Parce Que J'ai Péché

...Parce Que J'ai Péché...

[For I Have Sinned]

By Judith Hill

Chapter 1

Paris

Thursday, November 21, 2002

Ah, mon Dieu. I should have suggested lunch this afternoon. But I am willing to sit here, a French Buddha – a Buddha who smokes too much – and watch Adam Pierson blow off another therapy session with me. But I am tired and the growling in my stomach is becoming embarrassing. These sessions with my star patient are wearing but we therapists are spread very thin on the ground; the psychotherapeutic care and maintenance of Homo sapiens immortalis makes for an unusual specialty, n'est-ce pas?

I finish my cigarette and stub it out. It keeps my own nerves quiet in these sessions and he does not mind. I suspect he has known the comforts of tobacco himself at various times.

"Could I possibly be boring you, René?" he says. He is annoyed. At himself?

I shrug. It is important to appear calm. What I feel does not matter. "I have been known to bore my own therapist on occasion," I tell him. "I am not going anywhere."

"You have a therapist?" I doubt the surprise is genuine. Surely he knows these things.

"Mais, bien sûr." I give him my best inscrutable smile. I am not that easily distracted. "And we are not talking about me."

He stirs his coffee, just staring into it, his head down. He is off his game today. Which is interesting. He has been stirring it just like that for some time now.

"I am going to order something to eat," I say. There is no reaction. "You have eaten?" A slight shrug, no more. This is not good. "I will order for both of us, yes?"

I raise my hand toward the waitress, who comes to our table. She has been watching us; I hope it is I she is imagining in her bed. "Deux de vos 'Campagnards', s'il vous plaît, Mademoiselle." She looks wistfully at the top of Adam's head, probably wishing he would notice her, and leaves. Ah... on perd la main – you are losing your touch, René. And he has a little more hair than you do, non?

"You ordered me goat cheese?" he says without looking up.

I ignore him and stretch out my legs, fold my hands over my belly and wait him out. I am worried about him. We are not that far along in the therapy. First there is a crisis, then the patient recovers, then there is a rest from the storm, the patient feels better... The crisis is over but the problem? Ah, but the problem is still there, you see; the behaviour that landed the patient into the crisis in the first place is still intact and a relapse is inevitable. It is… tricky. The patient feels that he no longer needs to warm a chair in your presence. And I think we are at this point, non? I must be careful or this is where I shall lose him.

I sip my coffee and give him time to say something on his own but he says nothing. It is time to take the initiative. "Would you like to tell me what you are thinking about while we are waiting?"

He sighs and sits back in his chair. "I'm sorry, René. Can we just eat and call it a day?"

"Of course. We are just friends today, hein? Enjoying a meal together. There is always another day, non? How is Silas?"

This gets a bit more of a response. "He's good." Even a little smile. "Yeah, he's good."

"I am glad to hear it. And the bookshop?"

"Um... it's fine." I can see he doesn't wish to pursue this. Perhaps he is hallucinating again. I am not sure he would tell me if he were. I wait, but nothing.

"I go to Reims tomorrow," I say. "I give you a rest until Monday. I return Saturday afternoon but I will leave you my number there. All right?"

He chuckles. "You old dog, René. Got a little piece on the side up there, have you?"

I shrug. "I don't much care for the celibate life, Adam. You have known me too long not to know that. But marriage? Well... This is France, mon ami. Such things are not a problem, you know?" And I have not seen Mathilde for too long.

He goes back to stirring his cold coffee absently. "You think you can trust me not to murder my friends in their beds?"

A little attack, I see. Also a little depression. A weekend away would do us both some good. Perhaps if he feels I am giving him a little room... "You are a cynic today. I would be happier if you were in care, yes. But there must be a little trust or there will be no progress. You don't agree?"

The waitress comes with our baguettes. It is just as well we are speaking English; she would be a little shocked. She puts Adam's plate in front of him but he doesn't even look at her. She gives me mine with a smile. I glance at her pretty breasts before smiling back. Plus tard, peut-être. One never knows one's luck.

"Are you asking me to trust you, René? We've been round that corner already."

"Always, my friend. You are very distant today. Something has happened, yes?"

He pokes at the baguette and shakes his head. "I'm just tired."

"I can give you a prescription for something to help you sleep."

"Maybe. Let me think about it."

It is a concession but it worries me. Where is the fight? Always he fights me on these things. On Monday, his answer will be the same as usual: no drugs. This flat affect is not like him. He is depressed, of course, but this is a little more. He is very tired; we are all tired – me, Joseph Dawson, Stephen Keane. All very weary. "Adam. Go home and rest. You do not eat properly either, I think. Take that with you."

He nods and stands up. It is what he wants; he is glad I understand. I call the waitress and ask her to wrap up the baguette. He tosses a ten-euro note on the table and I do not object; he is being gracious. Perhaps he regrets the failure of the session.

