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part 1 of the story
A S Y L U M

Mark Pearce

I

    Peter Koestler sat in his living room and listened to the music of the night. A wood fire had burned itself out, leaving only embers to cast a warm, orange glow to the area immediately around the fireplace. The only other illumination was the cool blue light of the moon which shone through the window. The room was tastefully and expensively furnished. An elaborate archway led to the rest of the home. One wall was lined with bookshelves filled with old classics, paintings adorned the other walls, and a heavy bust of Michelangelo’s David rested on an ornately carved walnut table.
    Koestler’s eyes faced the darkness but appeared to be turned inward, watching some private scenario. A half-eaten sandwich rested in a plate at his side, now ignored as Koestler explored the inner recesses of his mind.
    He was shaken from his revery by a noise outside. He looked toward the window and saw a man’s face peering in. The man wore a dark mask over his eyes and a leather cap pulled low over his forehead. His chin was covered with a dark stubble of beard, and he wore a black leather jacket with the collar turned up. He could not see Koestler in the dark.
    Koestler picked up his sandwich and walked over to the bookcase where he could get a better view. He watched as the man used some tool to pry open the window. It made a slight creaking noise as it slid up. The man froze, listening for any sound. Koestler froze as well, and seemed to be listening along with him.
    Reassured by the silence, the man climbed quietly through the window. He carried a large, black satchel. He pulled out a pen light and cast its beam around the room. Quickly and efficiently, he began to load valuables into his bag. Koestler resumed eating his sandwich, silently watching as the man robbed his home.
    The burglar cast his light over the mantle and stopped. A large oil painting was barely illumined by the beam. The man moved quietly toward it. He gently set down his bag and reached for the painting.
    “It’s a reproduction,” said Koestler.
    The burglar shouted and dropped his pen light; he fell back against the mantle and grabbed his chest.
    “Who’s there?” he called in fright.
    “Whom were you expecting?”
    The man squinted around in the darkness, trying to determine the direction of the voice. “I have a gun,” he said.
    “I’m luckier,” said Koestler. “I have a sandwich.”
    The burglar slipped to the floor. He scrambled around on his hands and knees and located his pen light. He cast the beam around the room until he spotted Koestler standing in the darkness, wearing a bathrobe and munching on his sandwich.
    “What’s the idea, hollerin’ out and scarin’ people like that?” said the burglar. “I coulda’ had a heart attack.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Koestler. “I just didn’t want you to waste your time on a painting that’s worthless. You would do much better to take that candelabra. It’s real gold, I think.”
    The man eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing up, anyway? All normal people are asleep now.”
    “So I’ve been told. Would you like a sandwich?”
    The burglar shook his head.
    “A drink?”
    The man did not answer. Koestler moved to a bar in the corner. The burglar kept the light aimed at him.
    “You like Scotch?” Koestler asked. There was no answer. Koestler began to mix the drinks. “There’s a light switch over on that wall.”
    The burglar turned on the light and put his pen light away. He stared curiously at Koestler.
    “Who are you?” he said.
    “Peter Koestler. Who are you?”
    “I’d rather not say.” He looked around the room. “You live here?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you say I should take the candelabra and not the painting?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll take the painting.” He moved back toward the mantel. “And you better not try and stop me.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
    The man reached for the painting. He looked over his shoulder. Koestler stood quietly watching him.
    “You really don’t care if I rob you?”
    “No. I figure you must need what you take worse than I do.”
    “How do you figure?”
    “Because I wouldn’t steal it.”
    The man lifted the painting down and set it beside his bag. “You’re strange.”
    “So I’ve been told.”
    Koestler walked around the bar and handed the burglar the drink he had fixed. The man sniffed it warily, then downed it in one swallow. Koestler sat on the couch, sipping his own drink, and watched as the man began once again to load valuables into his bag. The man glanced at him from time to time. He was somewhat discomfited by the fact that Koestler just sat contentedly, watching him rob his home. He awkwardly began to make conversation.
    “Nice place you got.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You live alone?”
    “My sister and her son live with me. They moved in after her husband died.”
     “You like baseball?”
    “Not especially.”
    The man turned on him and scowled. “This is ridiculous! Why can’t you be robbed like a normal person?”
    Koestler stood up. “What would you have me do? Shout? Faint?” He suddenly grabbed up the bust of David and held it menacingly over his head. “Stave in your skull?”
    “No, no, no—nothing like that!” said the burglar quickly.
    Koestler set down the bust.
