The Manticore

– I suppose he put it there himself. Look at it; a piece of that pink granite we see everywhere in Canada. A geologist who saw it on my desk told me that they now reckon that type of stone to be something like a thousand million years old. Where has it been, before there were any men to throw it, and where will it be when you and I are not even a pinch of dust? Don't cling to it as if you owned it. I did that. I harboured it for sixty years, and perhaps my hope was for revenge. But at last I lost it, and Boy got it back, and he lost it, and certainly you will lose it. None of us counts for much in the long, voiceless, inert history of the stone… Now I am going to claim the privilege of an invalid and ask you to leave me.

– There's nothing more to be said?

– Oh, volumes more, but what does all this saying amount to? Boy is dead. What lives is a notion, a fantasy, a whim-wham in your head that you call Father, but which never had anything seriously to do with the man you attached it to.

– Before I go: who was Eisengrim's mother?

– I spent decades trying to answer that. But I never fully knew.

Later: Found out a little more about the super-chess game this eve. Each player plays both black and white. If the player who draws white at the beginning plays white on boards one, three, and five, he must play black on boards two and four. I said to Liesl that this must make the game impossibly complicated, as it is not five games played consecutively, but one game.

– Not half so complicated as the game we all play for seventy or eighty years. Didn't Jo von Haller show you that you can't play the white pieces on all the boards? Only people who play on one, flat board can do that, and then they are in agonies trying to figure out what black's next move will be. Far better to know what you are doing, and play from both sides.

Dec. 23, Tues.: Liesl has the ability to an extraordinary extent to worm things out of me. My temperament and professional training make me a man to whom things are told; somehow she makes me into a teller. I ran into her – better be honest, I sought her out – this morning in her workshop, where she sat with a jeweller's magnifying glass in her eye and tinkered with a tiny bit of mechanism, and in five minutes had me caught in a conversation of a kind I don't like but can't resist when Liesl creates it.

– So you must give Jo a decision about more analysis? What is it to be?

– I'm torn about it. I'm seriously needed at home. But the work with Dr. von Haller holds out the promise of a kind of satisfaction I've never known before. I suppose I want to have it both ways.

– Well, why not? Jo has set you on your path; do you need her to take you on a tour of your inner labyrinth? Why not go by yourself?

– I've never thought of it; I wouldn't know how.

– Then find out. Finding out is half the value. Jo is very good. I say nothing against her – But these analyses, Davey – they are duets between the analyst and the analysand, and you will never be able to sing louder or higher than your analyst.

– She has certainly done great things for me in the past year.

– Undoubtedly. And she never pushed you too far, or frightened you, did she? Jo is like a boiled egg – a wonder, a miracle, very easy to take – but even with a good sprinkling of salt she is invalid food, don't you find?

– I understand she is one of the best in Zurich.