Mr. Was (18 page)

She seemed disappointed. “Was?”

“Yes. Mr. Was. W-A-S,
Was.
Mr. Was.” It was better than nothing, I decided.

She frowned and said, “Do you have a first name?”

“No.”

A few days later Dr. Groth came in and, for about the five hundredth time, asked me my name.

“My name is Mr. Was,” I said.

He looked at a clipboard in his hand, then said, “I see.”

“Your name is
See?
I never met anyone named
See
before.” I was being difficult, I know, but there wasn't a lot else to do.

The doctor pursed his lips.

“You're a headshrinker, right?”

He smiled, somewhat to my surprise. “That's right,” he said.

“Then you know all about the mind, right?”

“I know a little.”

“So how come I don't know who I am?”

“That's what we hope to find out, son. For starters, we know your name isn't
Was.”

That bugged me. If he didn't know who I was, how could he be telling me with such certainty who I wasn't?

“Until I say different,” I said, “my name is Was.”

I don't know what that stuff was that Doc Groth stuck me with, but it left me with no memory of our talk and one monster of a headache. The next day, he came in and asked me what an “atom bomb” was. I told him it was a really big bomb. He laughed and asked me why a really big bomb would be named after the smallest particle in the universe.

I don't know, I just hope he never gives me any of that stuff again.

The Japanese army surrendered to General Douglas MacArthur today, September 2, and we are celebrating with cake and Coca-Cola. The doctors and staff were drinking something else from paper cups. I took the opportunity to ask Dr. Groth when I would be released.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I told him. “But I'm not getting anywhere sitting around here. I feel fine.” I did feel fine—or at least as fine as a one-eyed,
crook-armed, scarred-up amnesiac
could
feel.

Dr. Groth took a sip from his cup and rested a hand on my shoulder. “You're going to have a visitor soon,” he said. “Then we'll know more.”

“Who?”

“A friend of mine from Washington, Colonel Chuck Freeman. He's very interested in your case. He's flying in tomorrow.”

Copies of the following letters were inserted into the binder at this point.

—P. H.

From:  VINCENT C. YEDDIS
            Director, U.S. Institute of Psychopharmacological Research

To:       COLONEL CHARLES FREEMAN
            Deputy Director, Office of Strategic Services Washington, D.C.

Date:    January 4, 1946

Dear Colonel Freeman:

Subject MZ-54764-8 remains unresponsive to our questions. I am concerned that increasing levels of T-382 may cause damage beyond that which the subject has experienced. I am compelled to say at this point that despite what the Germans have told us, the drug appears to be nothing more than a strong sedative with hallucinatory side effects, and not the “truth serum” they claim it to be. Although some subjects have been successfully interrogated under its influence, I suspect that better result could be achieved by giving them a few stiff drinks or, failing that, a rubber hose applied smartly to the soles of their feet.

Just kidding.

Please advise.

(signed)

Vincent C. Yeddis

From:  VINCENT C. YEDDIS
            Director, U.S. Institute of Psychopharmacological Research

To:       COLONEL CHARLES FREEMAN
            Deputy Director, Office of Strategic Services Washington, D.C.

Date:    January 11, 1946

Dear Colonel Freeman:

Again, my apologies for the flippant tone of my recent memo. I have been under a good deal of pressure here. Nevertheless, my doubts about the efficacy of T-382 remain.

Per our conversation of January 7, we increased the dosage of T-382 for subject MZ-54764-8 by 300 mg. As in previous trials, the subject immediately fell into a deep sleep, and was revived by the application of ice packs to his feet, abdomen, and neck. Following is a transcript of the resulting interview:

VY: Can you hear me?

MZ-54764-8: (no response)

VY: Can you hear me?

MZ-54764-8: (no response)

VY: If you can hear me, blink your eyes.

MZ-54764-8: (no response)

At that point the patient began to shake. His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically, his eye rolled up, his face went red, and foamy saliva
began running down his chin. Shortly thereafter, he became unconscious, and remained so for the next twenty-four hours.

