She took a taxi and went to the new hospital. On the way, the driver asked if she was going to visit someone.
"They say it's very comfortable, but apparently they've got some real nutters in there too, and part of the treatment includes electric shocks."
"I'm going to visit someone," said Mari.
It took only an hour of conversation for Mari's two months of suffering to come to an end. The director of the hospital--a tall man with dyed hair, who answered to the name of Dr. Igor--explained that it was merely a panic disorder, a recently recognized illness in the annals of world psychiatry.
"That doesn't mean it's a new illness," he explained, taking care to make himself clear.
"What happens is that the people affected by it tend to hide, afraid they'll be mistaken for lunatics. It's just a chemical imbalance in the body, as is depression."
Dr. Igor wrote her a prescription and told her to go back home.
"I don't want to go back now," said Mari. "Even after all you've told me, I won't have the courage to go out on the street. My marriage has become a hell, and my husband needs time to recover from these months he's spent looking after me."
As always happened in such cases--because the shareholders wanted to keep the hospital working at full capacity--Dr. Igor accepted her as a patient, although making it absolutely clear that it wasn't necessary.
Mari
received the necessary medication, along with the appropriate psychiatric treatment, and the symptoms diminished and finally disappeared altogether.
During that time, however, the story of her internment in the hospital went the rounds of the small city of Ljubljana. Her colleague, the same friend who had a cup of tea with her only weeks ago, the companion who shared with her God knows how many moments of joy and trepidation, came to visit her in Villete. He complimented her on her courage in following his advice and getting help, but he then went on to explain the real reason for his visit: "Perhaps it really is time you retired."
Mari knew what lay behind those words; no one was going to entrust their affairs to a lawyer who had been a mental patient.
"You said that work was the best therapy. I need to come back, even if only for a short time."
She waited for a response, but he said nothing. Mari went on: "You were the one who suggested I get treatment. When I was considering retirement, my idea was to leave on a high note, fulfilled, having made a free, spontaneous decision. I don't want to leave my job just like that, defeated. At least give me a chance to win back my self-esteem, and then I'll ask to retire."
The lawyer cleared his throat. "I suggested you get treatment, I didn't say anything about going into hospital."
"But it was a question of survival. I was too afraid to go out into the street; my marriage was falling apart."
Mari knew she was wasting her words. Nothing she could say would persuade him; after all, it was the prestige of the office that was at risk. Even so, she tried once more.
"Inside here, I've lived with two sorts of people: those who have no chance of ever going back into society and those who are completely cured, but who prefer to pretend to be mad rather than face up to life's responsibilities. I want and need to learn to like myself again, I have to convince myself that I'm capable of taking my own decisions. I can't be pushed into decisions not of my own making."
"We're allowed to make a lot of mistakes in our lives," said her colleague, "except the mistake that destroys us."
There was no point in continuing the conversation; in his opinion Mari had committed the fatal error.
Two days later she received a visit from another lawyer, this time from a different practice, her now ex-colleagues' greatest rival. Mari cheered up; perhaps he knew she was free to take up a new post, and there was a chance she could regain her place in the world.
The lawyer came into the visiting room, sat down opposite her, smiled, asked if she was feeling better and then took various papers out of his briefcase.
"I'm here at your husband's request," he said.
"This is an application for divorce. Obviously he'll continue to pay all your hospital bills for as long as you remain in here."
This time Mari did not attempt to argue. She signed everything, even though she knew that, in accordance with the law she had studied and practiced, she could prolong the quarrel indefinitely. She then went straight to see Dr. Igor and told him that her symptoms had returned.
Dr. Igor knew she was lying, but he nevertheless extended her internment for an indefinite period.
Veronika decided she would have to go to bed, but Eduard was still standing by the piano.
I'M TIRED, Eduard. I need to sleep." She would have liked to continue playing for him, dredging up from her anesthetized memory all the sonatas, requiems, and adagios she used to know, because he knew how to admire without appearing to demand anything of her. But her body could take no more.
He was so good-looking. If only he would take one step outside his world and see her as a woman, then her last nights on this earth might be the most beautiful of her entire life: Eduard was the only one capable of understanding that Veronika was an artist. Through the pure emotion of a sonata or a minuet she had forged a bond with this man such as she had never known with anyone else.