The lock clicked and the door cracked open.

‘Please, come in!’ said a warm voice coming from behind it.

She stood up, took a step or two, stopped. She quickly checked her countenance in the wall mirror of the waiting room. Satisfied, she walked to the door, pushed it wide open and stepped into the doctor’s office.

‘Please, make yourself comfortable’, the man said, gesturing towards a large buff couch set opposite the door across the office, while he ambled back to this desk.

Silently, she proceeded to the couch and sat down on its edge, palms pressed against her laps. She glanced at him. He was rather squat, with a big beard that ate up all the lower part of his face. Bushy brows emphasised the small size of his eyes, which looked like two dark buttons sewn astride his nose. She suddenly realised he was looking at her, too. An acute, penetrating gaze that made her feel uneasy. She lowered her own to dodge his scrutiny.

‘I—‘ She hesitated. It was not easy to spit out. ‘It’s not for me that I’m coming to you’, she finally managed to blurt out.

‘I know,’ he said. Turning aside, he fetched a leather covered notebook from a drawer. He opened it, took the quill out of the inkwell and scribbled a few words. ‘You want to talk to me about your son, don’t you?’ 

Head still lowered, she nodded.

‘And what is the matter with him?’ the doctor asked.

She cleared her throat. ‘He is —’ She paused, looking for words. ‘I suppose you could say “extra-shy”. He can’t properly speak to people he doesn’t know, or even stand the gaze of strangers without cringing. When someone comes to visit us, he runs into his room and locks himself up until—‘

‘Uh-uh, I see,’ the doctor interrupted. ‘Quite an incapacitating hang-up, I would say. And you are justifiably concerned about his future life, I suppose? Especially his ability to find a suitable girl to marry.’

The women chortled. ‘I must admit we don’t even look that far. What we are primarily concerned with in the first place is his ability to find a suitable job.’

‘What does he study?’

The woman fetched a handkerchief in a pocket of her gown and began to worry at it. ‘Arts’, she whispered.

‘Would you by chance be ashamed of it?’ the doctor asked.

The woman looked up and rolled her eyes. ‘Arts!’ she repeated. ‘Who can seriously think about earning a living painting or carving? Art is what layabouts bring up because they can’t own up to being lazy. Art is a smokescreen for idleness, or at best a leisure for the wealthy!’ She sighed and shrugged.

The doctor coughed. ‘Art is one of man’s most remarkable activity,’ he remarked. ‘The pinnacle of human creativity.’

The woman chortled again. ‘When practised by real artists, I agree with you.’

‘Does that mean you think your son is not?’

‘Look, even if he were, which I think he is not, he is totally unable to prove it. Last year, he applied for a course at the Arts academy, that is father was ready to fund. But of course, he failed the entry exam miserably. Mind you, not because he’s clumsy with a brush, no. Just because he was unable to properly answer the question the jury asked him…’

The doctor put the quill back into the inkwell, scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘It’s probably going to be a tough case, but there’s nothing that can’t be cured, or at least mitigated’, he said.

The woman stood up in turn. ‘You’re positive you can do something? Convince him to abandon his ridiculous puppy love for art and turn towards a true occupation, such as accountancy or law?’

The doctor chortled. ‘I can’t promise you I shall transform him into a charismatic politician, but at least I can help him overcome his hang-ups.’

‘Thank you, Doktor Freud,’ the women said, reaching out and smiling.

The doctor extended a massive hand. ‘You’re welcome, Frau Hitler.’