佚名 /Anonymous
One day, many years ago, when I was working as a psychologist at a children's institution in England, an adolescent boy showed up in the waiting room. I went out there where he was walking up and down restlessly.
I showed him into my off ice and pointed to the chair on the other side of my desk. It was in late autumn, and the lilac bush outside the window had shed all its leaves. “Please sit down.” I said.
David wore a black raincoat that was buttoned all the way up to his neck. His face was pale, and he stared at his feet while wringing his hands nervously. He had lost his father as an infant, and had lived together with his mother and grandfather since. But the year before David turned 13, his grandfather died and his mother was killed in a car accident. Now he was 15 and in family care.
His head teacher had referred him to me. “This boy,” he wrote, “is understandably very sad and depressed. He refuses to talk to others and I'm very worried about him. Can you help?”
I looked at David. How could I help him? There are human tragedies psychology doesn't have the answer to, and which no words can describe. Sometimes the best thing one can do is to listen openly and sympathetically.
The f irst two times we met, David didn't say a word. He sat hunched up in the chair and only looked up to look at the children's drawings on the wall behind me. As he was about to leave after the second visit, I put my hand on his shoulder. He didn't shrink back, but he didn't look at me either.
“Come back next week, if you like.” I said.
He came, and I suggested we play a game of chess. He nodded. After that we played chess every Wednesday afternoon in complete silence and without making any eye contact. It's not easy to cheat in chess, but I admit that I made sure David won once or twice.
Usually, he arrived earlier than agreed, took the chessboard and pieces from the shelf and began setting them up before I even got a chance to sit down. It seemed as if he enjoyed my company. But why did he never look at me?