Читать книгу The Dice Man - Luke Rhinehart - Страница 13

I lunched that day with my three closest colleagues: Dr Ecstein, whom I mock because he’s so intelligent and successful; Dr Renata Felloni, the only female Italian-born practicing analyst in recent New York history; and Dr Timothy Mann, the short, fat, disheveled father figure who had psychoanalyzed me four years before and been mentoring me ever since.

When Jake and I arrived, Dr Mann was hunched over the table chewing heavily on a roll and blinking benevolently at Dr Felloni seated opposite him. Dr Mann was a big wheel: one of the directors at Queensborough State Hospital, where I worked twice a week; a member of the executive committee of PANY (Psychiatrists Association of New York) and the author of seventeen articles and three books, one of them the most frequently used text on existentialist therapy in existence. It had been considered an extraordinary honor to be psychoanalyzed by Dr Mann and I had appreciated it greatly until my increasing boredom and unhappiness had deluded me into believing that analysis had done me no good. Dr Mann was concentrating on his eating and may or may not have been listening to the dignified discourse of Dr Felloni.

Renata Felloni resembles a spinsterish dean of women at a Presbyterian all-girls college: she has gray hair always neatly coiffured, spectacles and a slow, dignified, Italian-cum-New England twang that makes her discussions of penises, orgasms, sodomy and fellatio seem like a discussion of credit hours and home economics. Moreover, she had, as far as anyone knew, never been married and, with less certainty, had never in the seven years we had known her given any indication of ever having known a man (biblical ‘know’). Her dignity acted to prevent any of us from either direct or indirect investigations into her past. All we felt free to talk with her about were weather, stocks, penises, orgasms, sodomy and fellatio.

The restaurant was noisy and expensive, and, except for Dr Mann, who loved every trough he had ever fed in, we all hated it and went there because every other restaurant we had tried in the convenient area was also crowded, noisy and expensive. I usually spent so much nervous energy trying to hear what my friends were saying over the clattering of voices, dishes and ‘soft’ music and trying to avoid watching Dr Mann eating that I never remembered whether the food was good or not. At any rate I rarely got sick on it.

‘Only ten percent of our subjects believe that masturbation is “punished by God eternally”,’ Dr Felloni was saying as Jake and I sat down opposite each other at the tiny table. She was apparently talking about a research project she and I were jointly directing, and she smiled formally and equally to her left at Jake and to her right at me, and continued: ‘Thirty-three and a third percent believe that masturbation is “punished by God finitely”; forty percent that it is physically unhealthy; two and one-half percent believe that there is danger of pregnancy, seventy-five per –’

‘Danger of pregnancy?’ Jake broke in as he turned from accepting a menu.

‘We use the same multiple choices,’ she explained smiling, ‘for masturbation, kissing, petting, premarital and postmarital heterosexual intercourse, homosexual petting, and homosexual sodomy. So far, subjects have indicated that there is danger of pregnancy only with masturbation, petting to orgasm, and heterosexual intercourse.’

I smiled to Jake, but he was squinting at Dr Felloni.

‘Well,’ Jake asked her, ‘what’s the question you’re reeling off these percentages for?’

‘We ask, “For what reasons, if any, do you believe that sexually exciting yourself through fantasy, reading, looking at pictures or manual excitation is bad?”’

‘Do you give them a choice of reasons for why masturbation is good?’ Dr Mann asked, wiping his lower lip with a piece of roll.

‘Certainly,’ Dr Felloni replied. ‘A subject can answer that he approves of masturbation for any of six options: (1) It is enjoyable; (2) it releases tension; (3) it is a natural way of expressing love; (4) it is something one should experience to be complete; (5) it procreates the race; (6) it is the social thing to do.’

Jake and I now began laughing. When we quieted she assured Jake that only the first two choices had been chosen for masturbation, except for one person who had indicated that masturbation was valuable as a way of expressing love. She had determined in a recent interview, however, that the subject had checked that item in a cynical frame of mind.

‘I don’t know why you ever got involved in this thing,’ Jake said, turning to me suddenly. ‘Social psychologists have been turning out studies like yours for decades. You’re digging in sterile ground.’

Dr Felloni nodded politely at Jake’s words as she did whenever someone was uttering anything which might vaguely be construed as criticism of her or her work. The more vigorous and direct the criticism the more vigorously she nodded her head. It was my hypothesis that were a prosecuting attorney ever to attack her for a full hour there would be no need for a guillotine: her neck would have melted away, and her head, still nodding, would be rolling on the floor at the prosecutor’s feet. She replied to Jake:

‘Our plan to evaluate the validity of the multiple choice answers by in-depth interviews of every subject is, however, a genuine contribution.’

‘You’ll spend – my God – a hundred and twenty hours verifying the obvious: namely, multiple-choice attitude tests are unreliable.’

