Books by Margret Berendes
The Arabic Anka Pendant and Where Time is Round

THE RACCOON

An excerpt from The Arabic Anka Pendant

On a gray November day in 1974, I found myself in a hurry to get to the clinic, and only at the last minute did I remember to look for a certain issue of the American Journal of Psychiatry. A colleague had asked me for a particular back issue. I had no trouble finding it on the bookshelf. To my surprise, I grabbed with it a Canadian history magazine from 1935 called The Beaver, which I could not recall having seen before. It puzzled me how it had come to hide among my professional literature. A closer look at it later in my office would most likely offer an explanation, I thought.

I drove from the Maryland suburbs through a drizzling morning rush-hour to Washington, D.C., and took a detour along the heavily wooded Canal Road to avoid part of the downtown traffic. Traveling alongside the Potomac River below city level was always pleasant, even on a wet day. I enjoyed seeing on my right the water rushing down around the little islands and underneath the bridges, and I always relished the sight and memories of Georgetown University, with its old- fashioned buildings, high up on the left. My husband and I had met there thirteen years ago I still in medical school, he about to finish his Ph.D. in chemistry. I was only twenty-two when we married, not long after meeting. Claudia was born the same year; she would turn twelve this coming fall.

I crossed under Key Bridge and turned into Whitehurst Freeway which led me to the heart of downtown. Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the southeast side of the District of Columbia and left my car in the medical building parking lot. Not even wanting to gamble that any of the old elevators would function, I climbed holding my briefcase in one hand and juggling a paper cup of coffee from the cafeteria in the other the many steps to the psychiatric outpatient clinic, on the fifth floor.

To brighten up the gloom of my little office, I quickly turned on my desk lamp on and was immediately aware of the red and yellow tulips that Geneva, the nurse, had put on my desk. Their color created a lively contrast to the strands of dried bamboo I had squeezed between the desk and the wall to cover up the cracks and peeling paint. During the winter, flowers from her cherished little greenhouse always cheered me up on Monday mornings, which predictably came with a heavy load of patients. Some rocks and polished stones, collected on faraway beaches, lay scattered on the desk, their timelessness never failing to affect me in a wondrous way.

As I caressed the stones with my eyes, I discovered the crumbled aluminum foil from a candy bar I had in the office the week before. I burst into laughter: Our famous little raccoon had paid my office a visit again, this time to indulge in chocolate. Accustomed to making his way along broken pipes into the space between the window glass and the loose inside screen, the animal must have jumped up onto my desk. Since the bird nests that had existed on the windowsill years before, the raccoon's occupancy was a first in the history of this old building, where no elevator ever worked, where time had not moved for many years on the antique clocks in the corridors, and where large signs at the public fountains warned against drinking the lead-poisoned water.

I had taken care of all my morning appointments, and it was almost noon when Geneva entered my office. She was a tall, middle-aged woman, and her genuine compassion for our patients radiated from her dark face. Although street-smart and very familiar with inner-city life, she was a no-nonsense person who could be very strict: No patient could ever trick her. She approached me with her irresistible smile and announced one more patient, a newcomer, who had been transferred from another health clinic. A tall black man, around the age of forty with short, curly black hair, entered the room. He was neatly dressed in a Gortex wind-jacket on top of a blue sweatsuit. His face seemed familiar to me, and I was puzzled about where I had seen him before. He likewise studied my face and suddenly we recognized each other. He hesitated for a moment as if taken aback, but then quite matter-of-factly settled into the chair adjacent to my desk. The man reached for one of the polished rocks near the vase, and with an enigmatic smile remarked, "You, too, seem to like rocks." While toying with an exotic piece of quartzite, polished by the elements of nature into the shape of an egg, he wondered aloud: "What do these mean to you?" I had never asked myself this question, and his directness took me by surprise. I spontaneously sputtered out: "It's hard to explain. Perhaps it's their silent permanence that speaks to me."

He tightened his grip around the rock and, leaning back in the chair, he slowly repeated: "Yes, permanence, silent permanence of memories lost." For a fleeting moment his eyes seemed to be fixed on a point at an imaginary distance.

As I studied his lean, intelligent face, which carried the marks of suffering and reflected great seriousness, he put the rock back on the desk and casually said, "The Massacre of the Innocents, remember?" And it was then that the details of our unusual encounter two years ago came rapidly and vividly back to life.

