Tales of Disturbance

The Sanitarium

The old mattress, slumped against the hospital wall is still upright, as if shot and refusing to die; its faded blue stripes, still covered with the indelible excretions of the ill and the dying. Yellow foam protrudes out of it like a festering wound. Twelve other beds are around it, pared back, sparse and still, as though still stunned by the horrors they have witnessed.

Roses of mould bloom, floor to the ceiling. The cornicing is crumbling. An upturned table lies on its side, top drawer gawping open. Papers, strewn around it; black spidery signatures just visible as if a discussion has turned suddenly violent; all efforts of civilization and diplomacy lost in rage. The floor around it is littered with medical instruments blistered with rust, a crutch that charred at one end. Graffiti on a fireplace. Broken glass. One bottle on its side, a stain on the floor that resembles the thick saffron liquid that once oozed out of it. 

Wasps zip in and out. The buzzing is like a warning. There must be a wasp's nest in one of the cavities in the walls. Business like, they are full of themselves. Narcissist wasps. It's like they govern here, and this place was taken out of the hands of the doctors, and left to them.

The windows, many of them smashed permit a jaundiced light. The quality is yellow tinfoil. Finally, a pistol lies on the windowsill– it points downwards. Suggesting not power, but brokenness.

It was only by chance that I had discovered the Sanatorium where the great Georg Lebowski had endured his final months. The exterior was littered with signs – 'to let' was alongside 'ongoing building construction' which was next to 'demolition site, stay off'. It was as if the government couldn't quite make up its mind what to do with the place. The feeling was uneasy; it cloyed to me and somehow made me feel uneasy in my own clothes.

I had found it the night of our anniversary dinner. We - my wife and I - had been living in Switzerland, solely for my work that had dried up almost completely, hoping for a miracle. She was a writer too, and spent her days writing in the garden in a floppy sunhat, growing tanned and beautiful, and making more progress than I could dream of. It was a good deal for her too, this arrangement.

Our anniversary was always a special occasion Earlier in the evening I'd poured two glasses of the fancy chablis that she liked. Told her to sit. I couldn't wait to see her reaction to the meal. I'd followed every letter of the recipe; spent extra long basting the herring the previous evening. She loved my cooking. One of the few things that were left in the delicate thread of our relationship that was threatening to snap almost daily. 

As soon as we sat down, she didn't like my tie, why was I wearing one? Why not just an open neck shirt, more suitable for the occasion? Was it so hard to put a bit of thought into what I was wearing? The herring was delicious, but too hot. Why had I not let it cool? The wine was delicious, but too cold. Why had I not waited a bit? Had I forgotten she had sensitive teeth? I had never known this in the first place, and I said so, and – that was the final straw She took a long cool draught of the beautiful, well chosen Chablis and I knew she was steeling herself for the fight. All this discontentment was a precursor to what she really wanted to say, and soon we were knee deep in a blazing row of Biblical proportions.

The initial subject was finances. Of course it was – we didn't have any. All my fault. I was failing in work and life and hadn't paid the mortgage in more than a year. I wish I could say I had depression or a brain tumor, or anxiety, or that I'd lost someone in a terrible accident, like everyone else with writer's block (or 'life' block), but I couldn't because I didn't. The reasons for this 'break' evaded me completely. All I know was I would make my coffee at 8. I'd put it in a flask so I'd have enough for about 4 cups and my concentration wouldn't be broken and I could have one per hour. In the old days as a student in Cambridge I could concentrate for 8 hours straight.