priority is to help my patients,” I said.
“And your research?”
“It’s—” I cleared my throat again—“it’s a by-product, when it comes down to it,” I said quietly. “That’s how I have to regard it. I would never develop an experimental technique if there was any indication that it was detrimental to a patient’s condition.”
Some of the men around the table exchanged glances.
“Good answer,” said Frank Paulsson, all of a sudden. “I am giving Erik Maria Bark my full support.”
“I still have some concerns about the patients,” said Holstein.
“Everything is in here,” Paulsson said, pointing to the folder of notes I had provided in advance. “He’s written about the development of the patients; it looks more than promising, I’d say.”
“It’s just that it’s very unusual therapy. It’s so bold we have to be certain we can defend it if something goes wrong.”
“Nothing can really go wrong,” I said, feeling shivers down my spine.
“Erik, it’s Friday and everybody wants to go home,” said Annika Lorentzon. “I think you can assume that your funding will be renewed.”
The others nodded in agreement, and Ronny Johansson leaned back and began to applaud.
Simone was standing in our spacious kitchen when I got home. She’d covered the table with groceries: bundles of asparagus, fresh marjoram, a chicken, a lemon, jasmine rice. When she caught sight of me she laughed.
“What?” I asked.
She shook her head and said with a broad grin, “You should see your face.”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like a little kid on Christmas Eve.”
“Is it so obvious?”
“Benjamin!” she shouted.
Benjamin came into the kitchen with Pokémon cards in his hand. Simone hid her merriment and pointed at me. “How does Daddy look, Benjamin?”
He studied me for a moment and began to smile. “You look happy, Daddy.”
“I am happy, little man. I am happy.”
“Have they found the medicine?” he asked.
“What medicine?”
“To make me better, so I won’t need injections,” he said.
I picked him up, hugged him, and explained that they hadn’t found the medicine yet but I hoped they soon would, more than anything.
“All right,” he said.
I put him down and saw Simone’s pensive expression.
Benjamin tugged at my trouser leg. “So what was it, Daddy?”
I didn’t understand.
“Why were you so happy, Daddy?”
“It was just money,” I replied, subdued. “I’ve got some money for my research.”
“David says you do magic.”
“I don’t do magic. I try to help people who are frightened and unhappy.”
Simone let Benjamin run his fingers through the marjoram leaves and inhale their scent. “Tomorrow I sign the lease for the space on Arsenalsgatan.”
“But why didn’t you say anything? Congratulations, Sixan!”
She laughed. “I know exactly what my opening exhibition is going to be,” she said. “There’s a girl who’s just finished at the art college in Bergen. She’s absolutely fantastic; she does these huge—”
Simone broke off as the doorbell rang. She tried to see who it was through the kitchen window, before she went and opened the front door. I followed her and saw her walk through the dark hall and towards the doorway, which was filled with light. When I got there, she was standing looking out.
“Who was it?” I asked.
“Nobody. There was nobody here.”
I looked out over the shrubbery towards the street.
“What’s that?” she asked suddenly.
On the step in front of the door lay a rod with a handle at one end and a small round plate of wood at the other.
“Strange,” I said, picking up the old tool and turning it over in my hands.
“What is it?”
“A ferrule, I think. It was used to punish children in the old days.”
It was time for a session with the hypnosis group. They would be here in ten minutes. The usual six plus the new woman, Eva Blau.
I picked up my pad and read through my notes from the session a week earlier, when Marek Semiovic had talked about the big wooden house in the country in the region of Zenica-Doboj.
It was Charlotte’s turn to begin this time, and I thought I might then make a first attempt with Eva Blau.
I arranged the chairs in a semicircle and set up the video camera tripod as far away as possible.
I was eager that day. The stress of worrying about funding had been relieved, and I was curious as to what would emerge during the session. I was becoming increasingly convinced that this new form of therapy was better than anything I had practised in the past—that the importance of the collective was immense in the treatment of trauma. I was excited by the way the lonely isolation of individual pain could be transformed into a shared and empathetic healing process.
I inserted a new tape in the video camera, zoomed in on the back of a chair, adjusted the focus, and zoomed out again.
Charlotte Ceder entered. She was wearing a dark blue trench coat with a wide belt tightly cinched around her slender waist. As she pulled off her hat, her thick, chestnut-brown hair tumbled around her face. As always, she was beautifully, and terribly, sad.
I went over to the window, opened it, and felt the soft spring breeze blowing over my face. When I turned around, Jussi Persson had arrived.
“Doctor,” he said in his calm Norrland accent.
We shook hands and he went over to say hello to Sibel, who had just come in. He patted his beer belly and said something that made her giggle and blush. They chatted quietly as the rest of the group arrived: Lydia, Pierre, and finally Marek, slightly late as usual.
I
