“Tim?”
“Love maybe?”
“You sure about that?”
“Well, no. But seeing you asked, love is universal, or at least it should be.”
“Do you love your work?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason you do, I guess – it’s about making a difference, sometimes saving life.”
“So what’s more important, love or work?”
“God, I don’t know, they’re the same thing.”
“You’re sure?”
Joe was leaning back in a wicker armchair watching with a knowing half-smile.
“Joe, what’s she up to?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, pal. Why don’t you answer the question?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Love and work? Well, they balance each other, don’t they?” he offered.
Jarrah was clearly sceptical about her twin’s easy confidence. Her dark eyes settled on him for several seconds then focused on me. “Tim?”
“I agree with Joe.”
“And would you give up your work for love?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Would you give up psychiatry?”
“Never.”
“So what’s your point?”
“The point is that, for you and me, and Joe too, work is more important than love. If you had to choose one or the other, you’d choose your work.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“It’s not terrible at all, but every day I see people who think the opposite. For a lot of people, or most of my patients anyway, work is secondary and their relationship always comes first. It’s what they think is unconditional love.”
“So, if you’re incredibly passionate about your work, you can never have a balanced emotional relationship.”
“That’s what I’m positing.”
“But it doesn’t make sense. That’s saying that most of the brilliant people in the world never succeed at love – it’s not logical.”
“Succeed for who?”
“What do you mean?”
“One person will always be dominant, the other will be submissive. Partners of driven personalities who don’t want to be minions don’t survive.”
Thinking it through, I realised how often I’d heard variations on the theme: I love you, Tim, but there’s just not enough room for me in your life. Each time I heard it, I dismissed it as a lover’s selfishness. No matter which way I look at it, caring for animals is the most important thing I know.
Joe was staring out at the harbour and I could practically see the melancholia floating behind his eyes.
“So is your sister right?”
He seemed to struggle to pull himself away from wherever he’d travelled. “God, I hope not.”
“So you don’t think we’re doomed to lifelong romances with goldfish?”
“That depends,” he said with a rueful smile, “on how you feel about fish.”
He didn’t like Jarrah’s hypothesis, and nor did I. Joe’s passion for animals and my own is what bonds us above all things, or at least that’s what I believed. Such a vocational friendship would never be compromised by desire.
Assumption is the mother of most disasters, and my presumption that Joe’s world was a mirror of my own was about to be shattered.
8
After Sophia first visited the surgery, Joe existed as an impersonation of himself, a 3D avatar made out of flesh and blood. When you’re good friends with someone miserable you don’t need to ask for updates, you feel the mood as a chilly vapour. It’s where the parallel universe begins. To them your world is ordered – with everything calm and in its place, although of course it isn’t – but theirs is discombobulated, with reality hanging off a single hinge. Everything they see is in disharmony, a mirror reflecting backwards. Ideas and emotions are slightly off-kilter. Action is pointless. Time slows to primordial sludge.
Because of his mastery of pastoral care, Joe’s performance was impeccable. He was charming, always positive with our clients and patients; but he was an actor playing Dr Joe Franken and I knew it had to be a struggle.
On a Friday night I ran into Jarrah at the gym and was surprised when she asked, “How’s Joe?”
“He’s been better. You haven’t spoken?”
“Not for over a week. Most of the time I can’t get him off the phone, so I assume he’s caught up in one of his obsessions.”
“A new woman, you mean?”
“That’s usually why he disappears.”
“Well, there is a woman definitely, but this is different. He’s having a pretty hard time. I think he needs your help.”
“Really?”
“It’s a weird infatuation, Jarrah, even for him.”
“He’s such an idiot. When you’re finished, meet me at the Roosevelt for a cocktail.”
The most non-Jewish thing about Jarrah is that she relishes a dry martini after a heavy workout. We settled into a red leather booth in the Roosevelt cocktail bar in Kings Cross and I brought her up to date. Hearing myself tell the story, it was clear that Jarrah’s use of the word “obsession” was on the money.
“It could almost be the early stages of de Clerambault’s syndrome,” she said thoughtfully.
“De Clera what?”
“De Clerambault’s Syndrome, otherwise known as erotomania.”
“God in heaven, what’s that?”
“It’s a delusional psychotic condition, often associated with schizophrenia, where the patient believes someone is in love with them, even though they’re not.”
“Joe schizophrenic, really?”
“Does he think this woman secretly adores him? Is she sending him special signals with telepathy? Are there secret messages from her hidden in the nightly news?”
“Jesus, Jarrah, I don’t think your brother’s that crazy.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen them together for one thing, and I’m pretty sure the delusion is mutual.”
“Does he think she’s deliberately trying to hide their love from the world?”
“Not that I can tell.”
She took a long sip of her Manhattan. “Pity.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never had a case of erotomania, not a full-blown one anyway. You ever seen Fatal Attraction?”
“Listen – Joe’s not crazy, at least not completely, but he is having a hard time. He’s miserable.”
“Just like all the other times.”
“No,