Part: 1/4
Wordcount: 1,411
Synopsis: Two doctors in the 1800’s meet to discuss what to do about a mysterious patient who refuses to speak.
The cobblestone dissolved into mud half a mile from the city limits, and the carriage horse was soon pastern-deep in fast-flowing water. It yanked at the reins, cantering blindly into the splattering wind. At last it staggered to a halt, snorting at the rain running ceaselessly down its face. The carriage door flew open, smacking back against the vehicle in the clawing grip of the wind. A man sprung out into the rain and shouted thanks back at the coachman, who didn’t respond, and the storm-shy horse lost no time in turning back toward the city.
A ways off the road and up the hill stood a three-story Gothic Revival house, peering through the cloudy branches of rustling silver willows. Too tempest-tossed to search for a path to the door, the visitor cut across the sodden lawn, zigzagging around standing water, and tripping over live branches that the storm had ripped from the willows. He jumped over the steps, plastered himself against the door to escape the torrents, and started raking his fingers through his thick dark hair, trying to correct some of the storm’s damage before entering.
The door opened before he knocked, and someone dragged him through it. “Falke! I didn’t expect you in this storm.” The other man closed the door behind him.
“Then why were you waiting at the door?”
“I saw the carriage, who else could it be?” said the owner of the house, a man whose superior intelligence was perhaps too clear in his face. “I really wouldn’t have recognized you if I hadn’t known you were coming. It’s funny to think a person like you would ever grow into a man.”
“It seems we’ve all declined, Dr. Metzdorff. I notice you answer your own door now.” The Frenchman glanced around the vacant parlor. There was a pause and the rain tried to penetrate the window panes. Falke’s dark eyes flitted to Metzdorff’s.
“The valet left,” said the German.“So did the housekeeper, though she claims it’s just a little family holiday in Portugal. She’ll be back in June.” Metzdorff sighed, and stroked his mustache, gazing around the parlor in his turn. “I’ll admit, he is unnerving. I’ve never harbored such a stranger in my house in my whole life. As you might imagine, we know nothing about him—how old he is, where he was born, who his parents are, if he has any living relatives…they call him Camille, but we really don’t know his name.”
“Have you tried to speak to him?” asked Falke.
“At every opportunity…the first few days he was here. All the time he spent in that Parisian asylum being treated like a mindless imbecile couldn’t have helped, I daresay.” He paused. “Truly fascinating…it seems that he hasn’t a notion that he even could speak—or is expected to. Not only doesn’t he speak, but he clearly has no use for written language or even the most common ability to understand postures or facial expression, let alone utilize them himself. And yet…he appears to have otherwise, a perfectly developed mind.” Metzdorff’s green eyes lifted away from the younger man’s gaze. “There’s the ghost now.” Falke turned around.
Standing on the stairs was something that was more believably a figure in a painting than a living human. He was tall, but of a fragile build, with a cold alabaster complexion and empty, harrowing, blue eyes. Yet, he looked nothing like a madman. He was dressed rather extravagantly, and stood like an aristocrat’s portrait. His shoulder-length red hair was impeccably groomed and combed off to one side. His hand, like a white spider, half-veiled in lace, rested on the ebony rail, inanimate.
“He doesn’t look any more deranged than the usual Parisian coxcomb,” said Falke in a low tone. Metzdorff shook his head. He stepped toward the stairs.
“Camille, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Eugene Falke, from Paris. We were colleges back in ‘fourteen, when I was completing my doctorate, and he was beginning his. He’ll be staying with us for a few days.” Camille came to the bottom of the steps and passed the doctors without pausing or even looking at them. They turned and watched him as he passed through the parlor like a wisp of smoke in a draft. He disappeared through a side door and that was all that Falke saw of him until that night.
When dusk fell, the two psychiatrists discussed the case in full. Meztdorff closed the door of his study and walked to his desk.
“They found Camille in the summer of eighteen-ten. Someone had dropped him off at an orphanage without giving any information on his identity or background. He should certainly have been old enough to talk by then, but he wouldn’t say a word. When this continued they had a doctor examine him, thinking perhaps he was deaf and mute. But the doctor found there to be nothing wrong with his hearing or his vocal apparatus. A year later, it became clear that his behavior was decidedly abnormal, and they took him to an asylum in Paris, where he lived until a month ago, when I took him out of it.”
“Did they try to get him to speak in the asylum?” asked Falke, sitting down and eyeing a stuffed jackdaw on the windowsill across the room.
“They worked as best they could with him for the first year, but after that, no one tried. In spite of his seemingly complete inability to communicate, Camille exhibited no other unusual behavior or disability. He was capable of living just as independently as a healthy person, if not more so.” Metzdorff opened a cigar box and handed one to Falke. “When I came to Paris, I was the first in over twelve years to speak to him. I told them that I was intent on correcting his problem, but they wouldn’t take it seriously. The French are so determined to outright mock everything–not you, of course.” Falke nodded. “I had no choice but to take him back to Germany if I wanted to continue my work in peace. But now that we’re here…” the German sighed and scowled at the floor. “It’s so hard to keep working when there’s no change from one day to the next. He doesn’t even look at me when I try to get his attention, unless I startle him. I can’t imagine spending a whole year talking to him like they did. It’s like talking to a man a world away.”
There was a long pause. “You know, Dr. Metzdorff, the Parisians could be right. He may never speak,” said Falke. His dark eyes sparked brightly. “But you did the right thing to take him out of the asylum. I’m already convinced that he’s not insane.”
At that moment, the bolt in the door jingled and Camille entered the study. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment with his back against it, staring around at the towering shelves of leather-bound nonsense that fortified the room. “What are you doing here?” asked Metzdorff to no effect. Camille wandered over to the window and sat down beside the jackdaw. “He rarely comes in here. He doesn’t like to be around me, it seems.”
“Maybe he likes me,” said Falke. “Camille,” he called. The patient stared out the window at the deepening dusk. “Camille,” he snapped his fingers. “Camille! Psstt!” He scowled and set his cigar down on an ash-tray. He picked up a heavy book and held it over the floor, then let it drop, flatly. Camille started and looked to see what had happened. As Falke attempted to catch his eyes, he turned back to the window.
“I’ve gotten no further,” said Metzdorff. He took a book off his desk and set to reading it in silence.
After a while, Camille rose from his place at the window and began wandering around the room. Falke watched him as he came across a box on one of the bookshelves. He flicked the latch and opened it. The silent blue eyes studied the contents for a while. Though Falke couldn’t see, from his vantage-point, it seemed that the box had several compartments and interior drawers. The mute paused for a moment, gazing into a compartment he had just opened. Then he lifted something out into the lamplight. Falke leaned forward and squinted to see what it was. It was a spool of black thread.