The Mad and the Bad

1

It was a black Lincoln Continental. Tinted side windows made it impossible to discern the occupants. The car was having some difficulty making the tight turns of the narrow road. All around was forest: a profusion of beeches and a carpet of rotting dead leaves that encroached on the road.

From the middle of a partial clearing in the trees some fifty meters long, a driveway led off to the right. It was flanked by wide grassy shoulders and punctuated by white marker stones linked by a decorative chain. To make the turn into the drive, the Lincoln had first to veer in the opposite direction so that it briefly filled the left side of the roadway before turning into the drive with its white graveled surface. Flintstones and dust sprayed up under the mudguards.

The driveway led directly to a Louis XIII manor house. The place had three corner towers. One stood in water, and water lilies floated beneath its windows. The Lincoln slowed down. The manor was getting closer.

It was surrounded by a vast expanse of grass. Here and there paths plunged off into the woods. Groups of strollers were to be seen, clad in long lab coats, pink, blue, or pistachio green. The big car passed a hunched man with long hair and glasses who had unbuttoned his blue coat to urinate on a molehill. He had knelt to improve the accuracy of the stream, carefully directing it into the hole made by the animal. He seemed serious and malevolent. He paid no attention to the imposing automobile.

The Lincoln proceeded past other strange figures. There were men in blue and women in pink. Those in pistachio green, men and women, had an air of efficiency. They were obviously staff.

The car came to the end of the drive and pulled up on the forecourt in front of the manor’s front entrance-a low white double perron. Cutting the ignition, the driver got out. He was a man of about thirty-five, thickset, round-bodied, round-faced, and short-legged. He wore a blue chauffeur’s uniform, a white shirt, a red tie, and a cap. He took the cap off, revealing his hair-what looked like a prison cut. The man opened the back door of the car. An individual of the same age emerged. He wore bell-bottoms and a battered silver corduroy safari jacket. His hair, short, light red, almost tow, was very fine. His long, intelligent, mobile, haughty face would have brought Franchot Tone to the mind of anyone who knew who Franchot Tone was. His pink skin was covered by a mass of freckles barely distinguishable from his overall complexion. His eyes were a watery green. He looked like a mutant in a television series.

A shower of gravel landed with a crackle on the rear of the Lincoln. The driver and the redhead turned toward its source, an unshaven forty-year-old in a blue lab coat. A young woman in pistachio green hurried over.

“Are you throwing gravel on the car, Guillaume?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why are you doing that? Are you trying to scratch it up?”

The forty-year-old shrugged, turned on his heel, and stalked off angrily. The pistachio-green young woman addressed the new arrivals affably.

“Gentlemen?”

“Hartog,” said the redhead. “I’m expected.”

“For an admission?”

“No, a release. Do I look crazy to you?”

The young woman laughed. “No more than the next person. You shouldn’t use that word here. You might shock people.”

“I like to shock.”

“You might cause the residents distress.”

“I’m not sure I don’t want to cause them distress.”

“What’s that?” asked the young woman, leaning forward, nonplussed by his syntax.

“Enough of this,” said the redhead. “I’m expected. At least I should be. I’m here to pick someone up.”

“Take the steps,” said the young woman, suddenly practical. “Go on in. There’s a receptionist in the hall. Would you excuse me please?”

“Wait a second.”

The redhead inspected the rear of the Lincoln, then straightened up.

“No damage. Why don’t you stop them from throwing stones?”

“Self-discipline. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You pathetic bitch.”

The young woman flushed, and smiled.

“That’ll do,” added the redhead. “Go away.”

She went away, still flushed. The smile was gone.

“Stay in the car,” the redhead told the driver. “Keep them from throwing gravel. Clobber them if need be.”

The driver sat sideways on his seat, letting his legs rest outside the car, as his boss went up the white steps and entered the manor. It was chilly in the lobby. The redhead shivered. The floor was tiled with marble. Trompe l’oeil glass doors lined the whole reception area. A dark man with Latin features sat behind a mahogany table reading the satirical paper Charlie-Hebdo.

“Michel Hartog,” said the redhead. “I’m expected. Appointment with Doctor Rosenfeld.”

“Ah yes. Please follow me.”

The dark man rose, put his paper down on the table, and walked ahead of Hartog. He opened a genuine glass door and went to the end of a narrow padded hallway. He rang a bell by a cushioned white leather door.

“Come in,” said the intercom.

The dark guy opened the door. “Monsieur Hartog,” he announced.

He stood back to let the redhead go in, closed the door behind him, and left.

Doctor Rosenfeld came up to Hartog, his hand outstretched. The two were roughly the same height. Rosenfeld was beginning to go bald. He had a lively expression and wore a plaid tie and no vest.

“I’m delighted to see you,” he said.

“Is the girl ready?”

“Mademoiselle Ballanger is packing. She’ll be here in a moment. I’ll let her know right away.”

He went back behind his desk and fiddled with an intercom. They were in the corner tower that overlooked the water. A breath of damp air wafted through the open window. Hartog went over to the casement and looked out.

“Monsieur Hartog is here,” said Rosenfeld. “If mademoiselle could come right away with her suitcase-”

The intercom buzzed. Rosenfeld nodded and broke the connection. He arched back in his office chair and contemplated Hartog, who was looking down at the water with an irritated expression. The doctor hunted in drawers, extracted a straight-stemmed pipe and some Jean Bart tobacco, and began loading the pipe. A half smile hovered on his lips. Hartog turned round briskly and faced him.

“I’ll write you a check.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

“A gift,” said the redhead emphatically. “A gift for your institution.”

“Very well, if you wish. But it is not necessary.”

“What you do is interesting.”

“Anti-psychiatry, you mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Hartog. “I mean minding crazy people.”

Rosenfeld grimaced, almost spoke, but changed his mind and lit his pipe. Hartog leant on the corner of the desk and made out a check for ten thousand francs. When he had finished writing, he held the check out to the doctor.

“This is a lot of money,” said Rosenfeld.

“It’s nothing to me,” answered Hartog.