When I mention Mr Lacan (yesterday) it did remind me of brief foray into psychology. I go to see him because of certain trouble memory from war, etc, and in waiting room I sit opposite old woman with baby goat on lap.
‘This is goat?’ I ask her, not so much in surprise as from general interest. After war many thing were not so strange as would seem. People carry animal, household thing such as sofa or suitcase of money about as routine.
‘Yes is goat she say.’
I ask her: ‘Is special goat?’.
She say: ‘Yes is very special magic goat’. This interest me. I wonder, for example, if she joke or if she mad.
‘Magic goat?’ I ask.
Yes,’ she say. ‘What kind of magic does goat perform?’ I ask her. ‘My goat does not perform,’ she say. ‘She nervous magic goat.’
‘Nervous magic goat?’
‘Indeed. very nervous.’ And woman did turn head to one side. Immediately I recognise in profile her to be famous singer from before war, who name I now forget but famous. At same moment I did see goat turn head also. Woman and goat do same thing. How strange, I think.
‘Madam,’ I say to her, ‘Can I ask if you are famous singer?’
She stare at me her face containing anger and woe. ‘What it mean to you who I am?’ Her lip tremble.
‘Madam.’ I believe once you to be great singer who I did listen to with love and enjoyment in many theatre across Europe before this great trouble come upon us.’
‘Then for what it is worth, yes, I did once sing. But now I do not. All I have left is my goat.’
‘Magic goat?’
‘I expect you think me mad.’
‘No madam.’ And I did not think this, merely eccentric.
She sigh. ‘My goat is magic to me because she is all I have left. Even my voice has gone. And so has hers. She is silent.’
‘Silent?’ Indeed I had not noticed but this goat had not made sound the whole time we wait together. Ordinary goat would surely make fuss and bleat, climb on thing, and eat. Goat look at me with sad eye, as sad as woman. And without thinking, as is my nature (in youth I did commonly play giddy goat), I make bleating noise of goat. And goat did bleat back. Woman was astonish.
‘She sings!’ she say.
‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘Maybe she forget she is goat. How long since she see other goat?’ Of course goat would not now stop making bleat and did scramble as if on hills, bleat bleat bleat.
‘Not for many year. since little baby,’ she say.
I make another bleat, get on all fours and make around waiting room like goat. Goat was amaze at this and jump from woman lap onto floor, where she run with me, freely, as mountain goat.
At this point Mr Lacan appear. He look at me on floor with goat and say: ‘You are animal, sir?
I see fury and tell him ‘You are idiot, sir? Come join me on floor so maybe we lock horn.’ He did have cigar and look worry, like little mole who find daylight suddenly or relieve in trouser. Cigar fall out of mouth and he disappear quick back out of waiting room.
I did get up and dust down trouser because Lacan floor like farmyard. ‘Madam,’ I say. ‘This goat did forget how to be goat.’
‘Woman look full of joy. ‘ She laugh.
And I think something, which I say to her. ‘Maybe, I wonder, madam, if you forget to be singer?’
Woman face fall. ‘Sir, you have cure my goat, but I cannot sing. I have not sung in many year. I am now old woman, poor, alone, but for goat.
This was untrue. She look little shabby from neglect but was still beautiful character, powerful face, lovely eye and firm, attractive body. ‘Madam I cannot accept this. Please, I ask will you sing for me?’
Woman look shock. Goat go silent. ‘Sir,’ she say. ‘Nobody has ask me to sing for … so long.’
‘Please then, will you sing for me?’
She quiver in face, and shake head but only for moment. I take her hand, and she stand up. I sit down, attentive (give goat sharp look so it stay shut up). ‘Please?’ I say very soft.
She say nothing, but she sing. She sing beautiful, gorgeous, like river in mountain, in spring, and the like summer bird in evening, or star which shoot across sky at midnight, all beautiful. I realise of course now I love this woman. And she stop sing and she stand look powerful, majesty, Cleopatra.
Lacan appear and gawp like beggar. I toss him coin, small change. ‘Here, for you time, charlatan.’
Woman and I did leave, and so begin great love of my life which maybe I will say more of another time.
Since this time I have hear much of Mr Lacan, but I was not impress. This did let me think of something though, of goat mirror.