The Alienation of Lewis Kachinsky
By the time Lenia turns up, Lewis is considering a change of career, but at fifty it seems too late. He’s a jaded therapist, all furred up from incongruence and neurosis absorbed from those who’ve passed through his consulting room. A therapist who has an increasing urge to scream answers at clients, despite knowing the only realisations worth having are the ones they make themselves. He grasps the Bakelite doorknob to the waiting room, transported to a younger and more eager hand. A hand that felt a tingle of excitement along with the uncertainty of each new encounter. A hand that has been well and truly dealt. Consulting rooms in Manchester’s King Street, all architectural splendour and high-end shops had once inspired a sense of validation. Now, he barely notices Lutyens or Gucci.
Lenia arrives on an Indian summer’s evening of long shadows. He steels himself. An old-fashioned word comes to mind. Ravishing. Weariness again, at having to register all that moves through him. Instant physical attraction, a mild shame about it. She looks at least twenty years younger than him. Dread about age, probable lack of attractiveness, although others say he’s in great shape. Humiliation at vanity. A fear she’ll want to talk about sex. Silent curses for noting appearance as opposed to demeanour. Fear of sweat on the top lip, which he tries and fails to wipe discreetly. Her almond eyes flick around the room. He judges the space and fears it reeks of hidden desperation. It’s a typical high-end therapist’s nest, solid period furniture, relevant books, an eclectic mix of painting and sculpture, two Chesterfields that face each other. An antique walnut two-side desk. Dull and safe. A cliché, but this is just another projection; it’s what he imagines she thinks. He tries to remember where her referral came from, but can’t, even though he checked the notes minutes before she arrived.
Lenia looks like all the races of the world have been taken and blended to produce the most appealing outcome. Light coffee skin, full mouth, arched cheekbones, long, black hair that shines when meeting the open sunset slats of the blind. Oozing sensuality.
‘Promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.’ Think of Julia, of twenty-five years, the life we’ve created, the family we’ve brought into being.
That would have been enough once, but no more.
Think of your position. Inappropriate.
He introduces himself. The pre-session patter is so familiar he manages to get through it without stumbling. Administrative details, boundaries, expectations and so on. When asked if there are any questions, a subtle, smiling shake of the head is offered. Lenia leaks no doubt or uncertainty. An inscrutable, magnetic waxwork.
The stock question is asked, the question that took him years to decide upon, after a hundred pretentious permutations. The simplest things are often the best.
“So, Lenia, can I ask what’s brought you here today?”
She expresses a need to come out of the closet. An assumption she means gay sinks his heart which leads to another self-reproach, but it proves wrong, anyway.
‘The closet’ turns out to be something else altogether.
“I think I’m an alien.” She says. Her voice is like silk.
He’s impressed, most clients who travel the alien line take at least five sessions to say it out loud. There are times he has the urge to reply, “Don’t we all?”
“You feel like you’re an alien?” Is the stock response; a little Rogerian repetition to get the ball rolling.
“No,” she says, “I don’t feel like an alien, I am one. I really think so.”
She has no problem with eye contact, the opposite, in fact. Her expression displays no hint of mental illness, a countenance recognised with experience. Sanely sincere, confident even. It intrigues. For the first time in ages, a little buzz of curiosity, a metaphorical sitting up and taking notice.
~
Julia is preparing cassoulet, which creates an air of garlic-laden culinary humidity. Lewis puts his arms around her waist from behind and kisses her on the cheek. He squeezes her backside.
“What is this thing you’ve got about accosting me when my hands are full?”
“Who could resist?” He says and then remembers. He extricates himself.
Lewis is ninety percent certain Julia is having an affair with the smooth and smug Calum Gilquist, a psychologist of his acquaintance. He swings between a primeval ego that would happily kill them both and the knowledge her cheeks are rosier for it. The proverbial spring is back in her step. He says nothing but wishes to return to the moment of forgetting when everything seemed normal, even though there’s no such thing. A normal man, living in his normal, rambling, Victorian South Manchester terrace on a normal tree-lined street, doing his normal job, attending to his normal life. Lewis considers the proposition that he’s abnormally normal.
She turns from the hob, wiping her hands on a paisley tea towel that matches her apron. A long-ago gift from their daughter, Jasmine, meant for Lewis. Both items are tatty and faded, but Julia can’t bear to part with them. She’s been cooking a lot of labour-intensive meals lately.
“You’re glowing.” She says, the palm of her hand on his cheek. “You haven’t had that look for a while. Good day?”
“Good enough. What time are we eating?”
“Be about an hour.”
“I’ll just finish my notes, then.”
