LITMIR.BIZ

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      “So we’ve gathered,” said Ronny Johansson.

      I tried to provide an overview of what I’d done thus far. I could hear feet shuffling, chair legs scraping against the floor.

      “Unfortunately, I have another commitment,” Rainer Milch said after a while. He got to his feet, shook hands with the men next to him, and left the room. My audience listened without really paying attention.

      “I know this material can seem dense, but I did provide a summary in advance. It’s fairly comprehensive, I know, but it’s necessary; I couldn’t make it any shorter.”

      “Why not?” asked Peter Mälarstedt.

      “Because it’s a little too early to draw any conclusions,” I said.

      “But if we move forward two years?” he asked.

      “Hard to say, but I am seeing patterns emerge,” I said, despite the fact that I knew I shouldn’t go down that path.

      “Patterns? What kind of patterns?”

      “Can you tell us what you’re hoping to find?” asked Annika Lorentzon, with an encouraging smile.

      I took a deep breath. “I’m hoping to map the mental barriers that remain during hypnosis—how the brain, in a state of deep relaxation, comes up with new ways of protecting the individual from the memory of trauma or fear. What I mean—and this is really exciting—is that when a patient is getting closer to a trauma, the core, the thing that’s really dangerous, when the suppressed memory finally begins to float towards the surface during hypnosis, the mind begins to rummage around in a final attempt to protect the secret. What I have begun to realise and document is that the subject incorporates dream material into his or her memories, simply in order to avoid seeing.”

      “To avoid seeing the situation itself?” asked Ronny Johansson, with a sudden burst of curiosity.

      “In a way. It’s the perpetrator they don’t want to see,” I replied. “They replace the perpetrator with something else, often an animal.”

      There was silence around the table. I could see Annika, who had so far looked mainly embarrassed on my behalf, smiling to herself.

      “Can this be true?” said Ronny Johansson, almost in a whisper.

      “How clear is this pattern?” asked Mälarstedt.

      “Clear, but not fully established,” I replied.

      “Is there any similar research going on elsewhere in the world?” Mälarstedt wondered.

      “No,” Ronny Johansson replied abruptly.

      “But does it stop there?” said Holstein. “Or will the patient always find some new way of protecting himself under hypnosis, in your opinion?”

      “Yes, is it possible to move beyond this protective mechanism?” asked Mälarstedt.

      I could feel my cheeks beginning to burn; I cleared my throat. “I think it’s possible to move beyond the mechanism, to find what lies beneath these images through deeper hypnosis.”

      “And what about the patients?”

      “I was thinking about them, too,” Mälarstedt said to Annika Lorentzon.

      “This is all very tempting, of course,” said Holstein. “But I want guarantees. No psychoses, no suicides.”

      “Yes, but—”

      “Can you promise me that?”

      Frank Paulsson was just sitting there, scraping at the label on his bottle of mineral water. Holstein looked tired and glanced openly at his watch.

      “My 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

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