    “I’m just saying you shouldn’t be offering me drinks and treating me like I was a guest,” said the man.
    Koestler sat down. The burglar considered a moment, then picked up the bust and moved it to a table out of Koestler’s reach.
    “Just because you’re robbing me is no reason we can’t be friends,” said Koestler. “Have a seat. Let’s talk awhile. You must be tired from a night’s work, and I would be fascinated to hear what it’s like to be a burglar.”
    The man hesitated, not certain what to do. He finally sat, but seemed uncomfortable. This was a new experience for him.
    “So tell me,” said Koestler, “what made you decide to be a felon?”
    “I dunno,” said the burglar. “Beats working . . . I guess I like the hours . . . I dunno . . . What do you do?”
    “I’m retired.”
    The burglar leaned back, relaxing onto the couch. “That must be great. You do a lot of fishing?”
    “Not really.”
    “That’s what I’d do if I had the time.” He gazed into the distance, relishing the idea of never having to work again. “I especially like to fish at night. You can just sit back and watch the stars.”
    “You like to watch the stars?
    “Sure.”
    Koestler rose and went to the window.
    “Come here,” he said. “I want to show you something.” The burglar joined him. “Look out there between those two buildings. See the three stars in a triangle?”
    “Yes.”
     “See the bright star above them?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s my star.”
“Your star? How did it get to be your star?”
    “I don’t know,” said Koestler. “One night it just seemed to be calling out to me. Singing. That’s the night I went mad.”
    “What!?”
    “I said that’s the night I went mad. I’m insane, you see.”
    The burglar edged toward the door. Koestler gripped his arm.
    “Don’t leave,” he said. “I’m harmless. My psychiatrist practically guarantees it.”
    “Look, mister,” said the man, trying to twist free. “I need to be heading home. It’s getting early. You can keep your painting and your candelabra and everything else, but I need to be going.” He pulled loose and ran to the door. He opened it, then stopped. “Hey, there’s a cop coming this way.”
    Koestler looked out. “That’s Officer Jameson.” He started to wave. “Hello—”
    The man pulled him back and closed the door. “We don’t want to attract his attention.”
    “I think you would like him.”
    “I doubt it.” The burglar led Koestler toward the couch. “Look, why don’t we just stay in here and talk some more?”
    “Okay.”
    There was a knock at the door.
    “It’s open,” called Koestler.
     Jameson entered. The sight of his uniform was unnerving to the burglar.
    “Good morning, Peter,” he said. “I was driving by and saw your window open, so I thought I would check and see if you were all right. . . . I see you have company.”
    “Just a friend. Let me introduce you. Officer Jameson, this is . . . uh . . .”
    “Mr. Smith,” said the man, abruptly.
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Jameson.
    The burglar reluctantly took the hand that was offered.
    “I’m always glad to meet any friend of Peter’s. Are you a business acquaintance?”
    “Mr. Smith is an art collector,” said Koestler.
    “That sounds interesting.”
    “It is,” said the burglar.
    Koestler turned to Jameson. “Can I get you something to drink?”
    “No, thank you,” said Jameson. “I’m still on duty.”
    “I could use another,” said the burglar.
    Koestler looked at him. The man did appear in need of a drink.
    “Of course,” he said. “Help yourself. You know your way around.”
    The man went behind the bar. After a moment, he spoke: “You’re out of ice.”
    “There may be some in the kitchen,” said Koestler. “It’s right through there.”
    The man grabbed the ice bucket and exited quickly through the archway. He looked around for a way out. He ran down the hallway into the kitchen. There was a back door and several windows. He unbolted the door and tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. He then tried the windows but could not move them, either. He frantically searched through the pantry until he found some tools, including a short crowbar. He grabbed it and ran to the back door and began to try and pry it open.
    Officer Jameson stood staring at the archway where the burglar had exited.
    “He seems like a nice guy,” he said.
    “He is.”
    “One thing I’m curious about, though . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “Have you ever noticed that . . . um . . . Mr. Smith wears a mask?”
    Koestler smiled. “He likes to remain incognito.”
    “I guess I never will get used to your friends,” Jameson laughed. “Remember the boy who thought he could fly?”
    “Yes,” said Koestler. “He got out of the hospital just last week.”
    “Good. You know, when he was up on that roof, just as he jumped off, there was this intense look of determination, and for a moment, just a moment, I thought he might make it.”
    “I remember. You yelled, ‘Come on, boy, flap!’”
    They both laughed.
    “He’s lucky he only broke a leg,” said Jameson.
    “He said that from now on, he’s going to do all his takeoffs from the ground,” said Koestler.
    Jameson laughed. Then his face turned somber. “How’s your nephew?”
    “Same as always.”
    “Oh.”
    “Still worried about me?”
    “I can’t help it,” said Jameson. “He’s no good, that one. You’d better watch him.”
    “I’m not worried.”
    “Just be careful.”
    “I will.”

