“Oh, are you closing up already?”
Guido Hatz is leaning on the hood of his white pickup. It’s the same model the ISIS lunatics used to drive through the deserts. His arms are folded as he smiles down on Britta, who’s at least a head shorter.
“What is it you want?”
“Information about the services you offer.”
They look at each other with such different expressions—Hatz friendly and expectant, Britta torn between fear and anger—that it’s a miracle that they can see each other at all.
“Maybe we can go inside?” asks Guido Hatz. “I’d like a brief chat with you.”
For a moment, Britta toys with the thought of leaving him standing there and driving home. She’s so tired. Reluctantly, she unlocks the door again, steps in, and plants herself in the middle of the lobby. When Hatz grasps that she’s not going to offer him a seat, he sets out on a little tour of the practice, gawking at the reception, the sitting area, the dot picture.
“How interesting,” he says, leaning over Babak’s work. “I can recognize energy centers. Here, for example.” His finger circles over the portion that Babak last worked on. “A region of immense compression. Something that cries out for resolution. Is this about a method for detecting energy nodes? Did you develop this yourself?”
He’s good. Britta is actually unable to say whether he’s being serious or playing with her. She can feel fear begin to flicker behind her thoughts, and she fakes a yawn to relax herself, a ploy that Guido Hatz surely sees through.
“Let’s get to the point,” she says. “What’s this about?”
“Maybe your husband’s already told you that I’m interested in geomancy.”
Britta raises her eyebrows in surprise. So he’s making no secret of his connection with Richard. Nor has he introduced himself or asked her name. Obviously he’s taking for granted that each of them knows who the other is. A wise old saying holds that the right solution is usually the simplest one; according to this wisdom, Hatz is probably nothing more than an eccentric millionaire who enjoys investigating the contexts of his investments. Britt pulls herself together and sets her dispositional dial to “normal conversation.”
“Richard showed me the video,” says she. “The one where you’re balancing on a railing.”
“Child’s play,” says Hatz, dismissing the feat with a wave of his hand. “Anyone who concentrates a little can do it. But this here”—he points again at Babak’s picture—“requires significantly deeper insight into the energetic constellation. Perhaps you could give me a brief explanation of your method? I am, to a certain extent, a professional in these matters.”
“The Bridge has nothing to do with the esoteric arts. I’m a healing practitioner in psychotherapy.”
“Esotericism is a meaningless term.” Guido Hatz strokes his mustache. “Anyone who wants to heal people has to deal with energy.”
“That’s true.” Britta nods slowly to gain the time she needs to trawl her memory for techniques from her schooling. “The Bridge’s offerings include breathing therapy, autogenic training, and hypnosis, along with brainspotting, CRM, and EMDR.”
Hatz looks like someone making an effort to repress a grin.
“Recently, however, we’ve been specializing, even though you might say that specialization contradicts the basic principles of alternative medicine. In many cases, contradictions are precisely the means of releasing the greatest energy.”
He acknowledges this rhetorical chess move with a smile. “Self-managing, life coaching, ego polishing,” he says. His voice betrays no hint of irony as he quotes the sign on the door of the practice.
“A simple truth is hidden behind those concepts,” Britta explains. “The Bridge cures suicidal tendencies.”
“Do your patients get initiated?”
“We use a twelve-step method.”
“To the fourth degree?”
“In particular cases. Even though we have a different name for it.”
“The others are eliminated beforehand?”
“The vast majority leave us in one of the earlier steps.”
“Cured?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Not everyone is fit to be a master.”
“As it were.”
“Do you have a statistical report?”
Britta gives him an appraising look. His facial expression hasn’t changed; he still looks friendly and interested.
“Does the question surprise you?” he asks. “I’m a money person. Figures interest me.”
“The Bridge keeps statistics on everything. But the data is confidential.”
“Please give me a vague idea. How many clients reach the final step?”
“Fewer than ten percent.”
“That is extremely vague.” He laughs.
“Let’s leave it at that.”
“May I hold your hands for a moment?”
Britta’s irritation lasts for only a fleeting second. Her work at The Bridge continually brings her into contact with the New Age milieu. On their desperate search for meaning, adherents hang semiprecious stones on themselves, wear magnetic armbands, and refuse to shower after their prana yoga class so as not to wash off the energy. Until one day it occurs to them that a clean ending would be the best solution after all. Esoterics talk a lot and can’t listen. In that regard, Hatz isn’t a typical specimen. Furthermore, he’s not wearing any healing stones. Hoping to end the surprise visit, Britta stretches out both hands, palms up, and Hatz carefully places his own on them, a very light touch, so light that Britta can’t be sure it took place. After only a few seconds, Hatz begins to nod appreciatively. “No wonder you’re so successful,” says he. “This is extraordinary.”
