eleven
THE POETS HAD lied to Perry. All of them.
He’d thought that sending a bunch of flowers to Edith with an apology would have brought her to him in a matter of hours. They would hug, apologise to each other, and start over. Instead, she’d sent a nice, polite, and rather impersonal letter to thank him for the flowers and tell him she was sorry too for the way she’d behaved, promising she’d talk to him soon.
That was it. End of.
Maybe she’d thought he’d sounded too annoyed last night. Maybe she hadn’t liked how he’d pressed her to talk. They knew each other, but their sudden meeting after five years must have shocked her as well.
Hopefully, the beauty of art would give him an answer. His mother had firmly believed that art was the best source of inspiration and calm in troubled times, and that beauty would save the world.
The beautiful painting of a horse running through a green pasture surely gave him calm. Going to the latest art exhibition at the National Gallery had been Oliver’s idea. Naturally. Perryhad reluctantly followed, but he had to admit there were some extraordinary paintings worth buying.
“You needn’t worry,” Oliver said, keeping his voice down, even though the gallery wasn’t particularly crowded. “No one is going to talk about your attack in the Scarlet Room. Besides, half of the people in the club were convulsing on their own for one reason or another. Your seizure could have easily been mistaken for the aftershock of a drug.”
Perry’s concern wasn’t about who had witnessed his last seizure, at least not entirely. He didn’t want to be branded as an unhinged person, who needed to be locked up in an asylum, but his situation with Edith concerned him more than anything else.
Although her resilience was proof of her inner strength. Damn, he loved her strength so much; it gave him strength as well.
“I’m not worried,” he said, tilting his head to admire a dramatic depiction of the sea. “Well, a bit. But I haven’t had seizures in almost a year. Why now? The cause can’t be strong emotions. When Albert announced he was leaving for Brazil, I was utterly shocked. Yet no seizure.”
“If only I could understand what triggers your attacks.” Oliver scribbled on his inseparable notepad. “It’s not anger. You’re angry all the time.”
“I’m not.” He moved on to the next painting, a floral composition with delicate colours he approved of. “I get angry only when you tell me I’m angry.”
“See, there are people who have suffered from seizures since childhood. They’re born that way. Your seizures are the result of a head trauma. The key is to find what triggers them. It has to be an emotion, an event, or maybe a particular combination of different types of food. Or something else.” Oliver went through the pages of his notepad. “Do you remember I told you aboutthat young, promising doctor of medicine I met in Vienna during a conference?”
Perry shrugged, moving on to the next painting—a still life. “Not really.”
Oliver released a long breath. “Do you ever pay attention to what I say?”
“Reach your point.”
“I’m talking about Dr. Sigmund Freud. Does the name ring a bell?”
Perry arched his brow. “I’m aFreud not.”
“Ha-ha. Yes, funny. Mock me.” Oliver shot his gaze skywards. “Mock the work I do for you.”
“I very much appreciate everything you do for me, and I believe I show my appreciation with the generous salary you receive from me.”
Oliver waved a dismissive hand. “Talking about money is vulgar.”
“You didn’t think that when we discussed your salary. I remember you being very vocal about how much you wanted a raise.”
“Anyway, Dr. Freud has some fascinating theories about the human brain and about how people can overcome traumas with time and mental exercises. He also thinks that traumas change the way we make decisions deeply and affect our soul or psyche.”
Perry paused, intrigued by the theory. “What about Edith? Obviously, thePrincess Aliceincident changed the way she behaved.”
“I’ll be honest with you. I think you’re overreacting. She’s simply a young woman, wanting to try new things. She graduated recently after years of hard work. Now she wants a moment of freedom before she starts a demanding job in a hospital wing.”
“Maybe you’re right. It’s that she didn’t seem unfamiliar with excess and wildness.”
Oliver shook his head. “Trust me. Once she starts working, she won’t have time for extravagances. Of course, the incident changed her, but she’s a doctor now. As a doctor, her life is going to be too busy for nonsense like the Scarlet Room.”
“You’re a doctor, and your life isn’t busy enough if you have time for the Scarlet Room.”
Oliver narrowed his gaze. “The excursion was part ofyourtherapy. Purely scientific interest.”
