The Room (6 page)

The clinic had turquoise curtains, and all the weekly magazines were aimed at a female clientele. I pointed this out to a nurse, who just giggled and hurried on.

The little sofas in the waiting room were full of people with colds, and even though there was a space right on the end I chose to stand slightly off to one side. I rested my eyes on a pleasant picture of flowers and grasses by Lena Linderholm.

Twenty minutes after the allotted time a different nurse came out and called my name. She went with me down the corridor, knocked on a half-open door, showed me in, and then disappeared.

I stepped into a sort of treatment room containing a brown vinyl padded couch with a big roll of paper at one end. In the middle of the floor was a little cart with a stethoscope and instruments for measuring blood pressure. There was a muddle of probes and test tubes.

I couldn't see a chaise longue anywhere.

Sitting behind a computer was a fairly young man with one of those goatee beards that were popular for a while. He was wearing a pale-blue short-sleeved tunic with a name tag. “Dr. Jan Hansson,” it said. He tapped on the keyboard and read something without taking any notice of me.

I waited politely for a good while, wondering if he was older or younger than me. I cleared my throat a couple of times, and was on the verge of turning and walking out when he finally looked up.

“Well,” he said. Nothing more.

He clicked his mouse, got up from the chair, and came over to me. We shook hands. His hand was wet and smelled of rubbing alcohol.

“Jan,” he said.

“Thanks, I noticed,” I said, pointing at the name tag.

He gestured toward a chair next to a sink. On either side of the basin were two pressure pumps with containers attached.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, sitting down on his own ergonomic office chair.

“Thanks, I'm happy to stand,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Mmh, I'd prefer it if you sat down.”

I sighed and put my coat over the back of the chair. I sat down reluctantly, perching on the edge of the considerably more basic chair.

“Okay…er…”

He rolled over to the computer and looked at the screen.

“Björn,” he said. “What can we do for you?”

“I thought I was going to see a psychiatrist,” I said.

“We'll start with me,” he said. “Well?”

“I'd rather not say anything. I'd like you to make your own evaluation without any preconceptions.”

He glanced at a large clock on the wall.

“It's going to be very hard for me to help you if you don't say anything, Björn.”

“I'd like you to make your own evaluation.”

“I don't know you.”

“But you are a doctor?”

He nodded.

I thought for a moment, and then described objectively and in detail recent events in the office. About the room, and Karl, and the other staff. About ignorance, invisibility, and the withholding of information. The doctor listened, but I noticed one of his legs starting to twitch after a couple of minutes. He interrupted me in the middle of a sentence.

“I don't understand what sort of medical—”

“If you'll let me finish, it might be clearer then,” I said.

He looked at me as if he were sizing up an opponent. And it amused me that for the first time since I entered the room he seemed a little dispirited. He was presumably used to harmless patients with no will of their own who just wanted medication, but here was something different for him. Someone made of sterner stuff. He leaned back, folded his arms, and listened with a forced smile on his lips.

When I had finished, he sat for a fair while just looking at me. On the wall behind him was an ugly picture of an apple, and another of a pear that was almost as bad.

“This room,” he said. “What sort of room is it?”

“A normal room,” I said.

“What does it look like?”

“It's an office.”

“Where is it?”

“At work.”

“I mean, where at work?”

I thought for a while about whether it would be okay to tell him about the ingenious architectural solution, because he must have some sort of duty of confidentiality, but I decided not to trust the goatee beard entirely and instead chose a middle way.

“It's between the toilets and the lift,” I said.

“And you go in there?” he said.

“Yes, but they say I mustn't.”

“Mmh,” he said, feeling for a pen in his top pocket.

“What do you do there?” he said.

“I rest.”

“You rest?”

“Yes.”

He got the pen out and clicked it, making the point pop in and out. Back and forth.

“And you want to go on sick leave?”

“No.”

“Oh. So what do you want?”

“I don't want anything. The company sent me here.”

“Don't you work for an Authority?”

“I prefer to see it as a company. It makes my abilities sharper.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He looked at the computer and I wondered if he was really looking at anything or just trying to buy himself some time. I decided to try to answer his questions quickly, in order to throw the ball back into his court as soon as possible, so to speak. Clearly he was clutching at straws. Presumably he lacked the skill demanded for matters of this sort.

“Have you mentioned this to your colleagues?”

“My boss was the one who made me come here.”

“Why?”

“He said I had to see you.”

“Me?”

“Someone. He said I had to come here.”

He nodded and spoke slowly, as if he were trying to slow the tempo. But I wasn't about to let myself be sunk.

“So that you could go on sick leave?”

“I don't want to go on sick leave.”

“Because you went into that room?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“He says it doesn't exist.”

“What?”

“The room.”

“Your boss says the room doesn't exist?”

I was very pleased that I managed to say “yes” before he'd even finished his sentence, which I felt reinforced the impression that I was one step ahead of him. He nodded slowly.

