The long view.

Psychiatrists' notes from all over ...

Groupe Psychiatrique 12, rue Jacob Paris 75006

22 February 2005

Le patient arrives several minutes late, in an agitated state. Quite tense, displaying a great deal of self-directed anger, and, later, doctor-directed impatience when reminded that his session is almost over. (Le patient expresses some mild irritation that the professional hour, once 55 minutes, has been reduced by law to 35 minutes. When it is explained to him that a shorter professional hour means that more psychiatrists will be able to work, he snorts in derision.)

After a glass of wine, le patient calms down a bit.

Le patient explains that in his capacity as Le President de la Republique, he must occasionally eat what he refers to as le sandwich de merde. This he has done, he claims, by dining in Brussels with President Bush of the United States. It went well, of course, but le patient cannot help but reflect on the absurdity of the situation, the sadness of life itself, and the bitter hypocrisy of making pleasant conversation with a man he despises and scorns, just because, in the words of le patient, "la situation en Irak n'est pas une grande tragedie, comme on veut."

I ask le patient to clarify his statement: He indicated that he would have preferred a messy outcome in Iraq, a botched election, a tenfold increase in casualties? Is this a correct interpretation of his wishes? Le patient shrugs and lights a cigarette. It is important, he reminds me, to understand that the texte of his remarks can also be understood to have a texte secondaire, in which it is not that he wishes for violence and heavy casualties and humiliation for the Americans, but, rather, "violence," and "heavy casualties," and "humiliation" for them, as concepts--as metaphor, one might say. I nod and compliment le patient on his subtle and sophisticated reasoning.

At the same time, le patient is depressed. He feels that the newspaper and television images of the dinner with le president Bush seem to display a fawning, almost subservient posture for Le President de la Republique de France, somewhat ill-suited to the leader of a great and (semiotically) powerful nation. This stature debacle makes him melancholy, and it seems to pierce his healthy French amour-propre. How can a man of such subtle intellect and acuity of perception, such historical understanding and practical intelligence, be--or, worse, appear to be--a simpering, apologizing, braying cretin next to ...to ...that man? It is worse than ironic. It is worse than illogical. It is an almost unbearable injustice.

Le patient sips his wine. The evening shadows lengthen. Downstairs, we can hear the concierge calling to her husband--lame in the right leg since the war--that his chicken is ready. We smile sadly to each other and shrug. We hear the husband shuffling along the paving stones, his right foot dragging mournfully behind him. I say to le patient: What can one do with such a world? How can one ever rise above the muck? One cannot, he says to me. One cannot. But still, one must try. I shrug, nod, have a sip of wine, nod, shrug, and sip and shrug and shrug again.

Le patient is correct: Life is a tragic/comic dance. And the bitter irony cannot but seem absurd to a Frenchman. After a small wedge of a decent Reblochon, and another glass of wine, the patient begins to reflect more philosophically about his situation. Perhaps, he says, this experience is, in a way, a victory--an intellectual victory of a sort. Perhaps it will be seen, in the fullness of history, as a small moment of clarity in an otherwise murky time. Perhaps, he suggests, he really is a great man, a historical figure, who will be recognized only in later days. "Perhaps," I say to him with a shrug, "although it isn't really playing that way in the media."

Le patient expresses irritation that his psychiatre isn't more sympa. I shrug again. I am dedicated to the truth, I tell him. The truth is my mistress. Well, not vraiment. My actual mistress lives on the rue St Dominique, in the Seventh. I was speaking metaphorically. Le patient asks me to shut up.

We sit in silence for a moment, smoking. And then, in delicious irony, our time is up.

Gathering his scarf and cigarettes, he exits into the winter night. I finish my wine, and walk to my lover's apartment. Later, I dine with my wife.