‘Yes, but remember we got a foundation grant,’ I said.

‘So what? Why didn’t you request it for something original, something worthwhile?’

‘We wanted a foundation grant,’ I answered ironically.

Jake gave me his I-see-into-your-soul squint and then laughed.

‘We couldn’t think of anything original or worthwhile,’ I added, laughing too, ‘so we decided to do this.’

Dr Felloni managed to nod and frown, both vigorously.

‘You’ll discover that sexual intercourse is more frequently approved after marriage than before,’ said Jake, ‘that homosexuals approve of homosexuality, that –’

‘Our results,’ Dr Felloni said quietly, ‘may not fulfill conventional expectation. We may discover from our in-depth interviews that subjects misrepresent their attitudes and experiences in a way that previous experimenters did not guess.’

‘She’s right, Jake, I agree the whole thing seems a mammoth bore and may lead to the verification of the obvious, but it might not.’

‘It will,’ Dr Mann said.

‘What?’ I said.

‘It will verify the obvious and nothing more.’ He looked up at me for the first time. His jowls were a Santa Claus pink, either from alcohol or anger. I couldn’t tell.

‘So?’

‘So why do you waste your time? Renata could do the whole thing herself without your help.’

‘It’s an entertaining time-filler. I often daydream of publishing embellished results to parody such experiments. You know: “Ninety-five percent of American youth believe that masturbation is a better way of expressing friendship and love than intercourse.”’

‘Your experiment is a parody without embellishment,’ Dr Mann said.

There was a silence, if you can exclude the cacophony of voices, dishes and music of the surrounding hubbub.

‘Our experiment,’ Dr Felloni finally said with a gallop of nods, ‘will offer new insight into the relations between sexual behavior, sexual tolerance and personality stability.’

‘I read your letter to the Esso Foundation,’ Dr Mann said.

‘I know a teen-age girl that could run intellectual rings around most of us here,’ Jake said, changing the subject without blinking an eye. ‘She knew everything, brains coming out of her ears. I was within weeks of a major breakthrough. But she died.’

‘She died?’ I asked.

‘Fell from the Williamsburg Bridge into the Eastriver. I must confess I see her as one of my two or three possible failures.’

‘Look, Tim,’ I said, turning back to Dr Mann. ‘I agree our experiment borders on nonsense, but in an absurd world, one can only go with the flow.’

‘I’m not interested in your metaphysical speculations.’

‘Or my scientific ones. Maybe I’d better stick to talking about the stock market.’

‘Oh come off it now, you two,’ Jake said. ‘Ever since Luke wrote his paper on “Taoism, Zen and Analysis”, Tim has been acting as if he’d been converted to astrology.’

‘At least with astrology,’ said Dr Mann, looking coldly at me, ‘one still tries to predict something important. With Zen one drifts into Nirvana without thought or effort.’

‘One doesn’t drift into Nirvana,’ I said helpfully. ‘The drifting is Nirvana.’

‘A convenient theory,’ Dr Mann said.

‘All good theories are.’

‘Gold stocks and General Motors have risen an average of two points a week so far this month,’ Dr Felloni said, nodding.

‘Yeah,’ said Jake, ‘and you’ll notice that Waste Products, Inc., Dolly’s Duds and Nadir Technology are all rising.’

Dr Mann and I continued to look at each other, he with warm red face and chill blue eyes, and I with what I intended to be cheerful detachment.

‘My stock seems rather low these days,’ I said.

‘Perhaps it’s gravitating to its natural level,’ he replied.

‘It may yet rally.’

‘Drifters don’t rally.’

‘Yes, they do,’ I said. ‘You just don’t understand Zen.’

‘I feel blessed,’ Dr Mann said.

‘You’ve got eating, let me have my Zen and sex experiments.’

‘Eating doesn’t interfere with my productivity.’

‘I rather imagine it increases it.’

He flushed even more and pushed back his chair.

‘Oh shit,’ said Jake. ‘Will you two stop it. Tim, you’re sitting there like a fat Buddha attacking Luke’s Buddhism, and Lu –’

‘You’re right,’ Dr Mann said, sitting now as stiffly in his chair as his lumpy clothing and body would permit. ‘I apologize, Luke. The rolls were cold today and I had to attack something.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I apologize too. My martini was diluted and I had to hit back.’

The waitress was at the table again and Jake was getting ready to order dessert, but Dr Felloni spoke loudly to the general table:

‘My own portfolio has risen fourteen percent in the last three months despite a market decline of two percent.’

‘Pretty soon you’ll found your own foundation, Renata,’ Dr Mann said.

‘Prudent investment,’ she replied, ‘is like prudent experimentation: it sticks to the obvious.’

For the rest of the lunch, the conversation was all downhill.