Latine Loqui Coactus Sum

Latine Loqui Coactus Sum
by Terry Coffey

“Now then.” Dr. Spangler puts down the phone, crosses his legs, and looks over the top of his reading glasses at the young man in the patients’ chair. “I’m a bit confused. You say your name is Josephus?”

The man in the Chicago Cubs sweatshirt and ragged blue jeans doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, staring back at the psychiatrist.

“Come on, Joseph — um, may I call you Joe?.” Dr. Spangler uncrosses his legs and leans forward, his steel gray eyes boring into Joe’s forehead. “I can’t help you, or try to help you, if you won’t talk with me.” Joe shrugs and looks at the diplomas and certificates adorning the south wall of Dr. Spangler’s office.

“Joe, do you think I won’t understand?”

Joe nods.

Dr. Spangler takes off his glasses, stands, and walks to the window. He chews on the ear piece and looks into the dark green of the walnut tree outside. How many of these cases has he had since he came to the Institute? 10? 20? Morgan the research team leader can’t be right — the drugs may be having an impact, but certainly not the wrong impact. “Joe, I can’t promise that I’ll understand…at least, not at first. But, I give you my word that I will try, and that, together, we can beat whatever problem brought you to me.”

Joe clears his throat, and Dr. Spangler turns hopefully back toward him. Maybe this time there will be a breakthrough. “Yes?”

“Latine Loqui Coactus Sum.”

Dr. Spangler sighs. He never imagined this is how high school Latin would turn out to be useful. “What was that?”

“Latine Loqui Coactus Sum.”

Despite his concern, Dr. Spangler is intrigued. This is a side effect he’s not seen among the Institute’s time lab scientists. Most of those affected by whatever it is are totally uncommunicative, a side effect of some trauma suffered during time travel experiments, a side effect which Dr. Spangler’s newly developed drug treatments are supposed to prevent. Instead, Morgan and others at the Institute accuse Spangler’s drugs of doing the opposite — of causing severe mental trauma, leading to psychoses and delusions.

“Joe, I may be a trifle rusty, but, did you say you have a….a compulsion to speak Latin?”

“Ita.” Yes.

“I see.” Dr. Spangler sits down again, balances a yellow legal pad on his knee, and considers this rather unique development. Perhaps he is being manipulated by a worn out team member — or tricked by the overly aggressive Morgan? “How long have you had this…compulsion?”

“Dies pridie heri.”

“The day before yesterday? Do you remember anything that happened that day…anything unusual?”

Joe thinks for a moment. “Revocatio non.”

“You don’t recall?” Dr. Spangler looks through the personnel file, labeled “Joe Millhouse.” The duty sheet inside confirms his own recollection — that Joe took part in a closed experiment at the time lab two days ago, and so underwent drug treatment the day before. “Joe, I’d like to learn a bit more about you. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”

Joe nods.

“Okay…what is your favorite baseball team?

Joe looks confused, and shrugs.

“Joe, do you understand?”

“Non.”

“Well, since you’re wearing a Chicago Cubs shirt, I thought they might be your favorite baseball team.”

“Catuli. Eamus O Catuli!” Joe grins and pumps a fist in the air.

“Yes, yes. ‘Go Cubs’. Now then, who is your favorite music group?

“Um….Ille Quis?”

” ‘The Who’. All right, who is your Mother?”

It seems to Dr. Spangler that Joe’s eyes suddenly look sad. “Quid agitur de matre mea?”

“I don’t mean to say your Mother has anything to do with this. I just want you to tell me her name. Can you?”

“Ita.”

“What is it, then?”

Silence.

“Joe, what’s her name? Do you remember?”

“Maria.”

“Your favorite television program?”

Joe frowns.

“Television.” Dr. Spangler points toward the 19″ RCA he keeps in the office.

“Ah.” Joe grins. “Insula Gilliganis.”

“What is your wife’s name?”

Joe shakes his head. “Sponsa habere nullus.”

“No wife, eh? Are you still looking? Have you been married before?”

