and the skull that held the brain are equally gone to dust. But that’s not guaranteed, thought the Doctor, not anymore; that even the workings of the brain will last more than the time it takes to tell them is no foregone conclusion.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
in which Morgan questions Doctor Crane and the idea of movement is considered
I t was David’s discovery, so it seemed only fitting that David should decide when Morgan would see the head. Not yet, he told the Doctor. Not yet. Then, in a tone that amused the Doctor, coming from a child of—what would David be now?—ten? he had the mind of a ten-year-old, that was certain, yet might have been younger, must have been younger, in this knowing, portentous tone that seemed so inappropriate, he said, “The time will come. You’ll see.” It didn’t occur to any of them how curious it was that Morgan should never be the discoverer himself; that his own house should remain so mysterious to him. While the others rooted and ferreted, the Doctor in one way and the children in another, Morgan would sit in his book room and wonder what the world he had made for himself might mean; or rather, what the world that had formed itself around him might want from him. Because that was where its meaning, and by extension his, would finally lie; in the demands it made on him. Sometimes it came to him that there was that other larger world the Doctor had described, that encircled the garden as the garden encircled him, and he wondered why his grandfather’s house had been passed over and why he had been left alone. Was it possible that the wall was enough? He would have pestered the Doctor for more detail if some foreboding hadn’t stopped him, perhaps the fear that the Doctor would know something shameful and refuse to tell him, to protect him perhaps. He imagined himself the dirty secret at the heart of the world, the overlooked madwoman raving in the attic of a house that occupied everything there was, each brick and pane and board, the wondering prince in the hair-filled mask of iron he had dreamt of as a boy and never been able to forget.
But he still asked other questions.
“When you’re away from here, away from the house, I wonder, where do you go?” Morgan asked the Doctor one evening, after they had eaten and Engel had taken the children off to bed.
The Doctor shrugged. “I have a room,” he said.
“And you leave it without worrying? Without wondering what might happen?”
“Worrying? Why should I be worrying?”
“But isn’t it dangerous to leave a room alone?” said Morgan, wondering if he sounded as foolish as he felt. Yet he had had this conversation with himself that afternoon and everything had made perfect sense. Perhaps he had overrehearsed. He wasn’t sure in any case why this mattered so much to him, this life the Doctor might have away from the house, which by now he hardly left, except once a week, for half a day, when Morgan supposed he saw his other patients, because surely there would be others who needed the Doctor’s care, out there, in that other world. Apart from that single afternoon each week, the Doctor was here in the house with them all. Sometimes, they passed so much time together, Morgan had the impression that his own body had been miraculously doubled, or split in half, and that beside him was the Doctor.
Sometimes he thought of himself as the Doctor.
“Rooms are never alone,” said the Doctor with a laugh. “Only the people who live in them can be alone. I am alone, perhaps, in mine.” He paused. “But you shouldn’t worry on my behalf. There is nothing in my room in the city that matters to me in the slightest. It is quite bare. A bed, a desk, a chair. Even the window gives onto a painted brick wall only feet away. I always thought I liked the idea of living in a cell. I thought it appealed to the monk in me, because I admired the idea of vocation, you see, my father gave me that. But now, when I think of how I lived there, day
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
in which Morgan questions Doctor Crane and the idea of movement is considered
I t was David’s discovery, so it seemed only fitting that David should decide when Morgan would see the head. Not yet, he told the Doctor. Not yet. Then, in a tone that amused the Doctor, coming from a child of—what would David be now?—ten? he had the mind of a ten-year-old, that was certain, yet might have been younger, must have been younger, in this knowing, portentous tone that seemed so inappropriate, he said, “The time will come. You’ll see.” It didn’t occur to any of them how curious it was that Morgan should never be the discoverer himself; that his own house should remain so mysterious to him. While the others rooted and ferreted, the Doctor in one way and the children in another, Morgan would sit in his book room and wonder what the world he had made for himself might mean; or rather, what the world that had formed itself around him might want from him. Because that was where its meaning, and by extension his, would finally lie; in the demands it made on him. Sometimes it came to him that there was that other larger world the Doctor had described, that encircled the garden as the garden encircled him, and he wondered why his grandfather’s house had been passed over and why he had been left alone. Was it possible that the wall was enough? He would have pestered the Doctor for more detail if some foreboding hadn’t stopped him, perhaps the fear that the Doctor would know something shameful and refuse to tell him, to protect him perhaps. He imagined himself the dirty secret at the heart of the world, the overlooked madwoman raving in the attic of a house that occupied everything there was, each brick and pane and board, the wondering prince in the hair-filled mask of iron he had dreamt of as a boy and never been able to forget.
But he still asked other questions.
“When you’re away from here, away from the house, I wonder, where do you go?” Morgan asked the Doctor one evening, after they had eaten and Engel had taken the children off to bed.
The Doctor shrugged. “I have a room,” he said.
“And you leave it without worrying? Without wondering what might happen?”
“Worrying? Why should I be worrying?”
“But isn’t it dangerous to leave a room alone?” said Morgan, wondering if he sounded as foolish as he felt. Yet he had had this conversation with himself that afternoon and everything had made perfect sense. Perhaps he had overrehearsed. He wasn’t sure in any case why this mattered so much to him, this life the Doctor might have away from the house, which by now he hardly left, except once a week, for half a day, when Morgan supposed he saw his other patients, because surely there would be others who needed the Doctor’s care, out there, in that other world. Apart from that single afternoon each week, the Doctor was here in the house with them all. Sometimes, they passed so much time together, Morgan had the impression that his own body had been miraculously doubled, or split in half, and that beside him was the Doctor.
Sometimes he thought of himself as the Doctor.
“Rooms are never alone,” said the Doctor with a laugh. “Only the people who live in them can be alone. I am alone, perhaps, in mine.” He paused. “But you shouldn’t worry on my behalf. There is nothing in my room in the city that matters to me in the slightest. It is quite bare. A bed, a desk, a chair. Even the window gives onto a painted brick wall only feet away. I always thought I liked the idea of living in a cell. I thought it appealed to the monk in me, because I admired the idea of vocation, you see, my father gave me that. But now, when I think of how I lived there, day
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