As a Boston-based psychoanalyst, I have met a number of interesting people. There was Marshall who believed that the world was about to be attacked by alien spores. Carson, who was convinced she had been impregnated by the president of the United States. Then there was Philippe, who accused me of being him and used that as a reason not to pay me. These were extreme cases and each, in its way, was a cry for attention and help. I did what I could. I persuaded Marshall to move to Katovik, Alaska, an unlikely destination for spores or anything else, and if they accidentally dropped there, it was doubtful they would survive. I can’t take credit for curing Carson, whose symptoms miraculously vanished after the progressive, smooth-talking, handsome President Domingues was succeeded by the conservative, elderly, inarticulate President Torrance. As for Philippe, all it took was for me to admit that I liked boiled broccoli and the work of expressionist painters for him to realize that I couldn’t be him.
As extreme as these cases were, they paled in comparison to that of Arthur Kimmel. To look at Arthur, you would never guess that anything was wrong with him.
Whereas many people try to make some kind of statement with their appearance, Arthur’s casual clothes and trimmed hair suggested he was comfortable letting others get the attention. His clean-cut, mid-thirties face always looked affable.
Something seemed to be missing, however, as if he’d just shaved off a mustache, though I have no reason to believe he ever wore one. The one feature that hinted of any problems was his eyes, which despite an affected twinkle, radiated a mild sadness and acceptance.
The first time I met Arthur, he strode into my office with an assuredness that, professionally, I was not used to seeing. It was as if he were reporting to be shot but was confident that the bullets would glance off his chest, leaving only temporary bruises.
“Mister Kimmel,” I said, extending my hand, which he shook formally, then sat down in the