***

    Ann Dailey stepped into the kitchen. She wore a pink nightgown, and her soft, gray hair was knotted into a loose bun at the back of her neck. She was startled to see a man in a mask using a crowbar to try and pry open the back door from the inside. She gave a frightened yelp.
    The burglar gave a yelp of his own and dropped the implement.
    “Who are you?” Ann gasped.
    “I needed some ice,” said the burglar.
    He grabbed the bucket and opened the freezer. He tossed in a few cubes, then ran out of the kitchen.

***

    “Here he is,” said Koestler. “We were about to send out a search party.”
    The burglar was in a state of great agitation. “Did you know your back door is jammed and the windows are painted shut?”
    “Yes.”
    “What if someone had to get out in a hurry?”
    “I guess he’d be trapped.”
    Officer Jameson peered at the burglar. “Why would you be checking the doors and windows?”
    “Mr. Smith is interested in home security,” said Koestler. “I do need to fix that door, though. My sister was going to call someone, but I think we can do it ourselves.”
    “That reminds me,” said the burglar. “Is your sister an especially nervous woman?”
    “Sometimes. Why?”
    “Because there’s an especially nervous woman in the kitchen.”
    “Uh, oh. I’d better see to her.”
    Koestler exited. The burglar and the policeman were silent a moment.
    “You look familiar,” said Jameson.
    “I’m not.”
    “You remind me of someone.”
    “I’m trying not to.”
    He lowered his head and turned it slightly away.
    “Could I have seen your picture someplace?”
    “I have my picture taken as seldom as possible.”
    “I’m almost certain . . .”
    “Look,” said the burglar, “it must have been some other guy.”
    “You’re not nervous, are you?”
    “No,” said the man, too quickly. “Why?”
    “I don’t know. You just seem a little on edge.” Jameson smiled. “I know. He told you he’s crazy, didn’t he?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s just what the psychiatrists think.”
    “They should know.”
    “Don’t you believe it. Just because he hears the stars sing and talks to animals . . .”
    “I guess that’s not so crazy,” said the burglar. “Lots of people talk to animals.”
    “Koestler follows their advice.”
    “Oh.”
    “I think it’s refreshing.”
    “I think it’s strange.”
    “How long have you known Dr. Koestler?”
“Doctor Koestler?”
    “Sure. He’s a PhD. Regular genius. At least he was before he lost his mind.”
    “I didn’t know that. We just met.”
    “You’ll get used to his eccentricities after a while,” said Jameson. “Then you’ll see he’s probably the best friend you’ll ever have. He saved my job once. Have him tell you the story some time. I have to be getting on. You’ll say goodbye for me, won’t you?”
    “Sure.”
    “See you around.”
    Jameson walked out the door. The burglar watched him go. He sipped his drink. The alcohol emboldened him. He had wasted enough time here. He needed to finish his business and get out of this madhouse.
    Koestler returned from the kitchen. “Did Jameson leave?”
    “Yes.” The man set his drink on the table. “Now, listen here, buddy. I’m through fooling around. Lunatic or no lunatic, I came here to do a job, and I’m going to do it.”
    “Fine.”
    The burglar began to load things into his bag once again.
    Koestler watched him. “Need any help?”
    “No,” said the man, testily. “I don’t need any help.”
    “Sorry. I just thought you might be interested to know there’s a wall safe behind that picture.”
    The burglar looked to where Koestler was indicating a painting on the wall. He rushed over and took the picture down to reveal a combination safe. He pulled a nail file out of his pocket and rubbed it against his fingertips to make them sensitive.
    “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry I scared your sister.”
    “That’s okay,” said Koestler. “She’s beginning to get used to my friends.”
    The burglar began to work the dial. “Is she the one who supports you?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “Then who paid for this place?”
    “I did.”
    “You must have made a lot of money before you went . . . uh . . . before you . . . um . . .”
    “Lost my mind?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I earned a living.”
     “If you paid for this place, you did more than just earn a living.”
    “I’ve always excelled at whatever I’ve tried,” said Koestler. “Even insanity.”
    The burglar tried the handle to the safe. It did not move.
    “Look, I haven’t got all night,” he said. “What’s the combination?”
    Koestler told him. The burglar quickly turned the tumblers. He pulled the handle, and the door swung open. He stood staring at its interior, then looked over his shoulder at Koestler. “There’s nothing in there!”
    “I know.”
    “You told me—”
    “I told you there’s a wall safe behind the picture. I didn’t say we keep anything in it.”
    The man collapsed against the wall and started to laugh.
    “I give up,” he said. “You win.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean you got through to me. I like you, Koestler.”
    “Thanks. I like you, too.”
    “Were you like this before?”
    “No.”
    “The cop told me you were a real genius. What happened? Your brain overload?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Were you a scientist?”
    “I’ve been a lot of things in my time. Scientist . . . businessman . . . lunatic . . . Now I’m an angel. That’s the form of my insanity. I see through the mist which hides the paradise around us.”