He watches the waitress; he is a little agitated and I can see that he is anxious to go.

"Adam. Eventually you will have to talk about what is on your mind or we shall get nowhere. I cannot always be walking on eggshells around you, always worrying that I might touch on a subject that upsets you. I have to take my cue from you; at some point you have to take responsibility for your own therapy, for your own recovery. Am I making myself understood?"

"Yeah, get off my back, René."

I sigh. Sometimes he can be a spoiled child. "Where would you like to meet on Monday?" I ask him.

He pulls his old raincoat off the back of the chair and puts it on. He doesn't look at me and I wonder what he's hiding. "This is okay with me. Three o'clock?"

"D'accord."

The waitress hands him the baguette in a paper bag and he just turns away and leaves without saying a word. Perhaps it is a mistake to go to Reims this weekend. But I think this every weekend and every weekend I stay in Paris and, lately, everything is fine. I ask the waitress for a cognac and take my notebook out of my knapsack. Adam is always my last patient for the day and he does not like it if I take notes. What can I do? I make them when he has left.

I take out my cigarettes and light one. I should give them up; unlike my patients, I will not live forever. I jot down the few thoughts I have. Not that many; it lasted perhaps only twenty minutes, a very short session. Yes, we are all very weary. I think a little rest for both of us would be very good.

When that is done, I enjoy my lunch, then relax with the brandy and a cigarette. My own sleep has not been good. Perhaps tonight...

It has been… what?... five weeks? It feels like five months. The crisis was so severe in Methos' case. Ah, but I should not even think that name. If I do, one day I will slip and say it. And that will be a disaster. Sean met Adam after Adam's friend, Mira, came to Sean for help. Mira had been part of the clean up crew in Beirut and other nasty places and was suffering from a stress disorder. After Sean's death, I opened Adam's file, since I was treating him even then although it was not official, just talk over a beer; it was all there. It was one hell of a shock. And a lot of things made sense. In Adam's case, then, the breakdown was severe. Once I knew that Adam was Methos, I did a little research. What I found supports a pet theory of mine; I believe that Immortals suffer cycles of breakdown and well-being. If they survive these crises and recover their senses, they become quiet – quiescent – for a long period. After this, their renewed activity, particularly if it involves participation in the Game, brings on another crisis. It seems to be inevitable. One assumes, of course, that they still have their heads. And this one of Adam's has been coming for some time; it will be some time yet before he is out of danger. Another acute episode is easily within reach and could come at any time. I have to be very watchful. He, of course, resists me at every turn.

I used to be... mon Dieu, what I used to be. It can never be undone; so many regrets. When I am weary, they return to haunt me. What I do for Adam, I do for my own soul; it is my penance to know I caused him even more suffering. But I must not think of this; it will not help him.

I used to be convinced that the Watcher oath was right; now I cannot believe that I was so foolish. As a psychiatrist, I am permitted by the Council to 'interfere' in the affairs of Immortals with impunity. It is absurd. Even so much recognition on their part is interference; they are hypocrites. When an Immortal speaks to you out of his pain, out of the agony of his existence, how is it possible to remain unmoved? Merely to observe and not interfere? This is wrong. They are so alone. Ils sont profondément seuls… profoundly alone. We Mortals cannot comprehend it, this – cet anonymat monstrueux – this monstrous anonymity. The Watchers must change; of this, too, I am convinced. The world has changed beyond recognition. No longer can Immortals escape our incessant Watching and we have become obsessed with it. Better by far to be their friends, to serve them and to protect these strange creatures, these special children of humanity.

Adam believes I think him to be a new Immortal who met his first death while Duncan MacLeod thought himself to be some sort of Avatar at war with the ancient demon, Ahriman, a very dangerous delusion and one which cost his student his life. MacLeod's skill as a fighter makes him a very dangerous man and his profound, narcissistic belief in himself to be morally superior and above the law has led him to commit murder, even of Mortals. His Watcher recorded episodes which are clearly psychotic, possibly paranoid schizophrenic, certainly sociopathic. Over seventy kills in six years. And this after a period of quiet. But he is not my patient. And we will not interfere to offer him our help before it explodes into madness; we prefer to let them suffer, it would seem, and that is cruel. When that happens, I plan to be somewhere safe. Adam might not be so lucky.

Meanwhile, Adam plays an old game with me; he pretends that he is Adam Pierson and I must permit it. And he is not pretending. He is Adam Pierson; Adam Pierson has his own thoughts and feelings, his own behaviour patterns, is a fully developed personality in his own right. Adam Pierson is safe. I must respect this; not to do so would be a serious error. We all have rôles that we play; our lives do not usually depend on it. He tells me only what Adam Pierson would know; it will serve for the moment but it limits us both. One day, he will trust me enough. Until then...