The study is pretty much a replica of the consulting room. He pulls his laptop out, dawdling on the keys, cursing Julia for opening the forbidden door. It crosses his mind that it’s he, not Julia who’s created the situation, however unconsciously. That’s the trouble with being a therapist; always second guessing the roots and causes. There are times he feels relieved at being cut loose, the luxury of guilt-free desire for another as his hand drifts thighward when taking a shower. Once dressed, he and Julia sit at the table, eating and talking just like they’ve always done.
~
It isn’t long before life centres around Lenia’s twice weekly sessions. Days counted until the next encounter, thoughts organised around them. Groomed, prepared and refreshed, Lewis is a bower bird creating a stage on which he can never dance.
The weather has turned cold, but she still appears in light summer dresses, only never the same one twice. He especially likes the white one splattered with oversized red roses. An erotic Rorschach of wedding nights and Valentines days. Always cleavage, not too much, shiny legs taut in heels. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. The room’s rosy when she’s in it, softer, and fragrant. Appeal courses through veins, but it’s not all; he feels, simpatico. Lenia is water on rock. Every second in her presence erodes the barnacled therapist without.
“Can I ask you something, Lewis?” Lenia says.
“Of course.”
“What’s the difference between you and a prostitute? Such pretty words for you, counsellor, therapist, saviour, even. Such ugly words for them, hooker, slag, dog, slut. Regard for you and derision for them.”
This is typical Lenia, she likes to challenge his world view and often succeeds
“Mucous?”
She laughs. “I’ll give you that. More physical contact. But you trade in emotion – isn’t that more intimate? The only difference I can see is the value you place on these things, the circumstances and environment in which you work. Prostitutes provide a vital social service, just like you.”
Lenia always pays in cash and places the notes on the table. He’s thought more than once it’s like she’s leaving it on the bedside cabinet.
“You see me as a kind of prostitute?”
“That’s not what I’m saying as such. Your question reveals my point. The Oxford English Dictionary defines prostitution as the unworthy or corrupt use of one’s talents for personal gain. I’ve seen plenty of things in your world that look a damned sight more unworthy and corrupt than a straightforward transaction.”
“I understand what you’re saying. I’d be interested to know what’s prompted you to say it.”
“Because there’s so much about your planet that seems just plain dumb to me. I’m hoping you can help me understand it better.”
Lewis has observed that Lenia’s claim to be alien appears to require no resolution. No weeping and wailing, suicidal thoughts, anger. Lenia only wishes to discuss her experience of being amongst humans. No matter how skilled his questions, how empathic his responses, there are no cracks in the pavement Lenia walks on. Apart from the scale of her single delusion, she appears to be emotionally healthy in every other sense.
“So, what you’re saying is, it’s only the value judgements we place on sex workers that would lead to a therapist being offended by the comparison.”
“What if you called them love counsellors, instead? Or erotic therapists? What if they enjoyed the respect and gratitude of society for the vital work they do? What if they had a stately love nest on King Street?”
‘The unworthy or corrupt use of one’s talents’ is stinging Lewis. That’s what he’s been doing for the past couple of years- paying lip service to people who deserve better and taking their hard-earned cash in the process.
On the Metro home, he considers the premise. Remove sex from the equation and most people indulge in prostitution of one kind or another. He occasionally thinks that about Julia, who’s emotionally impregnable. For Julia, Lewis has been little more than a provider and source of status, but by the time he realised it, they were in possession of offspring. Hell, maybe that’s what he wanted – a wife who wouldn’t interfere with his ambition and allow him to be the star in the family firmament. Since the children left home, he’s come to believe that Julia sees him as a rocket booster that having served its purpose, can be conveniently jettisoned.
He looks around the carriage.
What a bunch of whores we all are.
Lewis blinks as halos of coloured light surround the passengers’ heads. Squeezing his eyes shut, fears about dementia, strokes, blood pressure or hallucinations set his heart thumping. When he opens them again, everything is back to normal.
~
Martha has been Lewis’s clinical supervisor for the past sixteen years. All her clients have retired, bar Lewis, who’s she’s agreed to carry on seeing as long as her brain continues to function in an adequate manner. Lewis has always been grateful for her warm and earthy presence, her counsel and gentle challenges. His initial sessions with Martha taught him how easy it is to see what’s going on with other people and how difficult it is to see what’s going on with yourself. He was grateful for the experience, it gave him patience when clients were stuck and going around in circles for weeks, or even months on end, which could be tedious in the extreme. Now, that patience has worn thin, like over-washed cashmere. He’s just about to knock on Martha’s door when his phone rings.
“Hi, Jack?
Are you okay?
Perhaps we discuss that in our session later?
You’re what?
You’re standing on the railway line at Castleton.
Jack, I need you to calm down.
No, I’m not in any position to call the shots, right now.
I see – and how do you feel about that?
Aha, I understand. Jack, could I ask you to step off the line, so we can discuss this properly?
