The Simulacra

Al winked at Ian.

‘A Mr Strikerock to see you, doctor. Mr Charles Strikerock.' Amanda Connors peeped into Dr Superb's inner office, conscious of the load of the last few days and yet at the same time doing her job, too. Superb was aware of this.

Like a psychopomp, Amanda mediated between the gods and man; or rather in this case between the psychoanalyst and mere human beings. Sick ones at that.

‘All right.' Superb rose to meet the new patient, thinking to himself, Is this the one? Am I here solely to treat -- or rather to fail to treat -- this particular man? He had wondered that about each new patient in turn.

It made him tired, this ceaseless need to speculate. His thinking, ever since the passage of the McPhearson Act, had become obsessive; it went around and around, getting nowhere.

A tall, worried-looking, somewhat bald man with glasses slowly entered the office, his hand extended. ‘I want to thank you for taking me so quickly, doctor.' They shook. ‘You must have a terrific work schedule, these days.' Chic Strikerock seated himself facing the desk.

‘To some extent,' Superb murmured. But, as Pembroke had said, he could not turn down any new patients; on that condition he remained open. ‘You look like I feel,' he said to Chic Strikerock. ‘Excessively trapped, over and above the norm. I guess we expect difficulties in living, but there ought to be some sort of limit.'

‘To be open about it,' Chic Strikerock said, ‘I'm about ready to shuck everything, my job, and -- mistress ... ‘

He paused, his lips twisting. ‘And join the goddam Sons of Job.' He shot a glance of anguish at Dr Superb. ‘That's it.'

‘All right,' Superb said, nodding in agreement. ‘But do you feel compelled to do this? Is it really a matter of choice?'

‘No, I have to do it -- I've got my back to the wall.'

Chic Strikerock pressed his shaking hands together, interlocking his long, thin fingers. ‘My life in society as a career man -- ‘

The phone on Superb's desk winked, on off, on off. An urgent call which Amanda wanted him to take.

‘Excuse me a moment, Mr Strikerock,' Dr Superb lifted the receiver. And, on the screen, the grotesquely-distorted miniature face of Richard Kongrosian formed, gaping as if the man were drowning. ‘Are you still in Franklin Aimes?' Superb asked, at once.

‘Yes,' Kongrosian's voice came in his ears from the shortrange audio receiver. The patient, Strikerock, could not hear it; he fooled with a match, hunched over, clearly resenting the interruption. ‘I just now heard on TV that you still exist. Doctor, something terrible is happening to me. I'm becoming invisible. No one can see me. They only can smell me; I'm turning into nothing but a repellent odour!'

Jesus Christ, Dr Superb thought.

‘Can you see me?' Kongrosian asked timidly. ‘On your screen?'

‘Yes I can,' Superb said.

‘Amazing.' Kongrosian seemed somewhat relieved. ‘Then at least electronic monitoring and scanning devices can pick me up. Maybe I can get by that way. What's your opinion? Have you had cases like this in the past? Has the science of psychopathology run up against this before? Does it have a name?'

‘It has a name.' Superb thought. Extreme crisis of the sense of identity. This is the appearance of overt psychosis; the compulsive-obsessive structure is crumbling. ‘I'll come over to Franklin Aimes this afternoon,' he told Kongrosian.

‘No, no,' Kongrosian protested, his eyes bulging in frenzy. ‘I can't permit that. In fact I shouldn't even be talking to you by phone; it's too dangerous. I'll write you a letter, Goodbye.'

‘Wait,' Superb said tersely.

The image remained on the screen. At least temporarily.

But, he knew, Kongrosian would not stay for long. The fugal pull was too great.

‘I have a patient,' Superb said. ‘So there's little I can do at this moment. What if -- ‘

‘You hate me,' Kongrosian broke in. ‘Everyone does. Good god, I've got to be invisible! It's the only way I protect my life!'

‘I would think there ought to be certain, advantages to being invisible,' Superb said, ignoring what Kongrosian was saying. ‘Especially if you were interested in becoming a pruriently prying type of individual or a felon ... ‘

‘What kind of felon?' Kongrosian's attention had been snared.

Superb said, ‘I'll discuss that when I see you. I think we should make this as Ge as humanly possible. It's just too valuable a situation. Do you agree?'

‘I -- hadn't thought of it that way.'

‘Do so,' Superb said.

‘You envy me, do you, doctor?'

‘Very much so,' Superb said. ‘As an analyst I'm obviously quite a pruriently prying person myself.'

‘Interesting.' Kongrosian seemed much calmer, now. ‘For instance, it occurs to me now that I can get out of this damn hospital any time I want. I can roam the land, in fact. Except for the smell. No, you're forgetting the smell, doctor. It'll give me away. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but you're not taking all the facts into account.' Kongrosian managed a brief, wavering smile. ‘I think the thing for me to do is bind myself over to the Attorney General, Buck Epstein, or if not that, go back to the Soviet Union. Maybe the Pavlov Institute can help me. Yes, I should try that again; I tried it once before, you know.' A new thought came to him, then. ‘But they can't treat me if they can't see me. What a mess this is, Superb. Goddam.'

Maybe the best thing for you, Dr Superb thought, would be to do as Mr Strikerock is considering doing. Join Bertold Goltz and the infamous Sons of Job.

‘You know, doctor,' Kongrosian went on, ‘sometimes I think the actual basis of my psychiatric problem is that I'm unconsciously in love with Nicole. What do you say to that? I've just figured that out; it just came to me, and it's replete with clarity! The incest taboo or barrier or whatever it is has been called out by the direction my libido has taken, because of course Nicole is a mother figure. Am I correct?'

Dr Superb sighed.

Across from him Chic Strikerock fiddled miserably with his match, obviously growing more and more uncomfortable. The phone conversation had to be terminated. And right away.

But for the life of him, Superb could not figure out how to manage it.

Is this where I'm going to fail? He asked himself silently.

Is this what Pembroke, the NP man, using von Lessinger's principle, foresaw? This man, Mr Charles Strikerock; I'm cheating him of his therapy -- he's being robbed by the phone conversation, right here before me. And there is nothing I can do.

‘Nicole,' Kongrosian was saying rapidly, ‘is the last true woman in our society. I know her, doctor; I've met her countless times, due to my illustrious career. I know who I'm talking about, don't you think? And -- ‘

Dr Superb hung up the phone.

‘You hung up on him.' Chic Strikerock said, becoming fully alert. He ceased fooling with the match. ‘Was that right to do?' Then he shrugged. ‘I guess it's your business, not mine.' He tossed the match away.

‘That man,' Superb said, ‘has a delusion that's overpowering. He experiences Nicole Thibodeaux as real. Whereas actually she's the most synthetic object in our milieu.'

Shocked, Chic Strikerock blinked. ‘W-what do you mean?' Stammering, he half-rose to his feet, then dropped weakly back. ‘You're fishing. Trying to probe my mind in the short time we've got. In any case, I've got a concrete problem, not a delusional one like he had, whoever he is. I'm living with my brother's wife and using her presence to blackmail him; I'm forcing him to get me a job with Karp u. Sohnen. At least that's the problem on the surface. But under that there's something else, something deeper. I'm afraid of Julie, my brother's wife or ex-wife, whatever she is.