CHAMELEON

Numbers, like autumn leaves, fall away from my memory and float on currents in and out of my mind. The motionless man sat quietly in the white, diagnostic room unaware that two psychiatrists, Dr. Ann Majec and Dr. Paul Castlewood, made notes in the observation room above him. Numbers, like autumn leaves decay and disintegrate in mute shadows of memory…. The silent man was Dr. Majec’s patient and requested Ann to be present when he slipped into stasis, the stage between his present self and the next one – a dangerous stage when he neglected all human functions, not because he refused to eat, sleep or eliminate, but because he didn’t know he existed. In the past, when he emerged from the ‘in-between’ he never knew whom he left behind or what the key and address in his jacket pocket belonged to.

Numbers, like autumn leaves…… Ann was there to monitor his transformation – the shedding of his former self and christening of the new. When the first transformation happened five years ago in 2013, he shed Will Caston (his real identity) and became Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Sûreté du Québec (a fictional detective). He lived as Gamache, involving himself in the gruesome, quasi investigation of three missing children in the Laurentides, Quebec until 2015. When the ‘in-between’ took hold once again, he felt Inspector Gamache dissolving, like crystal powder in water. Will had been alone for three days in an abandoned house when stasis descended. He lost two years’ proof of life as Gamache - all collectables he had acquired and all memories. Now, once again he arrived in the third stasis from which he would emerge new and purposeful, but he had Ann this time to help him.

Ann recorded the session: This is Doctor Ann Majec with Dr. Paul Castlewood at the Vancouver Wellness Clinic. It is April, 24th, 2018. We are here to observe my patient, Will Caston who suffers from Grandiose Delusion Disorder and has entered stasis…. She was there to witness, record and guide Will into his next personality. She promised Will she would gather his complete files of writings, theories, schemata and essays as the world famous mathematician he had become after Inspector Gamache. In that abandoned house three years earlier, Will quietly emerged as John Nash.

Will never questioned why he cried as he gained conscious knowledge of self, as if out of some dark blueprint, he found new structure as a theorist and a Nobel prize winner. When he emerged from the ‘in between’ as John Nash, Will immediately was driven to seek out paper and wall space that became canvases for his deductions and theories. He cleverly slipped into empty, university class rooms and wrote endless scribblings on white boards and cement block walls. Sidewalks and buildings after midnight witnessed his speculations.

It was in such a class room that Ann first encountered Will. She was on her way to a lecture, when she saw him feverishly at work. He had filled up the white board and proceeded to continue his equation on the wall beside it. When classes changed, students filed in, sat down and waited for him to finish. Ann stood by the door and was joined by the students’ professor. All were amazed at Will’s energy and passion.

The mathematician stopped, faced the students and introduced himself as John Nash and his theory of Outer Space Dimensional Integration, then proceeded to start a lecture which Ann tactfully interrupted by stating that the guest lecturer had arrived and was ready to present. Will turned his attention toward the prof, smiled, and motioned him in. Ann asked if she could take pictures of his equations.

When she was done she coaxed Will out of the room and into a café to chat with him and confirm her suspicions of his disorder. She invited Will to her clinic where she offered him space to develop his theories if he let her write about him and keep records of his work. A week later he became her patient. That was six months ago.

In that time, he became aware of his condition of Grandiose Delusion and put his faith in Ann. Will took her to his safety deposit box to which he had discovered the key belonged. There was money and a passport with the name, Will Caston on it. She had tried to find family, but there were none. He learned to trust her and knew if stasis visited once again she’d be there for him.

When he started feeling vacant, like particles of John Nash were dissolving, he alerted Ann. She admitted him into the clinic’s extended stay program and brought in Paul to witness the stasis. Immediately she collected notebooks, photos, scribblings, recordings and video tapes of his massive writings as John Nash and filed them.

For five days the man remained unmoving. Both Paul and Ann had never seen such a phenomenon. With the help of an attendant, they made him comfortable, addressed his needs, talked to him, played music for him and sedated him for sleep.

On the sixth morning he was born again. When they arrived at his room, Will was sketching a woman on his wall with blood from a bite to his wrist. The subject had eyes with no irises and an elongated neck twisting into a distorted torso.

