For reasons I don’t understand, he’s pissing me off even more than usual. “You think you know something about me,” I say. “You think you can manipulate me into some kind of self-revelation, but you don’t and you can’t.”
He looks at me, appraising, and rubs the top of his pen against the side of his head. Another tiny action that seems feigned. He’s careful not to muss his suave politician hair. “Why not?”
“We’re in the same business,” I say. “We look beneath surfaces for the truth. If you’re going to do that with me, you’re going to have to work just a little bit harder, because I see through you.”
He takes a second and sits back in his glossy leather chair, puffs his pipe, sips his mint tea. “Please explain.”
“People are easy to decipher,” I say. “Listen to what’s said on the surface. Ask yourself why they said it. Ask yourself what they didn’t say, then ask yourself why they didn’t say it. When all those questions are answered, the truth becomes evident.”
“Simplistic perhaps, but nicely put,” Torsten says.
I feel like reversing our roles and watching his reaction. “Let me give you a little lesson about people,” I say. “Look at them as well as listen to them. Check out their hands and their feet. Hands tell a life story. Muscle and scars speak of hard work and usually outdoor life or the lack thereof. The condition of fingernails, whether they’re clean or dirty or well-kept or maybe bitten goes toward self-esteem. The shoes people wear give away their taste, hence self-perception, and usually reveal their socioeconomic status.”
I got him. He tries not to, but he glances at his Gucci loafers, then his thin, lily-white hands and manicured nails. Then he looks at my boots and stubby hands, almost as thick as they are long, and I’m certain he pictures those hands bouncing Vesa Legion Korhonen’s face off the fence in front of Ebeneser School.
A gift box of Fazer chocolates and a bowl of chestnuts with a nutcracker sitting in it, left over from the holidays, rest on the coffee table. I take a nut from the bowl but leave the nutcracker, give it a one-handed squeeze and break it open. He winces. I’m not sure why I intimidated him. I munch the nut, place the shells in a neat pile on the table.
He’s left speechless for a moment, then says, “Well done.”
I made him feel like an effeminate fop and a fraud. I feel awful and find myself apologizing twice in the same day. A rarity for me. “Shit,” I say, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You didn’t deserve it.”
He nods acknowledgment of my regret.
“The truth is you’re right,” I say. “I feel terrible guilt because I’m afraid I traumatized my wife to the point that it caused her miscarriage, and I’m terrified that she’ll lose this child, too. I’m scared that she’ll die.”
“Kate is medicated for the hypertension associated with preeclampsia, the odds of her losing the child are slim. Your child is safe inside her.”
“The odds aren’t slim enough. The statistics don’t make me less petrified.”
He leans forward and locks eyes with me. For the first time I view him as someone trying to help me instead of as an adversary. “Kari,” he says, “I think we’ve made a breakthrough. Our first one. What do you say we start again, and now really begin your treatment.”
I nod.
“How are your headaches?” he asks.
“Bad. A migraine is killing me right now. It hasn’t stopped for weeks.”
“Describe the symptoms.”
“They vary. Sometimes my temples pulse and throb. Sometimes it feels like I’m being stabbed deep in the head with a hot knife and an artery is about to explode. Most often though, I feel like my head is being squeezed, like a weight is on me, pushing me to the ground.”
“This feeling of being stabbed deep in the head is medically impossible, because there are no nerves in that area. If you were about to have an aneurysm, you would never know it.”