The Hypnotist

subject, she asked intelligent questions, and above all she was an excellent listener.

“And Marek Semiovic? How is he getting on?” she asked, sucking the end of her pen as she waited for my response.

“Well, you know his background. He came here as a refugee during the war in Bosnia but was given help only for his physical injuries at the time.”

“Yes.”

“He’s… interesting… for my research, even if I don’t really understand yet what’s happening with him. When he’s under very deep hypnosis, he always ends up in the same room, with the same memory- he’s being forced to torture people, people he knows, boys he used to play with, shopkeepers he used to buy from, teachers at his school- but then something happens.”

“During the hypnosis?”

“Yes. He refuses to go any further.”

“He refuses?”

“Free will under hypnosis is limited only by the fact that we can’t lie to ourselves.”

Time passed, and it was evening. The hall outside my office was silent and deserted.

Maja put her things away in her briefcase, wound her scarf around her neck, and stood up.

“I don’t know where the time went,” she said apologetically.

“Thanks for listening,” I said, holding out my hand.

She hesitated. “I’m the one who should thank you. I wonder if I could buy you a drink this evening to express my gratitude?”

I quickly ran through my plans. Simone and her friends were going to see Tosca, and she would be home late. Benjamin was staying with his grandfather, and as far as everyone was concerned, I’d intended to work all evening.

“One drink,” I said, picking up my jacket. I tamped down the feeling that I was overstepping the mark.

“I know a little place on Roslagsgatan,” said Maja, “called Peterson-Berger. It’s very simple but really nice.”

“Good.” I turned off the light and locked the door behind us.

It was about seven-thirty, and there was hardly any traffic. We took our bikes and rode down to Norrtull. The spring quivered in the sound of birdsong in the trees.

When we were met by the restaurant’s smiling proprietress, I grew doubtful. Should I really be here? What would I say if Simone rang and asked what I was doing? A wave of unease rose up, but I justified the outing to myself: Maja was a colleague. We wanted to continue our discussion. Simone, who never hesitated to go out alone with friends, was probably drinking wine right now in the restaurant at the opera house.

“I love their spit-roasted chicken with cumin,” Maja said, leading the way to a table at the far side of the restaurant.

We sat down, and a waitress immediately came over with a jug of water. Maja rested her chin on her hand, gazed at her glass, and said calmly, “If we get fed up with being here, we can always go back to my place.” She looked at me expectantly. For a moment I allowed myself to wonder what she was doing here with me. She was gorgeous, young, and outgoing. I must have been fifteen years older than she was, and I was married.

“Maja, are you flirting with me?”

She laughed, showing deep dimples. “My dad has always said I was born that way. An incorrigible flirt.”

I realized I knew nothing about her. “Is your father a doctor too?” I asked.

She nodded. “Professor Jan E. Swartling.”

“The brain surgeon,” I said, impressed.

“Or whatever you call it when somebody pokes around inside another person’s head,” she said acidly. It was the first time the smile had left her face.

We ate. To counter my anxiety, I was drinking too quickly and ordered more wine. It was as if the looks the staff were giving us, their obvious assumption that we were a couple, were making me nervous. I got drunk and didn’t even look at the bill before I signed it, crumpled up the receipt, and missed the wastepaper basket next to the cloakroom. Out on the street, in the lovely, mild spring evening, I was definitely intending to go home. But Maja pointed to a door and asked if I would like to come up, just to see what her apartment was like and to have a cup of tea.

“Maja,” I said, “you are incorrigible. Your father is right.”

She giggled and tucked her arm under mine.

We stood very close to each other in the lift. I couldn’t help looking at her smiling mouth, her pearly white teeth, her high forehead, and her black, shiny hair.

She noticed and tentatively caressed my cheek; I leaned down to kiss her, but the lift stopped with a jerk.

“Come on,” she whispered, as she unlocked her door.

Her studio apartment was small but very pleasant. The walls were painted a soft Mediterranean blue, and white linen curtains hung at the one window. The kitchen area was fresh, with a white tiled floor and a small, modern gas stove. Maja went into the kitchen, and I heard her opening a bottle of wine.

“I thought we were having tea,” I said, when she emerged with the bottle and two wineglasses. I was slurring my words.

“This is better for you,” she said.

“Well, in that case,” I said, accepting a glass and spilling wine on my hand.

She wiped my hand with a tea towel, sat down on the narrow bed, and leaned back.

“Nice place,” I said.

“It seems strange, having you here,” she said with a smile. “I’ve admired you for such a long time.”

Suddenly she leaped up.

“I have to take a picture of you,” she exclaimed, giggling. “The important doctor here in my little place!” She got her camera and trained the lens on me.

“Look serious,” she said, peering through the viewfinder.

She giggled some more as she snapped away, encouraging, joking, telling me I was hot, I was gorgeous, asking me to pout. Gradually, I relaxed.

“Unbelievably sexy.” She laughed light-heartedly.

“Will I make the front cover of Vogue?”

“Unless they choose me,” she said, handing me the camera.

I got to my feet unsteadily and pointed the camera at her. She had thrown herself down on the bed.

“You win,” I said, and took a picture.

“My brother always called me Pudding,” she said. “Do you think I’m fat?”

“You’re incredibly beautiful,” I murmured. She sat up and pulled her sweater over her head. She was wearing a pale green silk bra over her voluptuous breasts.

“Take a picture now,” she whispered, unhooking her bra.

She was blushing furiously and smiling. I focused, looking into her dark, shimmering eyes, at her smiling mouth, her young, generous breasts with their pale pink nipples.

“I’ll take a close-up,” I mumbled and knelt down, feeling desire pulse through my body.

She supported one heavy breast with her hand. The camera flashed. I had a powerful erection; it was aching and pulling. I lowered the camera, leaned forward, and took one breast in my mouth. She pressed it against my face, and I licked and sucked at the hard nipple.

“God, yes,” she whispered. “God, that’s wonderful.”

Her skin was hot, steaming. She unbuttoned her jeans, pulled them down, and kicked them off. I stood up, thinking that I mustn’t go to bed with her, that I couldn’t do that, but I picked up the camera and photographed her again. She was wearing only a pair of thin pale-green panties.

“Come here,” she whispered.

I looked at her through the lens again as she smiled and parted her legs. I could just see the dark pubic hair curling around the crotch of her panties.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“I can’t.”

She smiled. “Oh, I think you can.”