He is now awake, or at least his eye is open and blinking from time to time, but he has slipped into what appears to be a classic catatonic state. He cannot walk, feed himself, or use the toilet.

In my opinion, any further use of T-382 to coerce information from this man might completely destroy whatever is left of his mind, and I must refuse to participate.

Please advise.

(signed)

Vincent C. Yeddis

According to documents obtained under the Freedom of Information Act, Vincent C. Yeddis was transferred from the U.S. Institute of Psychopharmacological Research in Washington to the U.S. Naval Base at Chillum Bay, Alaska, on February 19, 1946. He was temporarily replaced by Colonel C. Capstone, an OSS officer.

The following May, Colonel Capstone left his position at the IPR and patient MZ-54764-8 was admitted to Salisbury Acres, a private mental hospital in Virginia. The administrator of Salisbury Acres was instructed to forward all bills to a post office box in Washington, D.C.

Hospital records state that the patient slowly regained his ability to feed himself, and by 1952 he was able to move about and to respond to simple commands, although he remained unable or unwilling to speak. There is no record, however, of the patient uttering a single word until January 30, 1993, when a young orderly named Nong Tran, in direct violation of hospital policy, performed an acupuncture procedure on the uncomplaining MZ-54764-8.

In the following section of the diary, the handwriting changes considerably. The letters are larger, and the pen is not pressed so hard against the paper. Presumably this is due to the writer's advancing age.

—P. H.

February 1, 1993

New Orleans, Louisiana

I am sitting at a long table in the Café du Monde, drinking café au lait. Although it is four o'clock in the morning, there are still plenty of people on the street here in the French Quarter. It is a strange place, a city-within-a-city where one can be both surrounded by people, and alone.

In my case, I am accompanied by Patient MZ-54764-8, Mr. Was, and Corporal John R. Lund. We are all the same person. Every few minutes I turn a page in this thick notebook, wondering whether it will open up into my forgotten past.

I sip my café au lait and wonder if they are looking for me.

The young man who picked me up hitchhiking back in Virginia told me he was on his way to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. That's tomorrow. He was a nice man, and he didn't ask me too many questions. His name was Bobby Dennison. I told him that I, too, wished to celebrate Mardi Gras.

He said, “No kidding? I hope I still got
my
party legs when I'm your age, old-timer!” We drove straight through the night. He dropped me off on Bourbon Street in front of the Royal Sonesta, where he said he had a room reserved. That was a few hours ago.

Bobby was a nice man, and I feel terrible about
stealing his wallet. I hope it doesn't spoil his vacation. The thing was, I had no money. Nothing. Not even a real name. I needed the money to maneuver in this strange new world. One good thing is that the wallet I stole was a fat one. Bobby had brought close to a thousand dollars to Mardi Gras. I think that's a lot of money, although I am quickly learning that here in 1993, a cup of coffee can cost you a dollar or more.

So I've been sitting here in the Café du Monde, trying to make sense of these papers.

The funny thing is, I remember everything from the time I woke up in the hospital in Hawaii. I remember the things they did to me in Washington. I remember all the questions, the injections, the ice packs. I even remember the long years filled with months filled with days when I lay in bed counting the number of holes in the white ceiling tiles, or walking about the hospital grounds like a zombie, feeling nothing but the slow, constant passing of time. I remember most clearly the Asian orderly who came to me in the night with his needles.

He introduced himself to me as Nong.

“But you can call me Freddie,” he said in his quiet, singsong voice.

As always, I stared blankly back at him, unable to respond.

Freddie told me he was from Vietnam, that he had received his medical training there, and had practiced traditional medicine in Hanoi and Hong Kong before
coming to the United States. He went on about this for some time, though he had no reason to believe I could hear him. Maybe he simply enjoyed the opportunity to tell his story without being interrupted.