We had met at the National Gallery of Art of the Smithsonian Institute, where he worked as a guard. My seventy-year-old mother, who had accompanied me to see a special exhibit of Italian paintings, was adamant about using her new camera. Aware that photographing any art work was prohibited, I had turned to the guard for advice. "No harm done," he said. "Let the old lady take a few pictures. I'll walk you to the other end of the hall and pretend to be busy answering your questions."

Having left my mother behind, we were both standing next to a baroque painting on a vast scale: Pacecco's "The Massacre of the Innocents." It covered an entire wall, and in brilliant colors depicted soldiers brutally killing mothers and their babies with swords. Some people were standing in front of us, and as they walked on, he touched my arm and moved me closer to the painting. "Take a good look at this," he said. "Most visitors don't like this painting. 'Oh, this brutality!' they exclaim. 'This is the work of a sick mind. Who wants to believe in such violence?'"

I watched as the guard opened and closed his fist repeatedly. He was leading up to something seemingly very important to him. I was curious to hear him out.

"I don't understand people anymore, I really don't." His voice had become agitated. "When I hear these stupid remarks of people, I always have to hold myself back from not jumping in front of them and screaming, 'Wake up! Here, look at me, yes, indeed, I myself killed innocent mothers and children in Vietnam. Don't pretend you don't know, but that is the truth, the whole truth of that war!'"

For an instant, the guard stood motionless before he continued in a low voice, "Believe me, I don't understand myself either. Was it really me who participated in such horror?"

Unprepared for this sudden turn of conversation, I could not fathom why and how I, a total stranger, had triggered the man's confessions. After all, my profession was not written across my forehead.

"Punji pits left and right, blood-filled leeches dangling from my arms, vines capturing my feet, elephant grass ripping my fingers, and never exactly knowing where the enemy was, always in danger of being shot by my own men. Yes, that jungle of the Central Highland. And then, in panic, accidentally shooting innocent civilians, women and children, and watching atrocities committed by guys who went berserk. That woman with a grenade tied to her belly, thrown into a well-- that was Vietnam. I still wake up at night, haunted by her screams."

He had stopped talking and now looked exhausted. A few moments later, in total control again, he suggested in a slightly amused manner, "Let's walk back to the old lady. Her time is up. No more pictures."

My mother had finished a twenty-four exposure roll of film and was beaming. Before we parted, the guard approached me once more, his voice a whisper. "Do you think it's abnormal of me not wanting to make love to my girlfriend? The obscene is so close to the sacred. I need to be clean first and do penance. I tell you, whoever lived through that nightmare has only three alternatives to tackle the guilt and anger burning deep inside: to commit suicide, kill somebody else, or grow beyond the self and make a total conversion."

And with this statement, he turned abruptly and left the room,leaving me unraveled and speechless.

When Geneva entered the office, my mind was still entangled with the vivid memory of this encounter, as though it had happened yesterday. She handed the patient's chart to me and then pointed at him. "This is Adrian." "My name is not Adrian. It's Adrian Haitten," he remarked with an ice-cold voice. "I wouldn't have the audacity to call you by your first name without knowing you."

He had set the tone, and Geneva, slightly perplexed, left the room. I waited for him to open the conversation, but felt only waves of resistance emanating from this man whose pride had been hurt. Thinking it would make it easier for him to talk, I decided to jump right back into the past. "I have to thank you once more for letting my mother take pictures," I said. "They all turned out quite well, and she is mighty proud of them." With a faint smile he said, "I'm glad to hear that. Wasn't a big deal." We had connected again.

Entering the office once more, Geneva stood in the door and delivered an impatient reminder: "Dr. Sibyl, the waiting room is full of patients. You have to get going. This man here needs only a refill for his medicine" "That's not the reason I came," Adrian Haitten interjected sharply. "I am not taking any medicine. I am here because the lady at Social Services wants to place me in a halfway house and I don't want that. I prefer to live on the street."

Geneva was upset. "Why are you so stubborn? Social Services only has your well-being in mind."

"I would appreciate it if I could talk to the doctor alone." I gave the nurse a sign to leave and turned to Adrian Haitten: "Why wouldn't you want to live in a halfway house?"

With his arms resting on his thighs, his legs apart, he lifted his head and gave me a sidelong look. "Would you like to be told by some old ladies when to get up, when to take a shower, when to eat and when to sleep? No, you wouldn't, and neither would I. I am a free man and strong enough to survive in the street. I am not hallucinating. I mean it."

