I am not a patient any more.’ Next to Adrian the young man rocked from side to side.
In time a man in a white short-sleeved shirt and white trousers appeared from around the corner. A nurse. He called to the woman at the window to be quiet. The woman promptly disappeared. One of the men standing at the gate gave him a broad wave, encompassing Adrian in the same gesture. Finally, Adrian got to his feet.
The nurse led the way, impassively, at a metronomic pace. To Adrian was left the task of coaxing the young man along. As soon as they left the gateway the silence began, which combined with the manner of the nurse seemed to quieten the young man, whose anxiety gave way to bewilderment. They were shown into a room, empty save for a desk, a chair and a glass cabinet containing a number of textbooks. The nurse fetched another chair from outside. He pointed first at the young man and then at the chair. Remarkably, the young man obeyed, shamblingly, sat keening from side to side. Adrian noticed how extraordinarily clean the nurse was, the evenness of his hair, the burnished skin. His clothes pristine. He watched him leave, closing the door behind him, all without a single word.
A few minutes later and the door opened again. The nurse held the door open for a sallow-skinned European woman. ‘Thank you, Salia,’ she said. She wore a smocked top over a skirt, a pair of slip-on casual shoes, dark-red lipstick and carried with her the smell of fresh cigarette smoke. Adrian covered his relief at seeing another white person by explaining what he knew of the patient.
The woman stood listening, her hands in the deep pocket at the front of her smock, and looked him up and down. ‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked.
Together they watched as the impeccable nurse supervised the removal of the patient by two attendants in blue overalls, standing balanced on the balls of his feet, arms crossed, a consistent two paces away. Not afraid of the patient, afraid of getting dirty, thought Adrian. The woman introduced herself as Ileana. She was the second-in-charge, a psychologist.
‘We’ll check for malaria first,’ Ileana said. ‘Sometimes it’s as simple as that. The disease can cause hallucinations, as I’m sure you know. Though families usually recognise the symptoms for themselves. Then we’ll check for all the rest, starting with drug abuse. He seems to have calmed down at any rate and we can give him some haloperidol to keep him quiet.’
Since Adrian had nowhere else to go, he’d asked to be shown around. Ileana glanced at her watch and then led the way outside. ‘The facility survived pretty well. None of the buildings were destroyed. Ah, Dr Attila!’
Coming towards them, the senior psychiatrist returning from his rounds. Adrian recognised the name from a report in the International Journal of Social Psychiatry. And though he often imagined the authors of reports, imprecisely, in some vague way, invariably and archetypically as thin, colourless, reedy academics, of the man approaching them he had been able to produce no mental image whatsoever. A certain awe attached itself to Attila’s name. Adrian saw a broad-chested man, in a collarless shirt, slacks and open sandals, gesturing to his left and right with huge hands, flanked by a blue-clad attendant as well as a number of others, who from their demeanour Adrian judged to be patients.
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Ileana, placing herself in the path of the psychiatrist, who had so far showed no particular signs of slowing. As she introduced Adrian Attila glanced his way briefly, but did not offer his hand.
Finally he scratched his ear and said, ‘In whatever way we can help you, you’re most welcome.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Just let Salia know.’
‘Salia?’
‘Our head nurse.’
Adrian thanked him again. Then added he’d wait until he had looked around, he wanted to know about services: occupational, psychotherapeutic, recreational. Perhaps he could talk to all the staff? He’d welcome the opportunity to come back. And the social workers, naturally. As he talked, Adrian wondered why he had never thought to come here before.
‘Of course. Ileana can deal with all that. Anything else you want, just ask.’
Despite the generosity of the words, there was something faintly bullish about the man’s manner, in his posture perhaps, the broad body, which never inclined towards Adrian. He waved his huge hand, had already begun to move away. Adrian would have liked the opportunity to continue the conversation, though perhaps not so publicly. All those people listening in, even the patients, as though they were part of it. It bothered him, this absence of privacy.
They walked on. ‘Sorry about that,’ said Ileana. ‘He can be that way sometimes. We’ll begin at Ward Three.’ She drew a packet of London cigarettes from the pocket of her smock, waved the packet at Adrian, who shook his head. She lit up and walked ahead, puffing. ‘As I was saying, and as far as I know, most of the inmates survived. There’s not a place in the world — rich or poor, frankly — where madness doesn’t make people afraid. Call it fear. Though part of it’s respect, too. After the invasion of the city the rebels left them alone. Attila was in charge all that time. They looted everywhere and set fire to people’s houses, burned hundreds alive. The poorest people, of course. Always. Forced them to march into the city, to act as a human shield for the fighters. There were atrocities on all sides. So when things turned even worse, especially during the occupation, people hid inside these walls, pretending to be crazy. Poetic, don’t you think? This is, after all, an asylum. There were a couple of peacekeepers in here as well.’
‘I didn’t read any of that in the reports.’
‘No, well …’
‘And what about you? I mean, how long have you been here? Which agency are you with?’
She looked at him, threw her cigarette down, went to grind it with the toe of her shoe, but missed as the cigarette rolled away down a faint incline. She didn’t bother to pursue it. Nor to answer his question. They had reached the door, grey-painted, of a long, low building, the shape of a barn. She paused with her hand on the handle.
‘OK. Ready?’ she said.
Adrian nodded.
* * *
He is not ready, though. For this. He isn’t yet able to make sense of it, but he will. Attila’s manner. The silence that overlays the entire place. They keep the patients drugged. Drugged and chained. The man in front of him has his hands out and clasped together; it is a way people here have of saying hello, a shorthand to an actual handshake. From the man chained to the bed the gesture looks remarkably like prayer.