“Tell me, Irina, how are things going? Are you in therapy?”
“Let’s be realistic, Agent Wilkins. Do you know how much I earn? Not enough to pay for a psychologist. The county only pays for three sessions, and I’ve had those, but as you can see, I -haven’t committed suicide. I lead a normal life; I work and am thinking of taking classes on the Internet. I want to study therapeutic massage; it’s a good profession for anyone with strong hands like mine.”
“Are you under medical supervision?”
“Yes, I’m taking an antidepressant.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Berkeley, in a good-sized room that’s cheap.”
“This job here suits you, Irina. It’s peaceful, no one bothers you, you’re safe. I’ve heard very good things about you. I talked to the director and he said you’re his best employee. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I did have, but he died.”
“What? My God, that’s all you needed, I’m so sorry. What did he die of?”
“Old age, I think; he was over ninety. But there are other old men here who’d be happy to become my boyfriends.”
Wilkins was not amused. They sat awhile in silence, blowing on and then sipping their coffees from paper cups. Irina suddenly felt overwhelmed by sadness and solitude, as if this good man’s thoughts had penetrated her mind and mingled with her own, and a lump rose in her throat. As if responding to a telepathic signal from her, Wilkins put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward his broad chest. He smelled of a rather cloying cologne that seemed out of place on such a big man. She could feel the warmth coming from Wilkins like a stove, the rough texture of his jacket on her cheek, the comforting weight of his arm, and rested for a couple of minutes feeling protected, breathing in his cheap cologne, while he patted her back, as if he were comforting his grandson.
“What’s the news you’ve brought?” asked Irina, once she had recovered a little.
“Compensation, Irina. There’s an old law that’s still in existence, though nobody remembers it, that gives victims like you the right to compensation. With that money you could pay for your therapy, which you really do need, and for your studies, and with a bit of luck, you could even put down a deposit on a small apartment.”
“All that is in theory, Mr. Wilkins.”
“Some people have already received compensation.”
He explained that although her case was not a recent one, a good lawyer would be able to prove she had undergone serious damage as a result of what had happened, that she suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome, and needed psychological help and medication. Irina reminded him that the person responsible had no possessions that could be confiscated to compensate her with.
“Other people in the ring have been arrested, Irina. Powerful people who have money.”
“Those men didn’t do anything to me. There’s only one guilty man, Mr. Wilkins.”
“Listen to me, Irina. You’ve had to change your identity and where you live. You lost your mother, your schoolmates, and all the other people you knew. You live practically hidden in another state. What happened is not something in the past; it could be said it’s still going on, and that there are lots of guilty men.”
“That’s what I used to think, Mr. Wilkins, but I decided I am not going to be a victim forever. I’ve turned the page. Nowadays I am Irina Bazili and I have another life.”
“I’m sorry to have to remind you, but you’re still a victim. Some of the accused would be more than happy to pay you compensation if it meant they could avoid a scandal. Will you authorize me to give your name to a lawyer who specializes in this kind of thing?”
“No. Why stir all that up again?”