He sat down on one of the two chairs in front of the desk. They were television chairs, the adjustable kind, covered in black leather. He wondered whether he shouldve waited for her to sit down first. She smiled, her hands resting comfortably on the desk in front of her.
I've never addressed anyone as captain in consultation, she said.
Her voice was very soft, as if she was speaking in the strictest confidence, but melodious. He wondered whether psychiatrists were taught to speak like that.
Im called Mat.
Because of your initials?
Yes, he said, relieved.
My name is Hanna. Id be pleased if you called me that.
Are you a psychiatrist? he asked nervously, impulsively.
She shook her head. Her hair was an almost colorless brown, tied back in a braid. The braid was visible with every movement of her head.
An ordinary psychologist.
But youre a doctor?
She tilted her head, as if she was slightly uncomfortable. I have a doctorate in psychology.
He digested this information.
May I smoke?
Of course.
He lit the cigarette. It had bent when hed clutched it in his hand earlier and it drooped sadly between his fingers. He sucked in the smoke and unnecessarily tapped the ash into the ashtray. He kept his eyes on the cigarette, on the ashtray.
This is only the second week that I've been working with the police, she said. I've already seen a few people. Some were unhappy because they had to come. I do understand that. Its not pleasant to be forced into something.
She waited for a reaction, got nothing.
Psychological consultation doesnt mean that theres something wrong with you. Just that you need someone to talk to. Someone between work and home.
Again she waited. Joubert kept his eyes away from her. Why did it sound like excuses to him? Why did it have to be a woman? It had caught him unaware.
Your work creates a lot of stress. Every policeman should talk to a psychologist on a regular basis.
Was I referred because theres nothing wrong with me?
No.
Who decided that I had to come?
I did.
He looked at her. Her arms were relaxed, only her hands occasionally made small gestures to punctuate her words. And her voice. He glanced quickly at her face. He saw the line of her jaw, straight and delicate as if it was fragile. He looked away again. She didn't look guilty. Only calm and patient.
And my OC?
OC?
My commanding officer.
I get a whole pile of files every day from officers who think their men should talk to me. And only I recommend who should come.
But it was still de Wit who had done the preliminary work. Filled in the forms. Written the motivation.
He became aware of the intensity of her gaze. He stubbed out the cigarette. He folded his arms and looked at her. Her face was serious.
Even more quietly than before she said: Its not unnatural to be unhappy about it.
Why did you choose me?
Why do you think?
Shes clever, he thought. Too clever for me.
He knew he wasn't mad. Or was that precisely what the crazies said? He was there because he was just a little crazy. The Great Predator was on his trail. And that sometimes made him . . .
Because of my record, he said resignedly.
She looked at him, a sympathetic half smile on her mouth. Her mouth was small. He saw that she wore no makeup. Her lower lip was a juicy morsel, a natural pale pink.
When she said nothing, he added: Its probably necessary.
Why do you think its necessary? Almost whispering. Only the musicality of her voice made it audible.
Was this the way she worked? You came in, sat down and lanced your own abscess, releasing the pus in front of the good doctor, and she disinfected the wound and bandaged it. Where did he have to start? Did she want to know about his childhood? Did she think hed never heard of Freud? Or should he start with Lara? Or end with Lara? Or with death? What about Yvonne Stoffberg? Do you want to hear the one about the detective and the neighbors daughter, Doctor? Screamingly funny story . . . Because the detective wants to but doesnt know whether he can.
Because my work is suffering. A gutless reply. He knew it. And knew that she also knew it.
She was quiet for a long time. Your accent. Im from Gauteng. It still sounds strange. Did you grow up here?
He looked down, at his brown shoes, which needed polish. He nodded. Goodwood.
Brothers and sisters?
wasn't that in his file as well? An older sister.
Is she still in the Cape?
No. Secunda.
Now he looked at her when he spoke. He saw the broad forehead, the big brown eyes, set wide apart, the heavy eyebrows.
Do you resemble each other?
No . . . He knew he had to say something more. He knew his replies were too brief.
She . . . looks like my father.
And you?
Like my mother. He was shy, uncomfortable. What he wanted to say sounded so commonplace. But he said it: Actually I take after my mothers family. Her father, my grandfather, was evidently also big.
He took a deep breath. And clumsy. He was annoyed because hed added the last two words. Like a criminal deliberately leaving clues.
Do you regard yourself as clumsy? She said it automatically, a reflex, and in an odd way it made him feel better. At least she wasn't in complete control.
I am.
Why do you say that? More slowly, thoughtful now.
I always was. His eyes wandered over the bookshelves but he saw nothing. Since I can remember. The memories dammed up against the dike. He took out a finger to let a few drops through. In junior school . . . I always came last in track events . . . He was unaware of his wry smile. It worried me. Not in high school, though.
Why did it worry you?
My father . . . I wanted to be like him. He pushed the finger back. The leak was sealed again.
She hesitated for a moment. Are your parents still living?
No.
She waited.
My father died three years ago. Of a heart attack. My mother a year later. He was sixty-one. She was fifty-nine. He didn't want to remember.
What did your father do?
Policeman. For seventeen years he was the commanding officer of the Goodwood station. Joubert could hear the wheels spinning in her head. His father was a policeman. He was a policeman. That meant whatever it meant. But she would be making a mistake.