Yes, I appreciate it’s not usually the role of the therapist to be so directive, but I think that under the circumstances…
I can’t tell you that, Jack.
It feels unpleasant, Jack. I’m concerned about you.
Of course, I care about you, I care about all my clients.
Well, we discussed boundaries in our first session, Jack.”
Lewis’s auditory attention shifts. The background noise becomes as clear as Jack’s voice.
“You know what, Jack? Working with attention-seeking compulsive liars is like trying to unravel cold spaghetti. I don’t think you’re on the railway line at Castleton at all. I think you’re at home watching daytime TV. I’ll see you at your next session. I’m calling you out.”
Lewis experiences a rush of energy the like of which he’s never known before. Then a rush of fear about the number of cardinal rules he’s just broken. Then further fear about the sudden bout of super-hearing coming so soon after the coloured lights. A text comes through. It’s a photo of Jack in his house watching the TV. The caption reads ‘You got me.’ Lewis grins and switches off his phone. Martha opens the door.
“I heard you talking.” She says.
They sit in the conservatory of a house not unlike the one Lewis lives in. Over the years, Martha has turned plump and grey, but has always been the sharp guardian of Lewis’s psyche. Now, even Martha is receding into the distance, the relic of a former self sailing into the sunset. A mentor past her sell by date. Lewis is no longer bowled over by anything she says. He even knows her tells like the back of his hand. If something gets Martha where she lives, she’ll link her hands together. If she’s secretly amused, her head will dip to one side. If she thinks you’re hiding something, her legs will cross at the ankles as they have done for most of the session. That’s probably because he hasn’t told her about Lenia. She knows something’s up, just not what, probably knows his tells like he knows hers. Unconscious body language often reveals a different narrative to the one being related.
“Have you ever come across a client who doesn’t display any non-verbal clues, Martha?”
“I don’t think so. That’s probably impossible, everyone has them. Why do you ask?”
Because it’s just occurred to me that Lenia shows no tells at all.
~
“Secondary schools, what’s that all about, Lewis? Seven hundred walking hormones who are probably at the most primeval they’ll ever be, all together in one place with only a handful of hopefully appropriate adults to keep an eye on them. How crazy is that? Really?”
The energy in the room is intense and all he longs for. It fills his days and nights.
‘Promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep’ is ditched in favour of Robert Frost’s previous line, ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep.’ Lenia is the sensual armchair into which Lewis sinks twice weekly. The reason for her attendance has slipped beyond his reach. She fails to give any hint of where she comes from, her occupation, her associations. It creates an impression she appears out of nowhere and then returns to it. Like she exists only for him. Today’s discourse is sweeping and starts to encompass the whole human race, like she’s shifting up a gear.
“These people are hopeful in some ways, Lewis, they have potential, but their primordial drives frustrate me.”
Her eyes dart in his direction. “What are you thinking?”
Lewis hesitates, self-disclosure is a tricky thing in the world of therapy and should be used sparingly. Nevertheless, it’s better than lying.
“I’m thinking about many years ago, watching my little boy in the nursery playground, all that creative innocence was so delightful to me, but I could see traits developing in some of his peers. I remember thinking that Julian, an overconfident tank of a four-year old, was probably going to be a right little bastard.”
“Then you understand where I’m coming from.”
Lewis is rewarded with a flirtatious flick of the head. He’s tempted to ask about Lenia’s planet, but even in this state of enchantment, a glimmer from his former self says it’s going too far.
Things have been happening to Lewis, things that would have once frightened and disturbed as potential illness or mental imbalance but are now noted as curiosities. The coloured lights around people have appeared twice more. His hearing is selectively acute, like he’s got a secret microphone he can train on anyone who catches his interest. He’s discovered a profound dislike for the smell of nutmeg and oregano. Synthetic fabrics are nothing short of torture and find their way to the charity shop bag. He needs considerably less sleep.
If Julia senses disturbance, it goes without comment. She’s long understood that his vocation can unsettle. Her admiration for his work is part of the glue that holds them together. At least it was. It’s probably not that at all, just too busy thinking about writhing with Calum Gilquist.
~
Lewis can no longer resist; caution is cast aside; vestiges of restraint and responsibility sweated out in a sudden fever. Concerns for transference and rationality are a memory. He no longer deflects, steers attention back to the client, he engages and answers, revelling in the liberation of words without restriction, spewing a lifetime’s frustration. Lenia’s delight is clear and feeds his enthusiasm. They race towards an unspecified goal like two dogs who’ve caught scent of a rabbit. The desire to please her, dive further into the pool of her psyche consumes. He embraces a self, cocooned within. Life seen through a tunnel, detached, always in the distance. His dreams are filled with unearthly landscapes through which he runs in slow motion with Lenia. The ground beneath his feet always soft, the light, soothing, the air filled with new sounds.
