The Alienist - Caleb Carr [14]
“Ah, Moore,” Kreizler said, taking a chained watch from his vest with his left hand and extending his right with a smile. “Splendid.”
“Laszlo,” I answered, shaking his hand. “Cyrus,” I added, with a nod that was barely returned.
Kreizler indicated his newspaper as he checked the time. “I’m somewhat irritated with your employers. Yesterday evening I saw a brilliant Pagliacci at the Metropolitan, with Melba and Ancona—and all the Times can talk about is Alvary’s Tristan.” He paused to study my face. “You look tired, John.”
“I can’t imagine why. Tearing around in an uncovered carriage in the middle of the night is usually so restful. Would you mind telling me what I’m doing here?”
“A moment.” Kreizler turned to an attendant in a dark blue uniform and box cap who lounged in a straight-backed wooden chair nearby. “Fuller? We’re ready.”
“Yes sir, Doctor,” the man answered, taking an enormous ring of large keys from his belt and starting for the doorway to the central corridor. Kreizler and I fell in to follow, Cyrus remaining behind like a waxwork.
“You did read the article, didn’t you, Moore?” Kreizler asked, as the attendant unlocked and opened the doorway to the first ward. With the opening the howls and shouts from the cells became almost deafening and quite unnerving. There was little light in the windowless corridor, only that which a few overworked electric bulbs could offer. Some of the small observation windows in the imposing iron doors of the cells were open.
“Yes,” I answered at length, very uneasily. “I read it. And I understand the possible connection—but why do you need me?”
Before Kreizler could answer, a woman’s face suddenly appeared in the first door to our right. Her hair, though pinned up, was unkempt, and the expression on her worn, broad features was one of violent outrage. That expression changed in an instant, however, when she saw who the visitor was. “Dr. Kreizler!” she said in a hoarse but passionate gasp.
At that the train of reaction was propelled into high speed: Kreizler’s name spread down the corridor from cell to cell, inmate to inmate, through the walls and iron doors of the women’s ward and on into the men’s. I’d seen this happen several times before, in different institutions, but it was no less remarkable on each occasion: the words were like the flow of water over coals, taking away crackling heat and leaving only a steaming whisper, a perhaps momentary but nonetheless effective remission from deep-burning fire.
The cause of this singular phenomenon was simple. Kreizler was known throughout the patient, as well as the criminal, medical, and legal, communities in New York to be the man whose testimony in court or at a sanity hearing could determine, more than that of any other alienist of the day, whether a given person was sent to prison, to the somewhat less horrifying confines of a mental institution, or back out onto the streets. The moment he was spotted in a place such as the Pavilion, therefore, the usual sounds of madness gave way to an eerie attempt at coherent communication on the part of most of the inmates. Only the uninitiated or the hopelessly distressed would continue their ravings; and yet the effect of this sudden reduction in noise was not at all reassuring. Indeed, it was in some ways worse on the nerves, for one knew that the attempt at order was a strained one, and that the sounds of anguish would soon return—again, like burning coals roasting away the transitory suppression of a splash of water.
Kreizler’s reaction to the inmates’ behavior was no less disconcerting, for one was left only to imagine what experiences in his life and career could have implanted in him the ability to walk through such a place and witness such desperate performances (all peppered by measured yet passionate pleas of “Dr. Kreizler, I must talk with you!” “Dr. Kreizler, please, I am not like these others!”) without submitting to fear, revulsion, or despair. As