I ARRIVE at the building where Marianne teaches her philosophy classes—an annex that, to my surprise, is located on one of the University Hospital of Geneva’s campuses. Then I begin to wonder: Could this prized course on her CV be nothing more than an extracurricular with absolutely no academic weight?
Having parked the car at a supermarket, I walked about half a mile to get to this jumble of low buildings that sit in a beautiful green field with a little lake in the middle. Arrows indicate directions. Over there are institutions that, seemingly disconnected, are complementary if you stop to think about it: the hospital ward for the elderly and a mental hospital. The latter is in a beautiful building from the early twentieth century where psychiatrists, nurses, psychologists, and psychotherapists from all over Europe graduate.
I walk by something that, strangely, looks like the beacons one finds at the end of an airport runway. I have to read the sign beside it to figure out what it is. It’s a sculpture called Passage 2000, a “visual song” comprising ten bars from railway crossings, all equipped with red lights. I wonder if the person who made it was one of the patients, but I discover when I keep reading that the work is by a famous sculptor. Let’s respect art, but don’t give me this about artists being normal.
It’s my lunch hour—my only free time during the day, and when the most interesting things in my life always seem to happen—like meetings with friends, politicians, sources, and drug dealers.
The classrooms should be empty. I can’t go to the campus restaurant, where Marianne—or Mme K?nig—is probably casually flipping her blond hair to the side while the boys who study there imagine how they could seduce such an interesting woman and the girls gaze at her as a model of elegance, intelligence, and good behavior.
I go to the reception desk and ask for directions to Mme K?nig’s classroom. I am told that it is lunchtime (something there is no way I couldn’t already know). I say that I don’t want to interrupt her during her break, so I will wait for her outside her classroom door.
I am dressed normally, like a person you look at and immediately forget. The only suspicious thing is that I am wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. I let the receptionist catch a glimpse of the bandages I put under the lenses. She will certainly conclude that I have recently had plastic surgery.
I walk toward the room where Marianne teaches, surprised by my composure. I imagined that I would be afraid, that I would give up halfway, but no. I’m here and I feel quite at ease. If I ever have to write about myself, I will do it for the same reason as Mary Shelley and her Victor Frankenstein: I just wanted to get out of a rut, find a better reason for my boring, unchallenging life. Her result was a monster capable of implicating the innocent and saving the guilty.
Everyone has a dark side. Everyone wants a taste of absolute power. I read stories of torture and war and see that those who inflict suffering are driven by an unknown monster when they are able to exert power, but turn into docile fathers, servants of the homeland, and excellent husbands when they return home.
I remember when I was young a boyfriend asked me to take care of his poodle. I hated that dog. I had to share the attention of the man I loved with it. I wanted all his love.
One day I decided to take revenge on that irrational animal, an animal that in no way contributed to the growth of humanity, but whose helplessness aroused love and affection. I began attacking him in a way that would leave no trace by prodding him with a pin stuck on the end of a broomstick. The dog whined and barked, but I didn’t stop until I got tired.
When my boyfriend arrived, he hugged and kissed me like always. He thanked me for taking care of his poodle. We made love, and life continued as before. Dogs can’t talk.
I think of this as I make my way to Marianne’s office. How could I have ever been capable of that? Because everyone is. I’ve seen men madly in love with their wives lose their heads and beat them, only to beg and sob for forgiveness immediately after.
We are incomprehensible animals.
But why do this to Marianne, when all she did was snub me at a party? Why come up with a plan and take the risk of buying drugs and planting them in her desk?
Because she’s attained what I cannot: Jacob’s love and attention.
Is that a good enough answer? If it were, 99.9 percent of people would be conspiring to destroy one another right now.
Maybe it’s because I am tired of complaining. Because these sleepless nights are driving me mad. Because I feel comfortable in my madness. Because I won’t get caught. Because I want to stop obsessing about this. Because I am seriously ill. Because I am not the only one. Frankenstein has never gone out of print, because everyone sees a bit of themselves in both the scientist and the monster.
I stop. I’m seriously ill. It’s a real possibility. Maybe I should get out of here right now and find a doctor. I need to finish the task I’ve set out to do, but I will, even if the doctor then tells the police—he’ll protect me with patient confidentiality, but at the same time expose an injustice.
I arrive at the classroom door, reflecting on the “whys” I’ve listed along the way. I go in anyway, without hesitation.
I find a cheap desk with no drawers. Just a wooden tabletop on turned legs. Something for laying down a few books, a bag, and nothing more.
I should have guessed. I’m frustrated and relieved at the same time.
The halls, previously silent, begin to show signs of life; people are returning to class. I leave without looking back, walking in the direction from where they came. There is a door at the end of the hall. I open it and exit at the top of a small hill across from the hospital for the elderly with its massive walls and—I’m sure—the heating running smoothly. I walk over and, at the reception desk, I ask for someone who doesn’t exist. I am told the person must be somewhere else—Geneva must have more nursing homes per square meter than any other city. The nurse offers to look around for me. I say there’s no need, but she insists:
“It’s no trouble.”
To avoid further suspicion, I agree to let her search. While she sits busily at her computer, I pick a book off the counter and leaf through it.
“They’re children’s stories,” says the nurse, without taking her eyes off the screen. “The patients love them.”
It makes sense. I open to a page at random:
A mouse was always depressed because he was afraid of cats. A great wizard took pity on him and turned him into a cat. Then he started to be afraid of dogs, and so the wizard turned him into a dog. Then he began to fear tigers. The wizard, who was very patient, used his powers to turn him into a tiger. Then he was afraid of hunters. Finally, the wizard gave up and turned him back into a mouse, saying:
“Nothing I do will help you, because you never understood your growth. You are better being what you always were.”
The nurse is unable to find the imaginary patient. She apologizes. I thank her and prepare to leave, but apparently she is happy to have someone to talk to.
“Do you think plastic surgery helps?”
Plastic surgery? Ah, right. I remember the small pieces of adhesive tape under my sunglasses.
“Most patients here have had plastic surgery. If I were you, I would stay away. It creates an imbalance between the mind and body.” I didn’t ask her opinion, but she seems overcome with humanitarian duty and continues: “The aging process is more traumatic for those who think they can control the passage of time.”