Chapter Text
Marlene Kagan's case was uncomplicated, for which Hannibal Lecter was profoundly grateful. She was one of the most interesting people he had met in Baltimore, and would have counted her as a friend save that she was, and had come to him as, a patient. When he would be able to discharge her from his care, things would be different. Acute depression, really a touch of midlife crisis, unbefitting such a lovely woman.
Kagan was not beautiful, in token of the word "lovely". She was a bit more attractive than plain, wide-eyed and plump-lipped, with lips that retained enough collagen at her age for her still to have a smile when her face rested. Plump did not describe her figure but she was by no means slender, either; also a bit on the tall side for a woman, she was easily a size 12 or 14, with undoubtedly womanly, and very lush, curves. Those curves must have been well-admired by the more discerning men of Paris – Americans held such odd standards for the female body, longing for pre-pubescent boys in their women – when she had studied there, for she, like Lecter himself, had attended the Sorbonne. While there, after graduation and while living there with her first husband, she had also attended Le Cordon Bleu, which Lecter had not; he envied her the culinary training. His own had been far more hard-won.
She had taught French at Towson University for several years, before she and her husband – a surgeon at Mount Sinai Hospital – had begun raising a brood of toddlers. For their own amusement, and because it was good for both of their language skills… and not incidentally because it pleased his patient so much… Lecter sometimes conducted their sessions entirely in French. He booked her sessions at lunchtime, and for a full hour – some days he brought a meal that he had cooked, and other days she practiced her own French cooking skills, a talent her McDonalds-loving children failed to appreciate, for the two of them, their sessions conducted at a table in Lecter's office.
It was entirely possible that her improvement was at least in part a combination of attention and appreciation from her psychiatrist, who prescribed her only the mildest anti-depressant and anti-anxiety drugs, exactly one of each. He had prescribed an equally mild sleeping pill when they began their sessions, only to discard it after three months of weekly sessions. Her depression, it seemed to him, was rooted in her children's growing independence, plus increased time on her hands – her being the vice-president of the Mount Sinai women's auxiliary was no longer enough to keep her occupied. He helped her through the basics – allowing children to leave the nest gradually, for they had to learn to fly by being away from home more than they did as toddlers; coping with her discovery of the fling her husband had had at a medical conference in Jamaica (fortunately, it had not been any sort of full-fledged affair), and her feeling of needing more activity in her life.
After some months of talking her through such things and monitoring her medications, Lecter had begun the task of pointing out that a woman with a master's degree in French, who had been a full-time university instructor, might need more in her life than children, women's groups, and lunches with other medical wives to fill her daytime schedule. Lecter knew medical wives – he'd had his own brief, discreet, short affairs with several of them, all of whom had been charmed by his looks, his accent, his courtesy, and his attentions – rather than the annoying and embarrassing process of booking into hotels, they had driven into his garage unseen, entered his magnificent home, and found themselves at his table, with exotic private meals, excellent wine, and the prospect of his particularly comfortable bed afterwards. Lecter didn't really care for other doctors' wives, but they were discreet, socially acceptable if one were to be found with them (the accusations in the divorce might be messy if such were to occur, but were less damaging, and far less public than a headline of "noted psychiatrist found with prostitute" – besides, a suspicious, possibly dangerous husband could easily be made to disappear), and easily available. Most of them, unfortunately, and unlike Marlene Kagan, were vapid, interested primarily in fashion and boarding schools, and uninteresting outside of their usefulness as stress relief.
His suggestions for filling in the gaps Kagan embraced like a lifeline. She took an adjunct position at Essex Community College teaching two French classes. She volunteered her services as a taster and judge at one of the better culinary schools in the city, near Johns Hopkins. Her husband didn't blink, it turned out, at her request for after-school care for the children so that she could take on another adjunct position at Towson, which made no secret of its interest in having her back on faculty when her children were older. She kept the anti-anxiety medication, but at least temporarily dropped the anti-depressant; Lecter told her that she could have it filled by her family doctor if she needed it again after he discharged her.
When he discharged her, finally, she looked better – no smaller, no less pleasingly curved, but she stood upright more firmly (of course, he had referred her to a chiropractor he knew, telling her that the spinal adjustments were excellent for headaches, which she also had; he knew the chiropractor to be talented, as the man saw him often after night-hunts that sometimes bothered Lecter's back when his victims fought back, or were too heavy), her smile was brighter, and she had progressed from cashmere sweater sets and pearls to nicely and femininely tailored teaching clothing. It was much unlike him to have more than minor physical contact with a patient, but he hugged her willingly.
"I will miss our sessions," he admitted to her.
"You needn't, entirely," she told him, smiling. "I was hoping you might help me with something else."
He raised an eyebrow, surprised. "What would that be?"
"My husband's become interested in tracking down his family in Europe. We've decided to go next year and see if we can find his remaining relatives. He and I both know a little German, but I don't know one word of Lithuanian. Do you think you could teach me enough conversational Lithuanian to get by on a trip?"
"I should be delighted. Shall we schedule your sessions at lunch?"
"Next Thursday would be perfect – it's been our regular session for months. Shall I bring lunch?"
"Not at all. It's time I introduced you to Lithuanian cooking. In fact, you must arrange to bring your family to dinner one night. I have not cooked a traditional Lithuanian feast in some years." He smiled to himself. There was a doctor becoming suspicious of his wife's late-afternoon activities on Wednesdays, and the man was fatty enough to make a perfect pork stew. "I have a stew recipe I think your family will particularly enjoy."