“Non sum paratus me committere.”

“Not ready for a commitment? Well, that describes a lot of us. Tell me, Joe — where were you born?”

Joe looks at his feet, then around the room. When his eyes return to Dr. Spangler, he simply shrugs.

“Ignoro egomet.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? We all know where we were born…or, at least, brought up.”

Joe sighs. “Roma.”

“Rome? Are you Italian?”

“Non.”

“I see. Were you born there while your parents were visiting?”

Joe glares at Dr. Spangler, a look of anger mixed with disbelief. “Nullo Modo!”

“Was your father in the military?”

“Ita.”

“That would explain it. Now then, why do you think you keep wanting to speak Latin?”

“Nescio quid dicas.”

“Of course you know what I’m talking about. You said so yourself.”

“Tempus meum tero.”

“Joe, you are not wasting your time.” I believe I can help you can resist this compulsion, but we have to start small. Why not tell me what you do for a living — in English?”

“Illud Anglicus dici non potest.”

“Certainly you can say it in English.”

“Latine Loqui coactus sum!”

Dr. Spangler tosses the yellow pad onto his desk and sighs. “Joe, why don’t you tell me why you think you have to speak Latin?”

Joe looks out the window at the afternoon sun, and frowns. “Quantum in una hora imputas?”

“My hourly charges have nothing to do with it. I’m paid by the Institute — same as you are. You know that. Are you indicating displeasure with my services?”

“Credo nos in fluctu eodem esse.”

“If we’re thinking along the same lines, then let me give you some advice. Go back to your room and get some rest. I’ll give you something to help you sleep.”

Joe suddenly stands, digs in his pocket and places several heavy coins on Dr. Spangler’s desk, then walks to the door. He turns back to Dr. Spangler.

“Ego te demitto.”

“Joe, you can’t fire me.”

“Abeo.” Joe slams the door behind him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been told off by a client in Latin,” Dr. Spangler thinks as he follows Joe out into the reception area. He is more than a little surprised to find his receptionist alone.

“Excuse me, where did Joseph — the young man in the Cubs T-shirt go?

“What man?”

“The man who just came out of my office.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen or heard anyone come in or out all morning. But, who are you?”

Dr. Spangler rubs his head and goes back into his office, deaf to her question. He is wondering why he came to the Institute in the first place. He should have known there was something a little off about a place that conducts time travel experiments. But it was a great way to test his new synthetic drugs on willing subjects. The drugs were designed to focus the mind in moments of mental stress — in essence, to keep the time travelers thinking straight. But members of the research team began having delusions anyway — so severe that they had to be detained and sedated. Not one has yet recovered. To try and determine what’s happening, Spangler has even been in on one or two experiments, where group were supposed to go back to the glory days of Rome. All he remembers is light so bright he had to close his eyes, and spinning around until he felt like throwing up. He took the same drugs as the others — and he has not been affected.

On the desk, he sees the coins left by the young man calling himself Josephus. They are very old, and bear the likeness of Caesar. This can’t be happening. Surely a delusion wouldn’t be carried this far. But, how else can he explain the coins? Dr. Spangler decides he’s had enough for one day. He’ll head for the Institute’s club. Maybe half a round and a drink will clear his head.

When he goes out to tell the receptionist he’s leaving early, and to forward any messages to the club, he notices something strange. She’s wearing a toga.

“Mrs. Greely, why are you wearing that?”

She gives him a strange look, and nods toward two men he hasn’t noticed before, also wearing togas. Maybe there’s a costume party he hasn’t heard about. Maybe this is all an elaborate prank. Perhaps Morgan is behind it?

“Hello, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Non comprere,” one say as they grab him by his arms and lead him toward a strange-looking door. “Non comprere.”

They open the door and shove him through. A blinding light tears into his eyes, and his ears are filled with the roaring of a great crowd, and the growls of lions. Is this his own delusion? That must be the answer! Or is it?

There is the sensation of long, coarse hair against his arm, and the hot breath of fear on his neck as he slips into unconsciousness.