Five Weeks at Humanitas. Manfred Jurgensen
lift we stand close to each other, and I can see a small ornamental nametag near her left breast. ‘Ms G. Stearn’, it reads, as if no further establishment of identity were necessary. I inhale the tangy scent of her perfume.
Slightly aroused, I remember her last question and say, ‘The view’s great.’ Ms Stearn’s response is another wry smile.
We reach the downstairs lobby from where she leads me to the restaurant. It’s located in the left wing of the ground floor. Decorated in Mediterranean style, many tables look out to colourful flowerbeds and an ornamental fountain featuring an ancient sculpture I don’t recognise. ‘It’s our Eros statue,’ my hostess or chaperone casually informs me after we’ve been seated. What precisely is Ms Stearn’s position, I wonder. ‘Not quite the size of the one at London’s Piccadilly Circus,’ she adds apologetically.
I don’t know why that remark irritates me and even less what makes me say: ‘That’s true. When I was still at high school I once met a beautiful girl there on a school trip. She was from Cardiff and had the most wonderful name. Aniquita. Because we thought we’d fallen in love I later visited her family in Wales. She considered herself engaged after that. But I never saw her again.’ Suddenly I feel my face redden. Here I am suspecting my hostess — if that’s what she is — of trying to make me say things the doctors might find useful in their treatment, blathering a load of nonsense about my misspent youth! My quick glance to check Ms Stearn’s reaction remains unsuccessful. She’s busy studying the menu. Or pretending to. My drivel is met with tactful or scornful silence. She probably thinks I’m a ladies’ man boasting, or worse, chatting her up!
For a moment we’re both silent. Suddenly I too begin to show an intense interest in the menu. Better concentrate on the Italian dishes.
She’s decided and turns to me. ‘You can trust this place,’ she tries to assure me, but in fact I’m only startled. So she really is someone sent to soften me up! ‘Especially if you like to eat Italian.’
How little it takes to turn me into a fool! Is that part of the alleged illness I’m suffering? But perhaps gorgeous Ms Stearn is just covering up her real role at Humanitas. After ordering our meals she says: ‘As this is your first night, how about sharing a bottle of Australian wine? It’s on the house.’ Her voice, along with her body language, oozes confidence. There’s no doubt, she’s in control here. I’m hovering between suspicion and impatience with myself. What if she’s really just trying to be friendly? It takes more than a bottle of wine to put me off my guard. This time we make prolonged eye contact. She looks at me as if she has nothing to hide. ‘Why not?’ I hear myself say. Then both of us burst out laughing as if in relief.
‘You’re Australian, aren’t you?’ Ms Stearn responds. It’s not a question but the statement of someone who knows what she’s talking about. I suddenly realise everything she’s said to me so far was in the same confident tone. By contrast, whatever I’m saying sounds evasive and hesitant, even to me.
‘Yes, but I wasn’t born there.’ I’m tempted to add that home is not always where one is born, but decide against it. The shrinks would have a field day.
‘I gathered that. When did you settle there?’ Again, her question seems to be purely social, expressing a friendly interest in the newcomer. Why, then, do I project more into it, suspect that she may be gathering information about me in a casual social encounter? I decide to remain cautious.
‘A long time ago.’ Our conversation is beginning to assume the character of a game of chess. What does she really want to know? Irritated by her irony, I decide to turn aggressive, employing my rooks on both flanks, as it were, in an attempt to tear open the opponent’s defences. ‘Is this talk part of the Institute’s biotherapy?’ I ask bluntly.
The question amuses Ms Stearn more than my refusal to let her know the exact date of my arrival in Australia. Her laughter is positively joyous, sparkling with exuberance. She’s clearly enjoying herself. ‘You mean the request to write down parts of your life experience?’ She chuckles. ‘I like the word you’ve given it! Don’t you know that’s an entirely voluntary exercise, a standard option doctor and patient may in consultation choose to take up or not. In any case, you’d hardly have had time to write something yet. You’ve only just arrived!’ Before I can say anything the wine arrives. She gives me an almost conspiratorial smirk. Despite the earlier tension I must admit I’m beginning to enjoy Ms Stearn’s company, even if she’s clearly determined to remain in control.
She raises her glass with obvious relish. ‘Your health!’ In reply I lift mine. Her joyfulness is contagious.
‘What a strange book you wrote all those years ago, Professor!’ she says. ‘ The Fictional I! I enjoyed reading it, even if I didn’t agree with a lot of what you were saying. I mean, if we think of ourselves as fiction, what then becomes of reality?’ To my relief this time she doesn’t laugh. ‘You haven’t changed your mind about that, by any chance? As I say, you wrote all that a long time ago.’ ‘No, I haven’t,’ I assure her. ‘To me, what people call reality is the ultimate fiction.’
So she’s done her homework. Not that it’s difficult to gather that kind of information from the Internet. It’s time for my knights. ‘But isn’t that the kind of thing Humanitas believes in?’ I ask innocently. ‘You’re right, I haven’t written much yet. But why have I been asked write about my life, even if it’s only an option? Or is that merely what you’d call occupational therapy, to give patients something to do while they’re here?’
She looks at me thoughtfully. But instead of responding to my purely tactical move she says: ‘Professor of literature! Isn’t that a strange title — a bit like professor of love?’
What brought that on? Before I can ask her, the food arrives. The waiters’ timing seems amazingly coordinated to my hostess’s control of our dialogue.
We continue to ask questions and not receive replies, or at least not the kind of answers we’re hoping for. It’s a staccato kind of conversation, abrupt but not without a certain compulsive rhythm. Or, if I can stick to the chess analogy, a game of more than one front — but isn’t that the true nature of chess? It may be all about the King, but only because he’s a captive, unable to move more than one step forward or back. It’s the Queen’s game really. Ms Stearn is in charge of all possible moves. I’m tempted to add, seeing she brought it up, that literature and love also operate on more than one front. But I have no desire to get into a discussion about that.
‘Why Australia?’ she asks.
‘It was as far away as I could get,’ I say. She’s clearly convinced it’s another attempt to be evasive. In fact, it’s the most precise answer I can give. If there’s any dodging, it’s my refusal to go into details.
‘How did your parents react to your leaving?’ She allows me to finish chewing my veal.
‘It was because of them I left.’ At this point she just raises an eyebrow, rather self-consciously, I believe, a gesture I daresay she’s practised in front of the mirror. All women seem to possess certain body expressions consciously or unconsciously designed to turn into signals, a kind of sign language conveying surprise, amusement, admiration or contempt. With Ms Stearn I have no doubt they’re well rehearsed. I think it’s time to counter her inquisitiveness with a few questions of my own.
Over coffee I ask her about the nature of the position she’s holding at Humanitas. This time it’s she who isn’t answering, at least not openly and directly. When she refers to herself as a hostess I’m tempted to upset her with subtle references to high-class brothels. Strangely, despite all this sparring and parrying I find the dinner with her quite pleasant. It’s possible we actually like each other. Our playful encounter may in fact be no more than a diversion – from what?
Later, alone in room forty, I realise I would have liked to tell Ms Stearn at least some of the things that brought me here. Did she sense that? I don’t know why we consider