As he spoke he examined my body, pressing here and there, with special attention to my feet, my hands, and my neck. Some of the places he touched seemed incredibly sensitive, sending tremors through my limbs. Having felt nothing for years, the effects startled me. Freddie must have seen some change in my face. He smiled, winked, and continued with his story.

It seemed that Freddie had a hard time becoming accepted by the American medical community. He would have to spend another five years in medical school here before being allowed to treat patients, and many of his proven traditional therapies were a bit strange, including something called “acupuncture,” which had been his specialty in the Far East. I had never heard of acupuncture, and when he pulled out his leather and velvet case and showed me the wickedly long needles, I thought it was the end. The drugs and the ice packs had been nothing compared to this. If I could have screamed, I would have. With growing horror, I listened to him describe the theories and practice of acupuncture—

A man sweeping between the tables keeps giving me a look. I've been sitting here for two hours and bought only this one cup of coffee. I guess I'd better move on.

February 2, 1993

I have taken a room at the Blue Bayou Motor Inn, a mile and a half north of the French Quarter. The carpet stinks of cigarettes and spilled beer, the mattress is lumpy, and the television doesn't work. It cost me eighty-five dollars, but I feel lucky to have found a room at all in this crazy city. The street is filled with revelers, some kind of parade, people in costumes and masks, every one of whom knows exactly who they are.

Last night's dream was a real doozy. I dreamed I was standing in an apple orchard hitting apples with a baseball bat. The apples were filled with blood. Each apple I hit would explode in a warm red shower.

The memories are easier to take, but no less spooky. A few days ago I passed a young girl on the street. She was about fifteen, I'd guess, with red hair and a bounce in her walk. I suddenly remembered a girl in a polka-dot dress sitting across a table covered with bowls and plates piled high with food, grinning at me, her green eyes catching the light, flickering.

I wonder who she was.

I was writing earlier about Freddie. As he was showing me his needles, some of which were over six inches long, he explained to me that he was going to perform a procedure that had been used in China for thousands of years to help people who suffered from a form of paralysis called “ancestor blight.” Ancestor blight, Freddie
explained, struck those who were thrown into inharmonious contact with their reincarnated ancestors.

“For instance,” he said, “suppose you go into a store to buy a loaf of bread, and the clerk is rude to you. You argue with the clerk, and much bad feeling fills the air. Now, if the clerk is your reincarnated great-grandfather, you might suffer from the blight. You might, for instance, forget how to tie your shoe the next day. In worse cases, you might neglect an important appointment. In the very worst cases, you might forget how to be alive.”

At that point, having received no response from me, Freddie proceeded to insert his long, shiny needles deep into my blighted body.

I didn't feel a thing. He might as well have been pushing them into a straw doll. The procedure went on for some time, with no apparent effect. Some time before dawn, Freddie removed his needles and left my room. I fell asleep.

And I dreamed about the door. Even as I dreamed, I knew I had been there before. I dreamed of stepping through a short metal door, stepping out into a lush green sunlit world. A bearded man stood with a woman in a black dress and their two daughters, looking at something behind me. I turned, and saw an image of myself, my face contorted, my hands dripping blood, a baseball bat in my hands. I reached out and took the bat from myself, hurled it into the air. My image collapsed.

The next morning when the orderly brought my breakfast, I said, “Thank you.”

Her jaw dropped, and she ran from my room.

I had spoken for the first time in nearly half a century.

The next day I was escorted to the office of Dr. Berringer, the hospital administrator. He sat at his desk reading a thick file. The orderly guided me to a chair, crossed his arms, and watched. Dr. Berringer continued to read the file, looking up at me occasionally.

“Well, now,” he said at last, pulling his reading glasses down toward the tip of his long nose, “I understand you're with us again.”

“Have I been gone?” I asked.

He smiled. “In a sense, yes. You've been here now for forty-seven years, but you haven't exactly been
with
us. I've been administrator here for over a decade, and according to your records, you haven't uttered a word until this morning.”