    “An angel?”
    “Yes. Emerson once said that the world is an asylum for angels with amnesia. He said that every once in a while, one of these angels will begin to regain its memory, and from this comes our great art and literature and music. These are fleeting glimpses of what it’s like in Heaven. If so, then the angel called Emerson was almost well. And the angel called Peter Koestler has finally gone sane.”
    “So what do you do now?”
    Koestler spoke soberly, as though to himself: “I sit in the middle of an asylum of insane angels and await my release.”
    “It must be hard.”
    “Not really,” said Koestler, quietly; he then recovered himself and smiled. “I see myself as a sort of trustee. In my own small way, I help guide others to their sanity.”
    The burglar laughed, then suddenly turned serious. “Don’t ever let them cure you. The psychiatrists, I mean.”
    “Cure me? Why would they want to do that?”
    “It’s their job.”
    “Their job is to keep me unbalanced enough to need their services, but sane enough to keep from killing them. No, it looks like I’m a lunatic for the duration.”
    “I’ll drink to that.”
    “Help yourself.”
    They went to the bar.
    “I worked in a bar, once,” said the burglar.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. Over on Eighteenth Street. Place called Ted’s. I don’t work there anymore, though. Now I’m my own boss.” He handed a drink to Koestler. “You know any songs?”
    “Plenty.”
    “Like what?”
    “Just start one. If I don’t know it, I’ll fake it.”
    The burglar began to sing. Koestler joined in.
    ***
    Jack Dailey lay asleep in his bed. He awakened, looked around in a daze, then awareness and disgust came to his face. From another part of the house, he could hear the singing of Koestler and the burglar. He looked at the red glow of the digital clock beside his bed and scowled: 4:30. He climbed out of bed and reached for his robe.
    He walked out into the hallway. His mother was peering timidly out her bedroom door.
    “There’s someone in the house,” she said.
    “I know,” said Dailey, tying the belt to his robe as he went along. “I’m going to take care of it.”
    “Don’t go down there,” she said. “You won’t like him.”
    Dailey ignored her and proceeded down the stairs. The singing grew louder as he descended.
    Koestler and the burglar were really warming to their task. In addition to singing, the burglar had begun to improvise a little jig. When they were at their peak, Dailey entered the living room. He was appalled at the sight of his uncle and the man in the mask. He noticed the wall safe standing open and the pictures on the floor.
    “What’s going on here?”
    “We’re having a party,” said the burglar. “Let me fix you a drink, pal.”
    “If I want a drink, I’ll fix it myself,” said Dailey, coldly. He turned to Koestler. “What is this man doing here?”
    The burglar noticed the sudden shift in climate. “Maybe I’d better go.”
    “You can stay,” said Koestler. “Jack doesn’t mean it.”
    Dailey turned to the burglar. “My uncle is not responsible for his actions. He has no right to invite you in here. Are you going to leave, or do I have to call the police?”
    “Come to think of it, I do have business elsewhere this morning.”
    He began to gather his things.
    “You sure?” said Koestler.
    “Yes, I’m really late. I was just about to leave anyway.”
    He reached for the candelabra that lay beside his bag. Dailey looked at him sharply. He set it down and headed for the door. He then turned to Koestler.
    “If you ever want to look me up, come down to Ted’s on Eighteenth Street and ask for Jim. Everybody knows me.”
    He glanced at Dailey, then went quickly out the door.
    “Eighteenth Street,” said Dailey, contemptuously. “I might have known.”
    Koestler looked at his nephew. “You shouldn’t have sent him away.”
    “He had no business being here.”
    “He’s my friend.”
    “He was just taking advantage of you, Uncle Peter. He left quickly enough when I mentioned the police.”
    “If you’re not careful, Jack, I just might be forced to regain my sanity.”
    “You know that nothing would make me happier.”
    They stared at each other, then Dailey looked away.
    “I’m going to get dressed,” said Koestler. “If I hurry, I might be able to catch up with him.”
    “Just don’t bring him back here.”
    Koestler left without answering. Dailey went to the bar and began to fix himself a drink.
    Ann Dailey peeped in a moment later. “Is that man gone?”
    “He is.”
    Ann entered the room. “You shouldn’t drink so early in the morning.”
    “It doesn’t bother you that my uncle drinks this early.”
    “Your uncle has special problems. It’s not easy being insane.”
    “I hope that now at least you realize something has to be done.”
    “I know you’re right. I just don’t think he’ll go for it.”
    “You know he’ll do anything you ask him to,” said Dailey. “And you had better hurry. The longer he remains legally responsible for himself, the more chance there is of him getting into trouble.”
    “I know.”
    “And that’s not all. Did you know that he’s beginning to give money away in large quantities?”
    “I think he mentioned something.”
    “And you didn’t tell me? How do you expect me to keep us solvent with him giving money away all the time?”

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