Why should he trust? We all betray him, we Mortals: we die. He loves a woman, takes her to him, trusts... and she dies. Death is betrayal. That it is not intended matters not at all. Because he is a good man, his instinct is to trust, an instinct which could be fatal; I see him fight this instinct with Joseph. Joseph is not a young man; he will live perhaps two decades more. I am the same age; I already feel my own death in my bones.

I finish the brandy, tuck my notes away, pay the cashier, shoulder my knapsack and leave. The café is a little place on the rue Poissonnière, near the little park… I forget the name. As I pass it, the pigeons fly up toward the apartments that surround it and I catch a glimpse of a man who is looking my way. He seems startled and turns away quickly so that I can no longer see his face. Something about him is familiar but I cannot place it. In any case, he is gone now. I go down the Métro and catch the train to go home. It is raining a little when I come up out of the station at Porte de Vincennes. I buy some croissants at the bakery for my breakfast and some flowers at the shop on the corner. Madame Garneau, the florist, tells me I look tired. But she tells me this every day just to make conversation. Perhaps she has an unmarried daughter she wishes to introduce to me. I tell a few lies, smile sweetly and escape.

I cross the main street to the wine shop. He has a Bordeaux I am fond of and I buy two bottles. As I am crossing the street back to the post office, I have the feeling that I am being watched. I look around but a car brakes to avoid me and my attention is drawn away. It is more likely that my nerves are on edge and I am imagining things. There is no-one there in any case. My little apartment is only a block up from the post office on the rue Montéra but I am wet by the time I get there. My neighbour, Marie, arrives home from work at the same time and uses her key to let us both in, which saves me dropping my parcels. She asks about her cat, Mazout. She asks me because Mazout lives in my place when she can get in through the bathroom window across the roof. I used to shoo her out but she sat on the roof and cried; I gave up. Now I just feed her. It is easier.

I put my parcels in the tiny kitchen and the flowers in the blue vase. I like it very much, something I found in the Marché aux Puces one Saturday. There is not much here that is mine; the hospital is not that generous with its Paris accommodations but Paris is expensive and I am grateful not to have to live in a hotel while I am here. I throw my clothes in the laundry basket and take a shower, with Mazout eyeing me from the windowsill. I curse at her when she knocks my glasses off the back of the toilet: "Mazout! Putain de chat! Rentre chez-toi!"

I dress in a robe and pour some wine and light a cigarette. The evening news is depressing, as usual, and I turn it off, preferring to read. I should work on my notes, but I am too tired. I rouse myself enough to make some soup and eat it but I am not very hungry and I do not enjoy it. Then I pour some more wine and settle in to read for the evening. I am just nodding off when my telephone rings. Swearing, I answer it.

"Galbon."

"Doctor. David Gabrieli here. How are you?" Merde! "Am I disturbing you?"

I rub a hand over my face and sit up. I do not need this. "I'm sorry. I was just asleep."

"Ah, then I apologize. Doctor, I'm just getting around to paying a call on each of my senior staff. I like to get to know them on a personal basis. I'm sure you can appreciate that. You're just about the last one on my list. I wonder if we could get together."

"I am going to Reims in the morning but I could come to Headquarters on Monday."

"I'd like to come this evening, if I may. I'm having dinner with a friend at Chez Clément on the Boulevard des Capucines. I'm not that far away. I'll be there in about an hour. "

He leaves me no option. "Of course."

"Fine. Looking forward to it."

I hang up. Noisily. Mazout comes to investigate. "Rentre chez-toi, Mazout! Go home!" She ignores me.

Swearing, I go into the bathroom and take some aspirin for the headache that has just come out of nowhere. Then I shave around my beard. I have not yet met this man who is now my superior, though I know him by reputation, and I already dislike him. It is a clever strategy, of course. He has me at a disadvantage and no doubt he will press it. I put on a clean shirt and trousers. Then I make some coffee. I am going to need to be awake.

I tidy the place and pour some coffee. While I wait, I have a cigarette and try to remember what I know of this man, which is not very much, mostly gossip. If I had not been so preoccupied, I would probably have done some research. You damned fool, René. He will have found out as much about me as he can. I have been very careful but that is not always enough. And he almost certainly has an agenda. They always do. I know they call him Le Nettoyeur - 'The Cleaner'. There are rumours… There are always rumours. His predecessor had difficulties with his monogamous obligations, shall we say? I remember, with a certain fondness, a young lady from the records section who delighted in whispering the latest details of M. Anders' affair with the foolish Mlle Laurence even as our own little indiscretion was in danger of becoming distressingly obvious – ah, such a light touch, that one. And while what my patients tell me is safe with me, I cannot forget at will; I still know. And Mme Anders – the formidable Colette – was much too angry to remain discreet. Indiscretions all round. It was quite amusing.