my work at the office was ruined, my dwindling financial resources were committed without recourse, and I would have to return to my empty house in a dreary neighborhood, where it was mortally dangerous for me.
In this foolish but inevitable manner, I escalated my own fears, growing ever more agitated, until I was startled by the slam of Dr. Schussler’s door. I then heard the patient tread past my office, the ding of the elevator bell, and finally, rising into my awareness as if it had suddenly been turned up in volume, the whirring torrent of the noise machine.
I forced myself not to become fixated upon the sound. This was difficult, because the whir, which had seemed so constant upon first hearing, now appeared to have patterns within it, coming in rhythmic waves. And there was something teasing about these subtle rhythms, a kind of phantom music that seemed to play just below the level of audibility, all the more seductive for being not quite music, a melody just beyond reach, vanishing when I gave it direct, analytical attention. Only through the greatest mental discipline could I consign it to the background, willing it to become part of the general sound atmosphere, along with the rumbling trucks below, the shrill of a traffic policeman’s whistle, the honking horns. This cognitive effort was exhausting, even for the brief ten minutes of the interclient interval. When I relaxed in any measure, looking up from my notes or glancing across the way to the windows of the Hotel Palace (where a maid was assiduously wiping a table), the quasi-musical patterns returned, luring my attentions.
So it was that the subsequent ding of the elevator came as a relief—or, I should say, at least an exchange of anxieties. For now I waited expectantly to see if the next client would be the solution to the problem of the sibilant voice. This new analysand walked past my own door; Dr. Schussler opened hers; and the patient entered the office. Due to the strong air currents that always blew through the hallways, the door closed with a wall-rattling slam (an annoyance, since I myself was always mindful of the draft, closing my own door in respectful silence). For one moment, there was only the whir of the sound machine and the noise from the street. Then, fulfilling my worst expectations (as life would always do, said my depressed illogic), the awful sibilance returned. And there was no escaping the conclusion: The horrid sound was produced by the tongue and teeth of Dr. Schussler!
I would move, I thought. I would carry my 807 down the hall, or I would accept another office on another floor, pursuing any avenue to get away from this therapist, counselor, psychoanalyst—whatever she wished to call herself. I was about to look for the building manager, demand he place me in a different room, when suddenly everything went quiet.
It was the sound machine: abruptly stopped. And in its absence was a stillness so crisp that I could hear the suggestive, teasing, slip-sound of a single tissue being withdrawn from a Kleenex box.
Then a voice, which said, Thanks. You know I hate that thing.
And a reply: So sorry. I do forget.
3.
I was so startled by the clarity of the sounds coming from the next office—I could hear a sigh, an intake of breath, the lifting of a haunch, indeed to the extent that I knew with utter certainty that both client and analyst sat upon leather—that I could not move for several seconds. What was I to do about this sudden, forced intimacy? Perhaps I should have coughed or jostled a drawer, so that they, hearing me, would know the extent to which I was hearing them. Yet I sat still. And in a brief instant, through some quirk of reasoning (no doubt related to the generally twisted logic of my mood), I convinced myself that my making noise would be an imposition upon them, that my presence would inhibit them, and the only way for analyst and analysand to continue their work undisturbed was for me to keep my existence a secret.
Supporting my decision was the fact that I understood almost nothing of what they were saying. Charlotte, Roger, Susan—who were these people? The hotel, our arrangement, the old project, the meeting, the assignment—references to empty space. How could I see myself as a trespasser when I had so little comprehension of what I was overhearing? Ten minutes passed with a discussion of scuba