Britta withdraws her hands and thrusts them into her jacket pockets. She feels a sudden need to wash herself with a great deal of soap and hot water, preferably under a large, high-pressure showerhead. But instead of leaving at last, Hatz points to one of the chairs.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Britta would love to invent an appointment as a pretext for getting rid of him. But her reason tells her she must take advantage of this opportunity to get him to talk. Whatever he may turn out to be—a harmless crackpot, say, or the emissary of some enemy power—she wants to know where she stands. She offers him a chair and seats herself on the couch. Hatz makes himself comfortable and seems to be waiting to see if she’ll produce some coffee. When it’s clear that she won’t, he leans back, puts a smile on his face, and waits. Britta’s feeling too weak today for a war of nerves, and so she prefers to start the conversation herself, right away.
“Why are you investing in Smart Swap?”
“Ah.” Guido Hatz’s smile broadens. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting this question. “Does that scare you? Are you concerned because I’m buying something that belongs to you?”
You buy your friends, says Britta’s mother’s voice. You enjoy having Richard dependent on you, because then you can be sure he won’t leave you. Britta concentrates on making sure that none of these submerged thoughts reaches the surface. Her expression remains unchanged as she holds Guido Hatz’s gaze.
“I invest because I’m rich.”
“That’s no reason.”
“Because I want to get even richer.”
“With Swappie?”
“The idea has potential. Your husband’s good. Even though you consider him a failure.”
A full broadside. He obviously wants to provoke her, but Britta’s determined not to be lured out of her reserve. In the ensuing silence, she notices how much she misses Lassie’s busy humming.
“You know, my chief reason for coming here was to tell you you’re doing the right thing.” Hatz raises an index finger, signaling that he finally wants to get to the point.
“In what respect?”
“You’re getting ready for some downtime. Throwing your cell phone away, unplugging the computers.”
Before she can say anything, he waves his finger back and forth near his ear, which seems to mean that he hears what she hears, namely nothing.
“The servers are being serviced.”
Hatz doesn’t consider it necessary to respond to this absurd excuse, and Britta can’t blame him.
“Maybe I can’t read thoughts,” he says, “but energy fields are clear to me. You’ve reached a boundary. What’s waiting beyond it is the abyss.”
Britta bolts internal doors and windows to keep Hatz’s words from getting to her. She wants him to shut up but doesn’t try to stop him. She must hear what he has to say.
“Viewed from outside, it’s all totally obvious. You’re going through a paranoid phase, you feel persecuted, and whatever happens, you take it personally. Confusion, obsessive thoughts, sleeplessness, panic attacks. The feeling that something terrible is just around the corner. And then, of course, there’s the nausea. The constant nausea.”
He leans forward, raising his hands slightly, radiating compassion and tenderness.
“Diagnose yourself for a change, Britta. This is burnout. You’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
She knows that she shouldn’t just let this impertinence go, but she keeps staring at him, frozen in place like a rabbit faced with a snake. How can it be that he knows so much about her? With all her strength, she maintains her facial expression, which must remain as it is, unwavering. Breathe: in, out. Don’t try to smile, don’t move a finger, don’t look away, don’t blink, simply breathe. In, out.
“You’re a strong woman, Britta. But your guardian angel’s worried.”
“My guardian angel?”
“That’s me.”
Hatz gets up and smooths his trouser legs. “Simply imagine that I’m a friend of your family. Someone who’s been watching you from a distance for a long time and who occasionally steps in without advertising his intervention.”
Now it’s definite, Britta thinks. He’s crazy. Her thought turns into interior rejoicing, crazy, crazy, crazy; her head sings it to the skies. Relief lifts her up, as if it would carry her from the sofa to the ceiling. A rich crackpot who thinks he’s a guardian angel, a millionaire stalker who for some reason has decided to do good things for her and Richard. Weird but harmless.
“You’ve been successful, you’ve earned a break,” says Hatz. “Let your husband take the wheel. I want to see Swappie worth a lot of money on the stock market in a few years. Until then, Richard can use all the support he can get. It’s important for you to have his back.” Hatz strokes his mustache and looks around the office once again. Then he nods, as though he’s convinced himself of the accuracy of his pronouncement.
“Give yourself some time off. Things will fall in line.”
Britta remains seated as he moves toward the door.
“Suppose I don’t?” she asks, just as he’s pushing the door open. A light drizzle is falling outside, as fine as sheer fabric; maybe it’s even fog, slowly sinking to the ground. Hatz lets go of the door, which reattaches itself to the padded frame with a dull thud. “Suppose I don’t follow your advice?” she goes on. “What then?”
He gives her a piercing look. “To be honest, Britta,” he says, “I don’t know.”