I understood so well what he was saying, and I had no intentions at this moment of convincing him otherwise. I changed the topic and asked, "What about your girlfriend? Has she come to appreciate your attitude?" "No, she never understood and never will. I broke up with her, and besides, I am not really living on the street."

I must have looked confused because he mocked me: "You obviously don't know that libraries are free in this country. How better could I spend my time than by reading? Yesterday, for example, I learned that there was a Russell Wallace who, simultaneously with Darwin, developed the theory of natural selection, but he went far beyond that. Darwin was only concerned with the physical body, including the anatomical brain, but Wallace saw the brain already wired for the spiritual development of mankind that needed to be activated by an outer force. I like that, but Darwin didn't."

Before I could say anything, he continued his lecture.

"Darwinism - a materialistic measuring stick for mere bodily survival, with no consideration for quality or value of personality. The fittest! What a definition. The murderer, escaped from prison and living on stolen money in his hideaway in the Caribbean, would qualify by excellence. Who is to determine what is meant by the fittest?" Adrian's tense body tilted forward as he fidgeted with another rock in his hand.

I was trying to comprehend what was going on in the mind of my patient when a strange noise at the window, a scratching and scraping, caught my attention. A furry little animal with a bushy white tail and a cunning look the famous hospital pet had pushed the screen loose and was squeezing its body through to climb down from the sill.

Anything but shy, the raccoon searched for something to eat. It settled in front of Adrian Haitten, right at his boots, as if begging for food. Before I could explain, my patient had already grasped the situation. Completely relaxed now, he searched through his pocket and came up with the leftovers of a sandwich. He removed the plastic wrapping and dropped the bread on the floor as if this were the most natural situation in the world. "At times, there are quite a few out there in the street at night," he said. "Mischievous little rascals, but I'm fond of them. I love to feed animals." The raccoon was clearly waiting for more. Adrian bent down and whispered, "Sorry, that's it." He then straightened himself and looked at me pensively. "Imagine this were a cub of a?"

He stopped abruptly.

"A cub of what?" I asked.

"Raccoons and polar bears are relatives and... but never mind,sometimes I am preoccupied with certain fantasies."

"Why don't you tell me?" I encouraged him.

He shook his head with adamant conviction, and I decided to let it go. I hadn't even taken his anamnesis, nor had I looked into his chart. I had only listened to him. Something, however, told me that this was all right, and the only way to truly get to know this man.

As Adrian Haitten stood up, the raccoon swiftly disappeared behind the desk, and for the first time he laughed whole heartedly. "A woman psychiatrist and her assistant the raccoon. You have trained that little critter well. But I have to go now. And you get Social Services off my neck, please. That's all I came for." And with this request, he left the office.

For some reason, I found it impossible to evaluate him as a patient. The impact of his proud manner and curious thought process was still with me when Geneva came in again.

"Tell me about him, Geneva, I didn't even read his chart."

"He has a nerve, this man." She felt relieved to finally express her opinion. "Lost his job as a guard at the Smithsonian when he yelled at visitors and called them ignorant. Ever since his schizophrenic breakdown last year, he has lived in the street and in shelters. He is supposed to take, daily, a half-milligram Haldol tablet, but according to this I must say incomplete chart, he was uncooperative. It beats me how he maintains such a clean look. Nevertheless he will be a problem patient, I tell you. Doesn't want to be placed in a home, refuses to take his medicine, what a defiant character."

"I forgot to give him a new appointment," I admitted.

"Don't worry, his case manager will take care of this. But next time, don't be carried away. Make an evaluation and convince him to take his medicine. Otherwise, I insist on weekly injections to keep him and the nursing staff out of trouble."

"Yes, General," I joked, "I promise." I handed her the American Journal of Psychiatry with the request to deliver it to my colleague. I put The Beaver magazine into a drawer and left for my lunch break. On my way home that dark evening, through bumper-to- bumper traffic, my thoughts jumped back and forth between the war in Vietnam and the smart little raccoon in my office. Who was Adrian Haitten? Later, at dinner, when I kept to myself, my daughter finally remarked, "Why are you so silent?"

"I am just thinking of one of my patients."

"Sibyl, you get too easily carried away with your work. You need to break this habit of yours," my husband said, his fingers drumming the tabletop. And then, to make my family feel better, I talked to them about my latest encounter with a furry little visitor.