The Unlucky Lottery

Conversation with Irene Leverkuhn, the fifteenth of April, nineteen ninety-seven.

Then a short pause.

—Irene, it’s Clara. How are you today?

—I’m well today, said Irene in the same monotonous tone of voice that he had been listening to not long ago.

—It’s good to see you again, said the therapist. I thought we could have a little chat, as we usually do.

—As we usually do, said Irene.

—Has it been raining here today?

—I don’t know, said Irene. I haven’t been out.

—It was raining when I drove here. I like rain.

—I don’t like rain, said Irene. It can make you wet.

—Would you like to lie down, as usual? Clara asked. Or would you prefer to sit?

—I’d like to lie down. I usually lie down when we talk.

—You can lie down now, then, said Clara. Do you need a blanket? Perhaps it’s a bit cold?

—It’s not cold, said Irene.

Münster pressed fast forward, then pressed play again.

—Who is that? he heard the therapist ask.

—I can’t really remember, said Irene.

—But you know his name, do you?

—I know his name, Irene confirmed.

—What’s he called? asked Clara.

—He’s called Willie.

—And who’s Willie?

—Willie is a boy in my class.

—How old are you now, Irene?

—I’m ten. I’ve got a blue dress, but it has a stain on it.

—A stain? How did that happen?

—I got a stain when I had ice cream, said Irene.

—Was that today? Clara asked.

—It was this afternoon. Not long ago.

—Is it summer?

—It’s been summer. It’s autumn now, school has started.

—What class are you in?

—I have started class four.

—What’s your class mistress called?

—I don’t have a class mistress. We have a man. He’s strict.

—What’s he called?

—He’s called Töffel.

—And where are you just now?

—Just now I’m in our room, of course. I’ve come home from school.

—What are you doing?

—Nothing.

—What are you going to do?

—I’ve got a stain on my dress, I’m going to the kitchen to wash it off.

Münster switched off again. Looked at the stacks of cassettes on the shelf and rested his head on his right hand. What on earth am I doing? he thought.

He wound fast forward, and listened for another minute. Irene was talking about the kind of paper she used to make covers for her school books, and what they’d had for school dinners.

He rewound the cassette and put it back into the case. Leaned back on the chair and looked out of the window. He suddenly shuddered as it dawned on him that what he had just listened to was a conversation taking place – when exactly? At the very beginning of the 1960s, he guessed. It was recorded less than a year ago, but in fact Irene Leverkuhn had been a long way back in her childhood – somewhere in that drab little house in Pampas that he had been looking at only a few weeks ago. That was pretty remarkable, for goodness’ sake.

He began to respect this therapist and what she was doing. He hadn’t managed to get a word of sense out of the woman who had sat at a desk painting, but here she was telling Clara Vermieten all kinds of things.

I must reassess psychoanalysis, Münster thought. It’s high time.

He looked at the clock and wondered how best to continue. Just listening to cassettes at random, one after the other, didn’t seem especially efficient, no matter how fascinating it might be. He stood up and examined the dates written on the cassette cases.

The first one was recorded just over a year ago, it seemed. On 23/11 1996. He took down the stack furthest to the right, comprising only four cassettes. The bottom one was dated 16/10, the top one 30/10.

He went back to the desk, picked up the telephone and after various complications had Hedda deBuuijs on the other end of the line.