Number 9 dream Page 0,13
is in a straitjacket. ‘Let me ask you the same question.’
‘I do not believe I am a god.’ Something crunches under his shoe.
‘But you believe yourself to be a psychiatrist.’
‘Correct. I have been a psychiatrist since I graduated from medical college – with first-class honours – and entered my practice.’ The doctor lifts his foot – a twitching cockroach is glued to his sole. He scrapes it off on fallen masonry.
Voorman nods. ‘I have been God since I began practising my profession.’
‘I see.’ The doctor stops to take notes. ‘What does your profession involve?’
‘Chiefly, on-going maintenance. Of my universe.’
‘So you created our universe?’
‘Quite. Nine days ago.’
Polonski weighs this up. ‘A considerable body of evidence suggests that the universe is somewhat older than nine days.’
‘I know. I created the evidence, too.’
The doctor sits on a shelf-cot opposite. ‘I am forty-five years of age, Mr Voorman. How do you account for my memories of last spring, or my childhood?’
‘I created your memories when I created you.’
‘So everything in this universe is a figment of your imagination?’
‘Precisely. You, this prison, gooseberries, the Horsehead Nebula.’
Polonski finishes the sentence he is writing. ‘Must be quite a workload.’
‘Greater than your puny hippocampus – no offence – could ever conceive. Worse still, I have to keep imagining every last atom, or it all goes “poof”! “Solipsist” only has one l, Doctor.’ Polonski frowns and changes the position of his notebook. Voorman sighs. ‘I know you are sceptical, Doctor. I made you that way. May I propose an objective experiment to verify my claims?’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Belgium.’
‘Belgium?’
‘I don’t suppose even the Belgians would miss it, do you?’
My father says nothing. His head is bowed. He has a full head of hair – I don’t need to worry about baldness. This is a dark, delicious, unexpected turn of events. I will announce my presence any moment now, and expose Akiko Kato as a lying viper – I want to keep my advantage a little longer, and build up my arsenal for the battle ahead. Akiko Kato’s mobile phone rings. She gets it out of her handbag, snaps ‘Call back later, I’m busy,’ and puts it back. ‘Congressman. The general election is four weeks from now. Your face is going to be plastered over every candidate board in Tokyo. You will be on television daily. This is not a time to keep a low profile.’
‘If I could only meet my son—’
‘If he knows who you are, you are doomed.’
‘Everybody has a reasonable side.’
‘He has a criminal record – GBH, burglary, drugs – as long as your wife’s fur rack. He has a very nasty cocaine habit. Imagine what the opposition would do. “Abandoned Ministerial Love-Child Criminal Swears ‘I will kill him!’”’
My father sighs in the flickering darkness. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Liquidate the problem before it turns into your political death.’
My father quarter-turns. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting violence?’
Akiko Kato chooses her words carefully. ‘I foresaw this day. Plans are in place. Accidents happen in the city, and I know people who know people who can make accidents happen sooner rather than later.’
I wait for my father’s reply.
The Polonskis live in a third-floor apartment in an old city house with a gate and courtyard. She hasn’t eaten or slept properly in months. Pale fire shudders in the shade. A convoy of tanks rumbles by. Mrs Polonski slices iron bread with a blunt knife and ladles thin broth. ‘Are you still fretting about that Boorman prisoner?’
‘Voorman. I am still fretting, yes.’
‘Forcing you to do the job of a court judge, it’s so unreasonable.’
‘That doesn’t worry me. In this city there is little difference between the prison and the asylum.’ He captures the tip of a carrot in the bowl of his spoon.
‘Then what is it?’
‘Is he the slave, or the master, of his imagination? He swore to make Belgium disappear by teatime.’
‘Is Belgium another prisoner?’
Polonski chews. ‘Belgium.’
‘A new cheese?’
‘Belgium. The country. Between France and Holland. Belgium.’
Mrs Polonski shakes her head doubtfully.
Her husband smiles to hide his annoyance. ‘Bel-gi-um.’
‘Is this a joke, dear?’
‘You know I never joke about my patients.’
‘“Belgium.” A shire or village of Luxembourg, perhaps?’
‘Bring me my atlas!’ The doctor turns to the general map of Europe and his face stiffens. Between France and Holland is a feature called the Walloon Lagoon. Polonski gazes, thunderstruck. ‘This cannot be. This cannot be. This cannot be.’
‘I refuse to believe,’ insists my father, ‘that any son of mine could be capable of murder. His temper must have flared when he met you –