“So does it?” he said after a pause.

“It does to me.”

“Does it for anyone else?”

“They pretend it doesn't.”

“Has anyone else been inside the room?”

“I don't know. They don't seem keen to go in.”

“Why don't they want to go in?”

“I don't know. They say it doesn't exist.”

“But you know that it exists.”

“It exists.”

“And it's an office?”

“Yes.”

“A perfectly ordinary office?”

“Yes.”

He fell silent for a while, clicking his pen.

“Is there anything else in there?”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Are there things in there?”

“Of course there are things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Do you want me to…?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, there's a desk…”

“Yes?”

“And a lamp. Computer, folders, a filing cabinet, and so on.”

“Yes?”

“Pens, paper, a hole puncher, a stapler, Wite-Out, tape, cables, a calculator, a desk mat, all sorts of things.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

A nurse knocked on the door.

“Are you nearly done?” she whispered.

I wondered what it was we were supposed to be done with, but the doctor just nodded at her, looked at the large clock on the wall, and went on.

“Have you ever had any psychiatric treatment in the past?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“Any counseling when you were in your teens?”

“Hardly.”

“You're not on any medication?”

I shook my head.

“What about alcohol?”

“What do you think?”

“I'm asking you. Drugs?”

“No more than you,” I said.

He shut his eyes and blew the air out of his mouth. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, and I carried on looking at him so that I could look him in the eye as soon as he decided to open them again.

“Do you feel unwell in any way?” he went on, still rubbing his eyes.

“Do you?” I said.

He shook his head and sighed.

“I honestly don't know what to do with you,” he said after a brief pause.

“That doesn't surprise me,” I said.

“You don't have to be unpleasant,” he said.

“Nor do you,” I said, as quickly as I could.

We looked at each other for a while. I was fairly pleased with the way this was going. I could tell he felt a degree of respect for me. You could see in his eyes that he wasn't used to getting this sort of response.

“Why are you here?” he said.

“Because I was sent here.”

“Okay, you know what? I think you should contact us again if you feel worse. It's difficult for me to do anything about any other problems you may have at work.”

He got up and went back to the computer.

“I was told I'd be seeing a psychiatrist,” I said.

He shook his head gently.

“I don't know what grounds I could refer you on…”

“No, of course not,” I said as I stood up and took my flattened coat from the back of the chair. “Maybe you could talk to someone who does know?”

“Do you know what I think?” he said, in a completely different voice, almost a whisper.

“No,” I said, suddenly noticing the loud ticking sound that the big clock on the wall was making.

“If you'd like my own personal opinion,” he said, “I'd have to say…”

“Yes, what would you say?”

He looked at me for a brief moment.

“I'd say that you're putting it on.”

Inside the room there was a calm. A concentration that felt like early mornings at school. It contained the same relaxed feeling and limited freedom. Each line seemed perfectly connected to the next. Everything messy and unsettling vanished. Precision returned.

I ran my finger over the desktop and felt the utterly straight line that was held at precisely the same plane by first the flawlessly sanded and varnished veneer chipboard, which in turn rested upon the perfect frame: spray-painted legs made of metal tubing. I was sure that a level would prove the evenness of this generously proportioned work surface.

Beneath the desktop, inside the legs on one side, was a varnished drawer unit on wheels with a cedar-wood frame. It was fronted by a matte wooden shutter that folded smoothly back along its rails as I put my palm on the front and slowly moved it upward.

The whole room breathed tradition. There was an air of old-fashioned quality to it. Is this what monks feel like as they walk the corridors of their monasteries?

On the desk was a low-energy lamp, 20 watts, attached to a clock of shiny, stainless steel. The armature of the lamp was adjustable. One setting for the strength of light. A firm base on the desktop.

By the side of the desk I discovered a lever that could be loosened so you could adjust the exact angle of the desktop. You could tilt the whole top to get the exact angle that you preferred. I adjusted it slightly to suit me, tilting it fractionally forward, downward, and felt how my other arm, which I had left idle, ended up in a perfectly relaxed position in which each part of the arm was firmly supported. Perfectly in tune with the furniture.

As I was sitting there my cell phone rang. I picked it up and answered it, and the sweetest music streamed out of it into my ears.

The next morning we were summoned to another meeting in Karl's cramped office.

Karl tried to say something funny about small spaces, concluding with “tight passageways.” No one laughed. I took this as further evidence of his incompetence as a manager. Naturally, he ought to have chosen a more neutral topic for humor, as there are plenty of innocent jokes about animals or ketchup bottles that didn't necessarily have any association to the conflict in which we found ourselves, and which could function more generally as a means of raising morale. If he felt he had to make a joke. Because this really wasn't amusing.

Håkan had sat down on the desk with Ann beside him. He was wearing his black jacket, and I definitely preferred it to the corduroy one, but I tried not to look at them. Jörgen and John were squashed up against the wall, and I couldn't help noticing that Jörgen kept nudging one of the big pictures, knocking it askew.

