Walk-in business. Something that essentially never happens at The Bridge. The young woman gives the office sign a brief glance and then without hesitation opens the door.
Babak calmly replaces the cap on the felt pen he’s been using to work on a section of his dot picture. Britta is likewise calm as she closes her laptop and remains seated in a corner of the couch. Both of them look at their visitor in a friendly way, as though it were completely normal for someone to drop into the practice.
“Greetings,” says Britta. “How may we help you?”
The young woman looks around and gives no answer.
“Coffee?” asks Babak.
The woman shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head, and then immediately nods. Babak disappears down the stairs to the kitchen. With a hand gesture, Britta invites the visitor to have a seat and gives her time to take in her surroundings. The girl observes the seldom-used reception counter, the cheap carpet, and Babak’s dot picture. Britta observes the girl. Early twenties, anorexic. Dark curly hair, equally dark eyes, big and innocent. She is, without a doubt, unusually beautiful. But Britta’s fascinated by something else. As if it were too big to find room in the young woman’s slender body, her personality seems to overflow her corporeal boundaries and fill the room. As Babak comes upstairs with the coffee tray, they exchange looks. Britta’s eyes say: We don’t take women. Babak’s eyes reply: But this one’s a 12.
The previous day, they had a bad quarrel. Britta wants to start, with Lassie’s help, a large-scale search operation in order to pull as many candidates as possible up to the surface in a short time. Babak refused to see what good that would do. They still knew no more than before about how to classify the airport attack.
“If you know nothing, you have to keep a low profile,” Babak kept repeating.
But Britta insisted on being prepared. She quoted G. Flossen: The thing smells bad and Be on your guard. She said, “It can’t hurt to put as many candidates as possible in place.”
If they really have competition, she went on, wouldn’t it be best for them to defend their territory? With a spectacular operation, for example, something to make it clear that they operate on a higher level than the people responsible for the ridiculous Leipzig attack.
“What’s wrong with that?” Britta asked.
“The dust we’d kick up,” Babak replied.
It went back and forth for a while; Babak accused Britta of mindless activism, she accused him of cowardice, until finally she was angry enough to convert her request to an order. Ever since then, Lassie’s been humming without pause, Babak has made good progress on his dot picture, and Britta and Babak have hardly spoken.
After Babak has filled the cups, Britta starts the conversation once again. “Is there something we can do for you?”
“I’m interested in your…work.”
The hesitation between the last two words serves to confirm what Britta already suspects: the young woman hasn’t come here by chance.
“We’re pleased that you’re interested. The Bridge is an alternative medical practice dedicated to working with people in difficult predicaments. In the past, using our special confrontation method, we’ve been able to help countless at-risk individuals out of desperate situations. Indeed, we normally take a proactive approach to our work. Which is not to say that we prowl the city’s bridges, on the lookout for potential suicides.” Britta smiles suavely, like a museum guide who always cracks the very same joke in the very same spot. “We utilize the most up-to-date technology to generate digital prognoses.”
The young woman has closed her eyes. She sits motionless for a long time, as though she’s fallen asleep. When she finally says something, she keeps her eyes shut and moves only her lips, like a person in a trance. “Spare me the drivel. I know what you do.” It sounds like a threat.
“How?”
“From the web.”
“There is no information about The Bridge on the Internet. Healing practices are subject to an advertising ban, which we comply with.”
“There’s a deeper level.”
Britta can actually see Babak’s ears prick up. He’s sitting with them, holding the coffee cup in front of his face and blowing uninterruptedly on the hot liquid. The deep web is his element. It’s accurate to say that The Bridge is mentioned there; word-of-mouth propaganda, as it were. But there aren’t very many people in a position to notice that.
“And what is it we do?”
Now the girl opens her eyes. Britta feels her gaze like a physical touch.
“There’s a guy buzzing around the Darknet who talks about you.”
“If he’s buzzing, that means he’s still alive.”
“Of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The Bridge’s method is considerably more successful than classic psychotherapy.”
The young woman twists her mouth into a grin her eyes don’t share. Her dark gaze deepens and generates a silent incandescence. Babak stares at her as though she were an abyss into which one might fall.
“I like success,” she says. “That’s why I’m here.”
Now Britta’s staring too. “What do you mean?” she asks cautiously.
“Scrubbing down. Sweeping out. Major cleanup.” The young woman’s grin widens. Her canine teeth are a bit longer than the others.
“Do you take us for some kind of janitorial service?”
Now the girl laughs. She raises a hand and lets it fall on her thigh. Like the gesture of a mechanical doll.
“I absolutely do. And I admire your broom.”
The ensuing silence becomes complicated. Britta mentally counts to five, picking the perfect moment for a surprise attack.
“This is no game, you understand me?” she says, suddenly fierce. “We’re not putting on a play!”
The visitor flinches only slightly before regaining control of herself. “You’re looking for people,” she says.
“What we’re looking for is none of your business.” Britta gets up. “I don’t believe we can do anything for you.”
The Bridge runs on rules. Rules are the practice’s capital, its real substance. Lassie’s search parameters. Rules for establishing contact with candidates. Strict rules of evaluation. Rules for traveling and for communicating with clients, rules for placing candidates and for carrying out operations. The true significance of a rule always first manifests itself when the practice ventures upon shaky ground. Normally, candidates don’t come ambling through the door; normally, they aren’t women; and normally, their behavior is not so offensive. It’s almost as if the girl were throwing down a gauntlet in front of them, and Britta feels a strong temptation to take it up. But the first rule of the evaluation process is couched in no uncertain terms: frustrate the candidate, send him away, and wait to see if he comes back.
“Okay,” the young woman says. “Let’s start over. I’m quite serious about this.” She reaches out a hand. “My name is Julietta.”
“Stop!” Britta raises an index finger. “We don’t want to know your name. Please leave this office. At once.” With a sidelong glance, she checks to see whether Babak is as stony-faced as she is. He’s set his cup down and is looking absentmindedly at a corner of the coffee table; his lack of interest seems total. Good, Britta thinks, suppressing a relieved smile. When the chips are down, they function as a team.
“That’s bullshit.” Julietta strikes her chair’s armrests with both hands. “You’re supposed to be…” She leaps to her feet, stares at Babak as though she wants to punch him, and turns away. As she goes, she runs into a leg of the coffee table.
“Like I give a shit. Fuck.”
She steps quickly to the door, puts one hand on the handle, and turns around once again. “What’s this droning sound I hear?”
“Freezer,” says Babak. “Not the newest model.”
“Fuck you,” says Julietta, and she disappears.