The Mad and the Bad

3

As the Lincoln started off, Julie, in the back seat, turned round. Through the rear window she saw her analyst and the nurse, Madame Cécile, holding a Kleenex, both waving goodbye. The two figures grew smaller. The tires sang on the gravel. Then the Lincoln was back on the asphalt of the road, the manor lurched and disappeared, the car picked up speed, and the trees and rotting leaves raced by.

Julie admired the automobile. It was like being in a boat. Genuine leather and mahogany adorned the interior. There were all kinds of recessed features behind the front seats. Julie ran her hand over the controls set into the leather.

“Look at this,” said Hartog.

He opened the alcoves one by one, showing Julie a bar, a radio-telephone, a tiny television, and a miniature steno keyboard.

“It’s not a magic car,” said Hartog. “It was made by people, you know.”

“It’s impressive all the same. I’m just a poor girl, aren’t I?”

Julie tinkered with the electric latches. Her manipulation opened another compartment. Within it was a revolver, which she took to be a Colt. In fact it was a short-barreled Arminius, a German weapon. The sides of the grip were plastic, and it looked like a toy. Julie quickly closed the compartment. Hartog laughed.

“It’s just for protection. Sorry, but I’m not a crime lord!”

“No, you’re a soap lord!”

They both laughed.

“You didn’t picture me like this, did you?”

“I certainly didn’t. I imagined a polite old gentleman.”

“That’s because of my reputation for doing good. Everyone thinks I’m gaga. Would you like a drink?”

“I’m not allowed it.”

“My ass you’re not!” cried Hartog, and Julie’s eyebrows danced up and down.

The young man opened the minibar and fixed two Ballantine’s on the rocks. He put one of them in Julie’s hand.

“Dédé!” he called. “How about a drink?”

“Sure thing,” replied the driver.

Hartog passed him a whiskey, which the thickset man emptied as he drove. The Lincoln got onto the Autoroute de l’Ouest and immediately picked up speed. It hit 140 kph and stayed there, eating up the fast lane. The passengers were as snug as if they were in a railroad sleeping car.

“What do you think of me?” Hartog asked. “What do you know about me? Do you get the feeling you are in a fairy tale?”

“I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

“Okay. But what then?”

“You are a soap, oil, and detergent magnate. You are rich and you are a philanthropist.”

“Let’s not exaggerate.”

“You do Good. You are probably trying to compensate for the feeling of being a usurper. Because your wealth is not the fruit of your own labor. Only the death of your brother and his wife made you the owner of it. You must have developed a strong sense of guilt, even if you had no wish for them to die. Anyway, one always wishes for the death of one’s brother at some level.”

“Congratulations!” said Hartog in a toneless voice. “Is that what they teach at the asylum?”

“It’s not an asylum. It’s an open establishment. I could have left any time I wanted.”

“But you stayed there for five years. Why?”

“You’ve seen my records. You know why.”