Page 148 of Let the Game Begin
“I have conversations with all sorts of people. And you are a person, correct?” he answered cheerfully.
Of course I was, but Dr. Keller had apparently failed to notice my inability to speak or engage with someone for more than five minutes.
Either way, he knew nothing about me.
I glanced around again and saw another painting, this one behind thick glass. The frame around it was silver with little gold streaks. The painting depicted a shell with a white pearl in the middle of it; I found it singular, to say the least. This office seemed more like a shrine to the sea rather than a place to cure troubled minds.
“Do you know the legend of the pearl and the shell?” the doctor inquired, probably eager to tell me some more of his useless bullshit. I looked back at him and gave an irritable shake of my head.
“Look, I don’t know what you take me for, but I’m not crazy, and you can’t do your psych shit on me.” I made a motion for the door, intending to leave, but Dr. Keller spoke again.
“The pearl is a precious object, which the shell cares for, protecting it inside itself.” He stared at the painting and smiled. “The hardness of the shell symbolizes strength; the gleam of the pearl symbolizes life, purity,something precious and concealed.” He stuck one hand into the pocket of his stylish pants and used the other to bring the tea to his mouth again.
What the hell was he talking about?
“The early Christians associated the pearl—white and intact—with virginal maidens and the shell with the man first charged with safeguarding them,” he explained, as if I gave a shit about any of these nonsensical stories.
“Sure, yeah, interesting.” I started for the door again, but he kept talking.
“Together, the pearl and its shell symbolize life, love, and eroticism. A man who finds his pearl is a lucky man indeed.” He stared down at the liquid in his cup and swirled his wrist in a circular motion, as though hoping to spot something inside the mug. All at once, he turned thoughtful.
“Why should I care about a story like that?” I blurted out impatiently, regretting having ever gone into his office.
“Legend. It’s a legend,” he corrected me.
“Yeah, same thing,” I huffed.
God, which one of us was the crazy person again?
I ran a hand over my face and gave him a flat look. Dr. Keller still stood there, just staring into his steaming mug, his hand in his pocket and his brow furrowed.
“Have you found your precious pearl?” I asked him mockingly, and he looked up at me. He ignored my question and moved quickly over to his desk, circling around it to sit down in the armchair and crossing one leg over the other.
“I asked you a question.” Suddenly, the door was no longer my focus but rather this man who was ignoring me.
“Why should I tell you anything about it? It’s just a story, after all.” He smiled at me and put the mug down on the desk, knitting his hands over his abdomen.
“You’re wasting my time.” I shook my head and ran a hand through my tousled hair.
The man was mocking me; it was obvious.
“Neil, what do you see in front of you?” he asked, an unreadable expression on his face. I was surprised: How did he know my name? I never had actually introduced myself.
“A shrink who’s trying to fuck with me, but the game’s over, Dr. Keller.” I was starting to bristle. My hands trembled, and he glanced down at them. That was happening more and more often: hand tremors exposed my anxiousness. The doctor put his elbows on the desk and interwove his fingers beneath his chin, giving him a reflective posture.
“What do you see?” he asked again, and I realized that he was actually asking me. I looked over his shoulder at the white wall and then back at him, waiting for a response behind that imposing desk. There was a neat stack of papers on his right and a lamp to his left.
“A desk?” I answered finally with an insolent smirk, becausefuck him. Whatever his actual intentions were, I was going to play this my way.
“Hmm…so you see a basic rectangular desk, made of high-quality wood with assorted documents and a useless lamp on it, right?” He touched his index finger to his chin, rubbing his neatly groomed beard, and I frowned at him.
“That’s right. I also see a guy who’s trying everything he can think of to piss me off,” I shot back. He nodded, looking thoughtfully at me.
“The problem, kid, is that you see but you don’t observe,” he pointed out, as though he’d just made some significant discovery. “You see a desk, but you aren’t really observing the object in question.” He shook his head as though disappointed in me, and I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.
“This desk,” he pressed his flattened palms on the wooden surface, “may seem like just a basic, clearly defined, static object, but you need to look at it from multiple points of view. On one hand, you do need to take notice, as you have done so well, of the object and its most obvious characteristics: shape, structure, function and so forth…” He waved a hand. “On the other hand, we also have to consider the symbolic and social aspects of the object. This desk in particular is a tool for gatherings, relating to one another, sharing a space. Do you see?” he asked as I stood there, now observing him.
“Just like how the story of the pearl is a lot more than just a story.” He pointed an index finger at the painting I’d disparaged.
