‘So ist das Leben: that’s life.’
One of the two children simulacra said to the adult male, ‘Isn’t he a good man, Daddy?’
‘Yes, Tommy,’ the adult male answered, nodding. ‘He most certainly is.’ It patted the boy on the shoulder. The whole family beamed.
‘I’ll keep you on until next Wednesday,’ Maury decided. ‘That’s the best I can do, but maybe it’ll help a little. After that — I just don’t know. I can’t foresee anything. Even though I am slightly precognitive, as I’ve always said. I mean to a certain extent I’ve generally had valid hunches as to the future. Not in this case, though, not one damn bit. The entire thing is a mass of confusion, as far as I’m concerned.’
Chic said, ‘Thanks, Maury.’
Grunting, Maury Frauenzimmer resumed reading the morning paper.
‘Maybe by next Wednesday something good’ll come along,’ Chic said. ‘Something we don’t expect.’ Maybe, as sales manager, I can bring in a huge order, he thought.
‘Say, maybe so,’ Maury said. He did not sound very convinced.
‘I’m really going to try,’ Chic said.
‘Sure,’ Maury agreed. ‘You try, Chic, you do that.’ His voice was low, muffled by resignation.
6
To Richard Kongrosian the McPhearson Act was a calamity because in a single instant it erased his great support in life, Dr Egon Superb. He was left at the mercy of his lifelong illness-process, which, right at the moment, had assumed enormous power over him. This was why he had left Jenner and voluntarily checked in at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco, a place deeply familiar to him; he had, during the past decade, checked in there many times.
However, this time he probably would not be able to leave. This time his illness-process had advanced too far.
He was, he knew, an anankastic, a person for whom reality had shrunk to the dimension of compulsion; everything he did was forced on him — there was for him nothing voluntary, spontaneous or free. And, to make matters worse, he had tangled with a Nitz commercial. In fact, he still had the commercial with him; he carried it about with him in his pocket.
Getting it out now, Kongrosian started the Theodorus Nitz commercial up, listening once more to its evil message.
The commercial squeaked. ‘At any moment one may offend others, any hour of the day!’
And in his mind appeared the full-colour image of a scene unfolding; a good-looking black-haired man leaning towards a blonde, full-breasted girl in a bathing suit in order to kiss her. On the girl’s face the expression of rapture and submission all at once vanished, was replaced by repugnance. And the commercial shrilled, ‘He was not fully safe from offensive body odour! You see?’
That’s me, Kongrosian said to himself. I smell bad. He had, due to the commercial, acquired a phobic body odour; he had been contaminated through the commercial, and there was no way to rid himself of the odour; he had for weeks now tried a thousand rituals of rinsing and washing, to no avail.
That was the trouble with phobic odours; once acquired they stayed, even advanced in their dreadful power. At this moment he did not dare get close to any other human being; he had to remain ten feet away so that they would not become aware of the odour. No full-breasted blonde girls for him.
And at the same time he knew that the odour was a delusion, that it did not really exist; it was an obsessive idea only. However, that realization did not help him. He still could not bear to come within ten feet of another human being — of any sort whatsoever. Full-breasted or not.
For instance, at this very moment Janet Raimer, chief talent scout from the White House, was searching for him. If she found him, even here in his private room at Franklin Aimes, she would insist on seeing him, would force her way close to him — and then the world would, for him, collapse.
He liked Janet, who was middle-aged, had a waggish sense of humour and was cheerful. How could he bear to have Janet detect the terrible body odour which the commercial had passed on to him? It was an impossible situation, and Kongrosian sat hunched over at the table in the corner of the room, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to think what to do.
Perhaps he could call her on the phone. But the odour, he believed, could be transmitted along the phone wires; she would detect it anyhow. So that was no good. Maybe a telegram? No, the odour would move from him to that, too, and from it to Janet.
In fact, his phobic body odour could contaminate the entire world. Such was at least theoretically possible.
But he had to have some contact with people; for instance, very soon now he wanted to call his son Plautus Kongrosian at their home in Jenner. No matter how hard one tried one could not entirely suspend inter-personal relationships, desirable as it might be.
Perhaps A.G. Chemie can help me, he conjectured. They might have a new ultra-powerful synthetic detergent which will obliterate my phobic body odour, at least for a time.
Who do I know there that I can contact? He tried to recall.
On the Houston, Texas, Symphony Board of Directors there was …
The telephone in his room rang.
Carefully, Kongrosian draped a handtowel over the screen. ‘Hell,’ he said, standing a good distance from the phone, hoping thereby not to contaminate it. Naturally, it was a vain hope, but he had to make the attempt; he was still trying.
‘The White House in Washington, D.C.,’ a voice from the phone stated. ‘Janet Raimer calling. Go ahead, Miss Raimer. I have Mr Kongrosian’s room.’
‘Hello, Richard,’ Janet Raimer said. ‘What have you put over the phone screen?’
Pressed against the far wall, with as much distance between himself and the phone as possible, Kongrosian said, ‘You shouldn’t have tried to reach me, Janet. You know how ill I am. I’m in an advanced compulsive-obsessive state, the worst I’ve ever experienced. I seriously doubt if I’ll ever be playing publicly again. There’s just too much risk. For instance, I suppose you saw the item in the newspaper today about the workman in the candy factory who fell into the vat of hardening chocolate. I did that.’
‘You did? How?’
‘Psionicly. Entirely involuntarily, of course. Currently, I’m responsible for all the psychomotor accidents taking place in the world — that’s why I’ve signed myself in here at the hospital for a course of electroconvulsive shock. I believe in it, despite the fact that it’s gone out of style. Personally I get nothing from drugs. When you smell as bad as I do, Janet, no drugs are going to — ‘
Janet Raimer interrupted. ‘I don’t believe you really smell as badly as you imagine, Richard. I’ve known you for many years and I can’t imagine you smelling really genuinely badly, at least enough to force a termination of your brilliant career.’
‘Thanks for your loyalty,’ Kongrosian said gloomily, ‘but you just don’t understand. This is no ordinary physical odour. This is an idea type odour. Some day I’ll mail you a text on the subject, perhaps by Bingswanger or some of the other existential psychologists. They really understood me and my problem, even though they lived a hundred years ago. Obviously they were precogs. The tragedy is that although Minkowski, Kuhn, and Binswanger understood me, there’s nothing they can do to help me.’
Janet said, ‘The First Lady is looking forward to your quick and happy recovery.’
The inanity of her remark infuriated him. ‘Good grief don’t you understand Janet? At this point I’m thoroughly delusional. I’m as mentally ill as it’s possible to be. It’s incredible that I can communicate with you at all. It’s a credit to my ego-strength that I’m not at this point totally autistic.
Anyone else in my situation would be.’ He felt momentary, justified pride. ‘It’s an interesting situation that I’m facing, this phobic body odour. Obviously, it’s a reaction-formation to a more serious disorder, one which would disintegrate my comprehension of the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt. What I’ve managed to do is — ‘
‘Richard,’ Janet Raimer interrupted, ‘I feel so sorry for you. I wish I could help you.’ She sounded, then, as if she were about to cry; her voice wavered.
‘Oh well,’ Kongrosian said, ‘who needs the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt? Take it easy, Janet. Don’t get so emotionally involved. I’ll be out of here, just as before.’ But he did not really believe that. This time was different. And evidently Janet had sensed it. ‘However,’ he went on, ‘I think in the meantime you’re going to have to search elsewhere for White House talent. You’ll have to forget me and strike out into entirely new areas. What else is a talent scout for, if not to do exactly that?’