“I need oil paints and brushes. I need turpentine and a studio,” he announced as he vigorously climbed on his bed to paint on the upper wall.

Ann and Paul brought art supplies to the clinic, and with a grant, she found a large studio apartment. She and Paul organized the studio with storage space, an easel and a work table. Ann bought a screen behind which was a bed, dresser, closet, and a modest kitchen.

Will wasted no time in starting a small canvas portrait of Paul with black wavy hair, close, large, dark eyes, thick eyebrows and red, splotchy skin.

“Who is he now?” Paul whispered. “You never told me. I thought you didn’t know.”

“I know who is he,” she said. “I knew as soon as I saw his sketch at the clinic. Why don’t you ask him?”

Paul walked closer. “We’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Paul Castlewood. And you are…?”

“Amedeo,” he answered without looking at him.

“Who?” Paul asked.

“Amedeo Modigliani.” Ann pronounced every syllable.

“I’m getting ready for my show in Paris.”

“One of Modigliani’s paintings sold for one hundred and seventy million,” she whispered.

They watched him paint, then Paul had to leave. Ann stayed to record his process.

“You remember me, right?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You were at the other place and brought me supplies. I assumed you were an artist. Are you?”

“No.”

“I asked for a model. Do you model? I need one.” He motioned beyond the screen. “You can undress in there. There’s drapery on the bed.”

“No, I’m not a model. I’m here to watch you paint and write an article about you. Also, I have people who want to appraise your work, if that’s okay.”

“They’re not for sale. They’re going into an art show.”

“They want to appraise them and estimate their worth? It’s a free appraisal, and my article will help promote your work.”

He stopped, turned to look at her - black hair like his, a well-curved body, red lips. “If you model for me, I’ll allow your friends to see my works. There’s a lace shawl on the bed I want to paint you in.”

When he was John Nash, Ann was a concept to him, maybe a problem he didn’t want to solve, but now she suddenly was flesh, muscle, and bone he wanted to immortalize. She modelled that day, trying to analyze and treat him while he washed the canvas with wildly vibrant, distorted lines and colour.

Two weeks later he announced he finished the portrait and she could invite her friends. Lee Triolio from Montreal and Gerard Siskind from New York flew to Vancouver after receiving Ann’s invitation and photographs of both Paul’s portrait and the nude painting. They were astonished at Will’s mastery. Gerard invited Ann to bring Will and the paintings to the lab at The Met in New York for testing.

A team spent three days examining pigments and brush strokes with Morellian analysis, reflective spectroscopy and infra-red photography. They conducted image mapping against one of Modigliani’s originals that The Met allowed under strict supervision. When they asked Ann and Will to join them, they unanimously announced the painting’s authentication. It was a Modigliani, identical in every way except for the age of the materials. Identical.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” asked Will.

Ann shuddered and felt faint. “I was only looking for an appraisal of how good it was - not for authentication. Are you saying his work is the work of the real painter, Amedeo Modigliani?”

“There are absolutely no variations between the two styles. We can’t explain it.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Will asked again. “I am Amedeo. These are my hands. They held brushes and paint. This is my painting of Ann, but I don’t remember painting the other one.”

Ann paled, lowered her head and cupped her mouth in her hand.

“Are you all right?” asked Gerard.

“No. No I’m not.” Ann felt a chill blowing a different future through her. “I have to go.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” offered Gerard.

“No, I’ll be fine.” She rushed out and found a private space to slow her breathing, and rehearse what she wanted to say to her friend, Ena Teliman, a physicist in Geneva.

She waited five minutes then called. “Were you sleeping? I know it’s late. I need to talk to you. I found something.” Breathing came quickly. Words rushed out.

“Annie? What’s happened? You sound stressed.”

“I don’t know how to begin. I met a man, a patient and…” She stopped.

“Are you still there? Annie?”

“I need you to examine some files.”

“Files?”

“Equations. Theories.” Ann started to shake. “Ena, what is Outer Space Dimension Integration? Are there theories about it? Is it real?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it for?”

“It involves theories about unlocking portals to other dimensions. Why?”