Read The Case of Lisandra P. for Free Online Page B

this. If the cops found the box, they were bound to question him about the empty recess and, at the same time, it would mean they were investigating—none too soon, but Vittorio would have to explain all his recordings, and above all justify them, and he could already tell where that would lead: the trial of the husband who kills his wife would become the trial of the psychoanalyst who records his patients. It’s true, it wasn’t
ethical
, but he was sure it was a good thing, and useful professionally; he’d had ample opportunity to verify that the practice helped him, and that was the main thing. Like some ideal archivist, it kept something close to an inalterable memory of his patients’ altered memory and of his own. It meant that he left nothing up to chance—since when has the principle of keeping things been seen as detrimental? But of course he didn’t tell his patients; if they had known they were being recorded it would surely have hindered them, embarrassed and intimidated them, and anyway no psychoanalyst tells his patients what he writes in their file during the session, but no one finds fault with that secrecy, it’s true, because that’s the Method with a capital “M.” Well, his method with a lowercase “m” was to resort to these recordings; he had stopped taking notes during sessions long ago—it had been completely counterproductive, because the note taking immediately introduced a distance, and his patients withdrew when they saw him writing, or they lost the thread of what they were saying, wondering if what they had just said was so important that he had to make a note of it, and then the session no longer flowed, was not as useful, something that never happened with a tape recorder. A profession is defined by its purpose, not by its method, and the police have different ways of extracting information from their witnesses and their suspects. It was the same thing for analysts—he himself had paid the cost every day. No science should ever be enclosed in a methodology.Besides, if in Freud’s era there had been tape recorders, discreet ones, the great pioneer would surely not have failed to use such a valuable tool. But as Vittorio knew, all the justifications on the planet would serve no purpose. A psychoanalyst recording his patients, how disgraceful! What a scandal! A professional Watergate. He would infuriate everyone—he could already hear them, all of his colleagues, expressing their outrage and disowning him. He had already been removed from his role as a husband; a few depositions would suffice to dismiss him from his role as a psychoanalyst. He would be the scourge of the profession, and almost certainly, at the same time, through a sinister game of one thing leading to another, the scourge of his wife: her murderer.

“Morning, Mama. Did you sleep well?”
    The unread newspaper is on the table. Eva Maria looks up at Estéban.
    â€œCan you lend me your headphones, please?”
    Estéban heads over to the fridge.
    â€œWhich headphones?”
    â€œTo listen to music.”
    â€œBut what are you going to use to listen to music?”
    Eva Maria blows on her maté. * Her gaze wanders through the liquid.
    â€œOh, yes, you’re right . . . Can you lend me your tape recorder as well?”
    She puts down her maté cup. She gets up.
    â€œCan I have them, then?”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re not going to work?”
    â€œI’m working from home.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI have things to do . . . some documents to go over. It will be quieter here.”
    â€œOh, okay . . . Is this new?”
    â€œYes, it’s new.”
    Estéban runs his fingers through his hair. Eva Maria is getting impatient. From the table to the door. From the door to the table.
    â€œSo can I have them?”
    â€œI’ll go get them for