LITMIR.BIZ

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does it mean to be mad?’ insisted Veronika.

      ‘Ask the doctor tomorrow. But go to sleep now, otherwise I’ll have to give you a sedative, whether you want it or not.’

      Veronika obeyed. On her way back, she heard someone whispering from one of the beds:

      ‘Don’t you know what it means to be mad?’

      For a moment, she considered ignoring the voice: she didn’t want to make friends, to develop a social circle, to create allies for a great mass revolt. She had only one fixed idea: death. If she really couldn’t escape, she would find some way to kill herself right there, as soon as possible.

      But the woman asked her the same question she had asked the nurse.

      ‘Don’t you know what it means to be mad?’

      ‘Who are you?’

      ‘My name is Zedka. Go to your bed. Then, when the nurse thinks you’re asleep, crawl back over here.’

      Veronika returned to her bed, and waited for the nurse to resume her reading. What did it mean to be mad? She hadn’t the slightest idea, because the word was used in a completely anarchic way: people would say, for example, that certain sportsmen were mad because they wanted to break records, or that artists were mad, because they led such strange, insecure lives, different from the lives of normal people. On the other hand, Veronika had often seen thinly clad people walking the streets of Ljubljana in winter, pushing supermarket trolleys full of plastic bags and rags, and proclaiming the end of the world.

      She didn’t feel sleepy. According to the doctor, she had slept for almost a week, too long for someone who was used to a life without great emotions, but with rigid timetables for rest. What did it mean to be mad? Perhaps she should ask one of the mad.

      Veronika crouched down, pulled the needle out of her arm and went over to Zedka’s bed, trying to ignore her churning stomach. She didn’t know if the feeling of nausea was because of her weakened heart or the effort she was having to make.

      ‘I don’t know what it means to be mad,’ whispered Veronika. ‘But I’m not. I’m just a failed suicide.’

      ‘Anyone who lives in their own world is mad. Like schizophrenics, psychopaths, maniacs. I mean people who are different from others.’

      ‘Like you?’

      ‘On the other hand,’ Zedka continued, pretending not to have heard the remark, ‘you have Einstein, saying that there was no time or space, just a combination of the two. Or Columbus, insisting that on the other side of the world lay not an abyss but a continent. Or Edmund Hillary, convinced that a man could reach the top of Everest. Or the Beatles, who created an entirely different sort of music and dressed like people from another time. Those people – and thousands of others – all lived in their own world.’

      ‘This madwoman talks a lot of sense,’ thought Veronika, remembering stories her mother used to tell her about saints who swore they had spoken to Jesus or the Virgin Mary. Did they live in a world apart?

      ‘I once saw a woman wearing a low-cut dress; she had a glazed look in her eyes and she was walking the streets of Ljubljana when it was five degrees below zero. I thought she must be drunk and I went to help her, but she refused my offer to lend her my jacket. Perhaps in her world it was summer and her body was warmed by the desire of the person waiting for her. Even if that person only existed in her delirium, she had the right to live and die as she wanted, don’t you think?’

      Veronika didn’t know what to say, but the madwoman’s words made sense to her. Who knows, perhaps she was the woman who had been seen half-naked walking the streets of Ljubljana?

      ‘I’m going to tell you a story,’ said Zedka. ‘A powerful wizard, who wanted to destroy an entire kingdom, placed a magic potion in the well from which all the inhabitants drank. Whoever drank that water would go mad.

      ‘The following morning, the whole population drank from the well and they all went mad, apart from the king and his family, who had a well set aside for them alone, and which the magician had not managed to poison. The king was worried and tried to control the population by issuing a series of edicts governing security and public health. The policemen and the inspectors, however, had also drunk the poisoned water and they thought the king’s decisions were absurd and resolved to take no notice of them.

      ‘When the inhabitants of the kingdom heard these decrees, they became convinced that the king had gone mad and was now giving nonsensical orders. They marched on the castle and called for his abdication.

      ‘In despair, the king prepared to step down from the throne, but the queen stopped him, saying: “Let us go and drink from the communal well. Then, we will be the same as them.”

      ‘And that was what they did: the king and the queen drank the water of madness and immediately began talking nonsense. Their subjects repented at once; now that the king was displaying such wisdom, why not allow him to continue ruling the country?

      ‘The country continued to live in peace, although its inhabitants behaved very differently from those of its neighbours. And the king was able to govern until the end of his days.’

      Veronika laughed.

      ‘You don’t seem mad at all,’ she said.

      ‘But I am, although I’m undergoing a cure, because my problem is that I lack a particular chemical. However, while I hope that the chemical gets rid of my chronic depression, I want to continue being mad, living my life the way I dream it, and not the way other people want it to be. Do you know what exists out there, beyond the walls of Villete?’

      ‘People who have all drunk from the same well.’

      ‘Exactly,’ said Zedka. ‘They think they’re normal, because they all do the same thing. Well, I’m going to pretend that I have drunk from the same well as them.’

      ‘I already did that, and that’s precisely my problem. I’ve never been depressed, never felt great joy or sadness, at least none that lasted. I have the same problems as everyone else.’

      For a while, Zedka said nothing, then:

      ‘They told us you’re going to die.’

      Veronika hesitated for a moment. Could she trust this woman? She needed to take the risk.

      ‘Yes, within about five or six days. I keep wondering if there’s a way of dying sooner. If you, or someone else, could get me some more pills, I’m sure my heart wouldn’t survive this time. You must understand how awful it is to have to wait for death, you must help me.’

      Before Zedka could reply, the nurse appeared with an injection.

      ‘I can give you the injection myself,’ she said, ‘or, depending on how you feel about it, I can ask the guards outside to help me.’

      ‘Don’t waste your energy,’ said Zedka to Veronika. ‘Save your strength, if you want to get what you asked me.’

      Veronika got up, went back to her bed and allowed the nurse to do her work.

      It was her first normal day in a mental hospital. She left the ward, had some breakfast in the large refectory where men and women were eating together. She noticed how different it was to the way these places were usually depicted in films – hysterical scenes, shouting, people making demented gestures – everything seemed wrapped in an aura of oppressive silence; it seemed that no one wanted to share their inner world with strangers.

      After breakfast (which wasn’t bad at all, no one could blame Villete’s terrible reputation on the meals), they all went out to take the sun. In fact, there wasn’t any sun – the temperature was below zero and the garden was covered in snow.

      ‘I’m not here to preserve my life, but to lose it,’ said Veronika to

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