“I think this is very unfortunate,” Ann said before Karl had even started. “Is he really going to stay? I mean, we said—”

Karl stopped her. He went behind his desk, and spoke in a loud, clear voice.

“Björn and I have had a little talk. Björn has been to see a psychiatrist. Together we have agreed to get rid of…”

He held his fingers up in the air on either side of his head to indicate quotation marks.

“…‘the room' for the time being. Björn has promised…”

He turned to me.

“…not to go there anymore. Isn't that right, Björn?”

I assumed I didn't need to nod. After all, everyone understood that I was party to this anyway. But Karl insisted.

“Isn't that right, Björn?”

I nodded. Karl went on.

“I think it's very useful for us to realize that we aren't all the same, and that some people see things in a—how can I put it?—slightly different way. But we're all adults, and we should be able to get along regardless. Shouldn't we?”

He looked around, but found no sign of agreement. In the end he turned to me.

“To emphasize the fact that this is a fresh start for you, Björn, I've taken the liberty of purchasing, at the expense of the Authority…”

He took out a bag containing a box and put it on the desk. He pulled out the box, opened the lid, and held up a pair of imitation leather indoor shoes.

“…a small gift.”

He handed them to me. I accepted them reluctantly.

“There you go,” he said. “Now, I hope we can concentrate on our work from now on.”

There followed five seconds of total silence. Then everyone started to talk at once.

“You mean he's going to stay?”

“Can't you see he's not right in the head?”

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“It's a health and safety issue.”

“If he's allowed to carry on like that, I should be allowed to—”

“He's getting favorable treatment—”

“But he's mad.”

“Really we ought to feel sorry for him.”

Hasse from accounts shook his head slowly.

“Now that things are so tough here at the Authority, with the threat of closure hanging over our heads constantly…I mean, we really need to be functioning at full capacity. We haven't got time to be running some sort of day care center, have we?”

He looked round at the others. A number of them nodded. People starting talking all at once again. Karl managed to calm the mood temporarily, and Hannah with the ponytail tilted her head to one side as the prelude to a long-winded comment.

“It seems to me that management's way of dealing with problems of this nature indicates a certain degree of weakness.”

Karl pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Everyone seemed to be getting involved in the discussion, but none of them looked directly at me.

“He's a nutter, you have to admit that!” said a young man whose name I thought was Robert. He was about twenty and quiet as a mouse normally. I'd never heard him say a word before this. But evidently he felt he had to speak up now.

“According to the medical—” Karl began.

“But he's mad!” Jörgen said. “Anyone can see that. Surely we can't have a moron who goes and stares at the wall the minute things get busy?”

A few people laughed, which only served to spur Jörgen on.

“I mean, he needs treatment for that.”

Hannah with the ponytail raised her voice.

“Although I do think we should all be allowed to do what we like during our breaks.”

“I'm not so sure,” Jörgen said, to even more laughter. “I say: fire him.”

It was as if they all felt like laughing and were prepared to grab any opportunity. Even though it really wasn't funny. Karl waved him off.

“We can't dismiss someone simply because they are—”

“But we're talking about someone who's mentally ill,” Jörgen said.

“I'd like to point out,” Karl went on, “that Björn has been carrying out his duties faultlessly.”

Hasse spoke up again.

“Obviously he can do whatever he likes, but he keeps dragging the rest of us over there as well.”

“Exactly!” Robert exclaimed. “Like that time he wanted the whole lot of us to go and stand there.”

He looked round at the others, who nodded. Ann turned to address Karl with the whole of her feminine authority.

“I think it's creepy, seeing him stand there like that. He's so…It's like he's just not there.”

As usual, several people decided to voice their agreement, and once again there was a hubbub of voices all wanting to have their say. Karl raised his voice to drown out the muttering.

“Hello. Hello. Hello!” he called, waving his arms in the air.

One by one they fell silent. Karl turned to me.

“What do you say, Björn?”

I took my time, seeing as I knew what he wanted me to say, but I decided to stick to the facts, unlike the rest of them.

“They say there's nothing wrong with me and that I'm perfectly capable of carrying on working.”

Several of them looked at me as if they'd only just noticed that I was still there. Hannah with the ponytail and Ann whispered something between them. Several of the others muttered among themselves, like they were still at school.

“Well, surely we can agree…” Karl began. “I mean, why don't we say that it's okay as long as Björn doesn't go into the room?”

There was a long silence. Then Jörgen stepped forward. The picture rocked behind him.

“Okay, let's agree on this,” he said, fixing his gaze on Karl. “If I see him standing like that once more. Then he's finished. Just saying.”

Karl nodded with exaggerated clarity to show that he was really listening. Then he turned to me.

“Do you think you can manage that, Björn?”

I felt a knot in my stomach. But I still opened my mouth and replied.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Karl said. “So we're all in agreement, then?”

One by one they drifted away.