Our discussion ended shortly after I regained my composure. Ram-Ram went into his own apartment and returned with an armful of books which he left with me. When I was alone, I leafed through them, noticing idly that they were library books, taken out a week earlier. At the time I attached no significance to this. Nor did I question my choice of confidant. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have kept Ram-Ram there all night, questioning him. As it was, I didn’t realize until months later how cagey he’d been.

Chapter Three

A Book Out of Nowhere and an Interview in a Mental Institution

You can imagine my feelings three days later when I learned that Ram-Ram had been admitted to a psychiatric clinic under his own cognizance and labeled a schizophrenic. In the oddest way, this relieved my mind; I wouldn’t have to regard what he’d said to me that night with any seriousness; and while I felt sorry for him, I also felt absurdly free.

Yet as I looked back at our meeting and remembered his strange excitement, I wondered: Did our interview and my own bizarre experiences set him off? Even so, he must have been predisposed toward that particular illness for some time, I thought. Yet it seemed that I should have been alert enough to spot the symptoms. So, somewhat guiltily, I decided to visit him as soon as possible.

It was nearly a week before the opportunity presented itself. For one thing, my academic load was considerable then, and despite my resolution I kept putting the visit off. All kinds of excuses came to mind until I took myself in hand and realized that I felt illogically responsible for Ram-Ram’s condition. I was reacting quite mechanically, feeling guilt for no reason, as I’d been programmed to do by my background both as a private person and as a member of our society.

So the very next day I made my duty call, and met Ram-Ram’s new friend for the first time—Queen Alice, as she’s called, a kooky old lady about Ram-Ram’s age who’s taken him in hand. Or he’s taken her in hand. But the interview was most unsettling and peculiar. I say this because it almost seemed as if Ram-Ram was checking on my state of mind, instead of the other way around.

“Dr. Brail?” I said, striding, I hoped, with a strong, positive, reassuring step into the common room.

“Ah, Jeffy-boy, step into my parlor,” he said, with the sweetest of guileless smiles. Other patients made way. Ram-Ram was playing the role of kindly old psychologist, this time to perfection, and the other patients surrounded him like supporting actors, showing him deference while Ram-Ram kept smiling like some ancient pied piper.