Jonas Karlsson - The Room

‘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 surgical spirit.

‘Jan,’ he said.

‘Thanks, I noticed,’ I said, pointing at the name badge.

He gestured towards 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.

‘Mmm, 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 weighing 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.’

‘Mmm,’ 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-punch, a stapler, Tippex, tape, cables, a calculator, a desk mat, all sorts of things.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes.’

A nurse knocked on the door.

‘Are you nearly finished?’ she whispered.

I wondered what it was we were supposed to be finished 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 counselling 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.’

‘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?’