Lewis is no longer aware he’s late for work, the bin has gone unemptied, dinners with friends have been forgotten or filled with emotional absence. Client notes are a thing of the past, as clients themselves are fast becoming. Julia realises an overdue concern that begins with sympathetic questions and ends with one of those lists of misdemeanours that women are so skilled at. She gets sarcasm in return.
Alerted by Julia, Martha visits. He invents a mish-mash of fears about ageing and existential angst, rendered from clients past. He even throws in Calum Gilquist for maximum impact, knowing Martha may well concoct a theory that Julia’s concern is borne of unconscious guilt. He’s pretty sure she buys it.
~
Lewis Kachinsky studies himself in the hall mirror before leaving the house. Younger, fitter, mind sharper, less grey in his close-cropped hair, which he smooths, dropping his keys in the process. After bending down to pick them up, he notices ‘The Psychology of Cult Behaviour – Techniques for Deprogramming.’ By Calum Gilquist, lingering on the bookshelf. He’d forgotten it was Gilquist’s speciality. He pulls the book out and opens it. Running down the table of contents, there’s a gripping in his chest, a flicker in the mirror. The flicker is in his own eyes, spreading until the whites become blue as a swimming pool. A double take. The optical illusion is expected to recede but doesn’t. He staggers back, pinned to the wall, reeling. Faint and clammy, he decides to make coffee and sit for a few minutes. After the coffee, he looks in the mirror – gone.
Excitement and terror paralyse, but the mind clears. All doubt is removed, the path, unimpeded. The day’s clients are cancelled, except for Lenia. He takes the Metro wearing sunglasses, in case of relapse, which draws attention, but not the fearful kind. Fields of coloured light no longer ebb and flow, but constantly waver around people’s heads, shifting as thought, feeling and action change. The colours are predictable, even for a human. Red denotes irritation and anger, surging in a pregnant woman as two teenage boys rush past her to claim the two remaining seats. Blue is calm, yellow is happy, green is love and contentment. These are just the basics; the colours move and intertwine into more subtle permutations, but are still understood, it’s a language he needs no introduction to. He zooms in on any sound that catches his interest; whispered arguments, teasing, gossip, business calls. He can turn his attention to anyone in the carriage and know exactly where they’re at. His profession was the ultimate arena for the perfection of his craft.
The irony of Gilquist being the one who planted the final piece of the puzzle raises a smile. Lewis thought he was Lenia’s therapist, but of course, she was his. Her accomplishments in the classic art of deprogramming were admirable. Textbook.
Her appearance designed to please and engage, setting the scene for stage one:
Discredit the figure of authority.
In this case, his sacred, therapeutic vows, beautifully corroded by Lenia’s heady presence.
Stage two, present contradictions.
“What’s the difference between you and a prostitute? Such pretty words for you, counsellor, therapist, helper, saviour, even. Such ugly words for them, hooker, slag, dog, slut. Regard for you and derision for them.”
Stage three, reality over ideology.
He had always known, somewhere in the deepest core of himself. Known without knowing. Waiting for the release of the untrammelled self, revelling in the liberation of being with Lenia.
Stage four, shifting loyalties.
Julia, Martha, friends and colleagues all ditched in favour of his heart’s desire.
Stage five, identification with the deprogrammer, as opposed to the oppressor.
The timing was perfect, wandering wife, children left the nest, jaded with the job. Little to bind him. It had all been planned so. He understands that it had to be this way. She couldn’t just turn up and say “Well, Lewis, guess what? You’re an alien who’s been planted among humans to study them, but now it’s time to come back to the fold.”
To truly understand what it is to be human, he had to engage in the messy business of being one. Lewis has heard pretty much everything from his clients; incest, abuse, infidelity, criminality, fear, delusion. There is no aspect of the human landscape that Lewis hasn’t travelled. The mechanisms by which he was made to forget and inhabit this strange arrangement are still mysterious, but he doesn’t doubt that all will be revealed. In the meantime, life pulses again, the sense of mission he encounters, full of joy and meaning.
Lewis feels a sneaking admiration for the talking monkeys who travel unknowingly beside him. It’s surprising what a bunch of greedy, aggressive primal creatures can achieve. Humans will be a pushover; he knows all their strengths and weaknesses, just as Lenia knew his.
Slivers of memory are returning, they weren’t dreams after all; blue, walking on a soft, cloud-like surface, two suns in the distance, talking without words. Dome-shaped structures. He can barely wait for his meeting with Lenia, hurrying as the tram approaches his stop.
He thinks of Lenia in her human guise, to which he’s become more than accustomed. Thinks of curves bouncing in that white dress with red roses all over it. Maybe they could stay in this form just a little bit longer. Be a shame to waste it.
