“But how can you possibly test such a thing?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Well, I know I’m forgetting all sorts of details, but the gist of it was that the subject was put in a room with two other people. One was introduced as the head of the experiment. A scientist. Someone, they’re told, who’s very senior and very well respected. Now, the point of the experiment, they’re told, is to teach the third person in the room how to better learn. It is, the subject is assured, not only a valuable experiment for that learner, but one that will help all of society.”
Armand leaned back, crossed his legs, and stared into the fire. Listening to Myrna’s deep, comforting voice. Like listening to a bedtime story, but one that, he knew, was more Grimms than Milne.
“Now, the learner is strapped into a chair,” said Myrna.
“Strapped in?” said Reine-Marie.
“Yes. The subject is told that some learners want to leave when things get difficult, so they’re strapped in. Like seat belts. Just a gentle restraint. They’re paid for the experiment and so have to see it through, the scientist explains.”
Myrna looked at them, to see if they were following. Both Reine-Marie and Clara were nodding. So far, while a little odd perhaps, it did not sound unreasonable.
They’d probably have gone along with it. So far.
“The subject is then told that for each wrong answer the learner gives, the subject is to give him a small electric shock.”
“Like invisible fencing for dogs,” said Clara. “They get a small shock and learn where the boundary is.”
“Right. We do it all the time. Aversion therapy,” said Myrna. “Now, what the subject doesn’t know is that both the scientist and the learner are in on it.”
“There is no electric shock?” asked Reine-Marie.
“No. He’s an actor. He just pretends to get the jolt. The first time he gets a wrong answer the shock is mild and the subject easily continues on. But the shocks get stronger and stronger with each wrong answer. As the experiment goes on, and he gets more things wrong, the learner acts more and more upset. The shocks are obviously causing him real pain now. He asks that the experiment be stopped, but the scientist says it can’t and orders the subject to continue on.”
“Is he upset?” Clara asked. “The subject, I mean.”
“Now there’s an interesting question,” said Myrna. “From what I remember, he’s confused and uncertain, but is reassured by the scientist that everyone else had seen this through, and he needs to as well.”
“So he continues?” asked Clara.
“Yes. Finally, the learner is crying and begging and screaming and struggling to get away. The scientist orders the subject to administer another shock. One that would, the subject knows, be excruciating. Perhaps even fatal. The scientist tells him he’s doing nothing wrong. And reminds him that everyone else has done it.”
There was silence now, except for the crackling of the fire.
“And he does,” she said quietly.
Reine-Marie and Clara stared at her. Their wine and cheese forgotten. The fireplace gone. The cheerful loft in the pretty village replaced by that antiseptic room, with the scientist, the learner, the subject, and an ugly truth.
“But it was a one-off, right?” said Clara.
“No,” said Myrna. “They conducted the experiment with hundreds of subjects. Not all of them did it, but the majority did. Far more than you’d expect.”
“Or hope,” said Reine-Marie.
“They were just following orders,” said Clara. She turned to Reine-Marie. “Would you have given that last shock?”
“If you’d asked me five minutes ago, I’d have said absolutely not. But now?” She sighed. “I’m not so sure.”
Armand nodded. It was a terrible admission. But it was also a brave one. The first step to not actually doing it.
Facing the monster. And recognizing it. Knowing that it was not a vile few. It wasn’t “them.” It was us.
That was one of the many horrors of the Nuremberg trials. Of the Eichmann trial. Something all but forgotten today.
The banality of evil.
It wasn’t the frothing madman. It was the conscientious us.
“Always let your conscience be your guide,” Clara sang in a thin voice, the words drifting into the fire. “Not so easy after all.”
“Why were you talking about Pinocchio?” Armand asked.
He was beginning to think it was more than Reine-Marie describing the nightly ritual of reading to Honoré.
“Oh, it’s silly,” she said. “Especially now, after what we just talked about. Never mind.”
“No, really,” he said.
Reine-Marie looked at Clara, who raised her brows.
“Go on,” Clara urged, and got a “thanks a lot” look from Reine-Marie.
“Do you remember why Pinocchio wasn’t a real boy?” Reine-Marie asked Myrna and Armand.
“Because he was made out of wood?” asked Myrna.
“Well, that didn’t help,” she admitted. “But what really stopped him from being human was that he had no conscience. In the film, Jiminy Cricket played that role. Teaching him right from wrong.”
“Cricket as cobrador,” said Clara. “A singing and dancing one, but one nonetheless.”
“There’s a difference between having a weak conscience or a misdirected one,” said Armand, “and none at all.”
“You know what psychologists call it when someone has no conscience?” Myrna asked.
“Antisocial personality disorder?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Smart-ass,” said Myrna. “Okay, yes, officially. But unofficially we call that person a psychopath.”
“You’re not suggesting Pinocchio is a psychopath?” said Reine-Marie. She turned to Armand. “We might have to amend Ray-Ray’s nighttime reading.”
“Well, those scenes sure didn’t make it into the movie,” said Clara. “The part where Pinocchio slaughters the villagers. I wonder what Jiminy sang then.”
“You see, that’s the problem,” said Myrna. “We’re used to the film versions of psychopaths. The clearly crazies. But most psychopaths are clever. They have to be. They know how to mimic human behavior. How to pretend to care, while not actually feeling anything except perhaps rage and an overwhelming and near-perpetual sense of entitlement. That they’ve been wronged. They get what they want mostly through manipulation. Most don’t have to resort to violence.”
“We all use manipulation,” said Armand. “We might not see it that way, but we do.”
He pointed to the wine, the lure Myrna had used to get them there. Myrna lifted her glass in acknowledgment. But without remorse.
“Unlike most of us, who tend to be transparent, people rarely see through a psychopath,” she continued. “He’s masterful. People trust and believe him. Even like him. It’s his great skill. Convincing people that his point of view is legitimate and right, often when all the evidence points in the other direction. Like Iago. It’s a kind of magic.”
“Okay, so I’m confused,” said Clara. “Is the cobrador the psychopath, or was Katie Evans?”