Chapter 419: The Fourth Visit

He had read all nine books by Monday.

Not quickly. Properly. He had read the first three over the weekend and the remaining six across the week, an hour in the morning and whatever was left of the evening after the Kellerman notes and the monitoring updates and the ordinary contents of a week that held its usual things.

He had opinions about six of them.

On Tuesday morning he texted Margaret.

I’ve read all nine.

A pause. Longer than her usual.

All nine, she said.

Yes, he said.

Another pause.

In two weeks, she said.

Yes, he said.

Sean, she said.

Yeah.

You’re going to be insufferable at the visit, she said.

You sent me a reading list, he said.

I didn’t expect you to complete it, she said.

You sent fourteen books, he said. You only sent nine because I asked for what you had. You expected me to read the ones you sent.

A pause.

That’s annoyingly accurate, she said.

Catherine was impatient about things that mattered, he said.

A longer pause.

You remembered that, she said.

I remember everything, he said.

I know, she said. I’m still getting used to it.

Tuesday, he said. Same time.

I’ll be there, she said. I’m finishing the list.

—

Tuesday.

One thirty in the café. Nadia across from him. Coffee ordered.

"All nine," she said. She had seen the text exchange. He had not sent it to her. Margaret had.

"She forwarded it to you," he said.

"She said: look at this boy." A pause. "I think that’s the highest compliment she gives."

He held his coffee.

"What are the other ones," he said.

"She said it about a junior doctor last year who correctly diagnosed a patient three consultants had missed," said Nadia. "And once about a student who argued with her about the ending of a book."

"Which book," he said.

"The same one you argued about," she said.

He held his coffee.

"She tests everyone with that book," he said.

"Yes," said Nadia. "She says anyone who agrees with the ending hasn’t been paying attention."

"I agreed with the ending," he said.

"You told her she was right," said Nadia.

"She was right," he said. "Those are different things."

Nadia held her cup.

"That’s a very careful distinction," she said.

"The ending is correct," he said. "Her reason for thinking it’s correct is also correct. I agreed with both. That’s not the same as agreeing to avoid an argument."

She held her cup.

"You’re going to have a very specific conversation with her today," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"About nine books," she said.

"About what she thinks of nine books," he said. "Which is different."

She held her cup.

"You’ve been thinking about this since Monday," she said.

"Since I finished the ninth book Saturday night," he said.

"Saturday," she said.

"I read the last three in one sitting," he said.

She looked at him.

"That’s either very focused or—"

"Focused," he said.

She almost smiled.

At one fifty-eight he closed the notes and went upstairs.

—

Margaret was already there.

She looked up when the elevator opened.

"You’re early," she said.

"Same time," he said.

"I’ve been here since one forty-five," she said. "I was nervous."

He sat beside her.

"About what," he said.

"About talking to someone who’s read nine books in two weeks and has opinions," she said. "I created a problem for myself."

"You created an interesting conversation," he said.

"That’s what I’m nervous about," she said. "Interesting conversations require effort. I haven’t had one since my last book club." She held her handbag. "They agreed with everything. It was terrible."

He held her gaze.

"Which one do you want to start with," he said.

She looked at him.

"The fourth one," she said. "The one about the architect."

"The narrative structure is deliberately non-linear," he said. "Most people read it as a formal choice. I think it’s a character argument. The architect can only understand his own work by moving around in time the way the buildings move around in space."

Margaret held her handbag.

She looked at him.

"That’s what I think," she said. "Nobody at book club agreed."

"They read it as style," he said. "It’s not style."

"It’s the thesis," she said.

"Yes," he said. "The form is the argument."

She held the handbag.

"All right," she said. "You can come to visits."

"I was already coming," he said.

"I mean regularly," she said. "Not just because we’re supposed to. Because this is the kind of conversation I want to have twice a month."

He held her gaze.

"Yes," he said.

The clinic door opened.

She stood.

She looked at him.

"The seventh book," she said. "The one about the sisters. I want your read on the ending."

"It’s wrong," he said.

Her expression did something.

"You think the ending is wrong," she said.

"The author makes the wrong choice," he said. "She had two options and chose the easier one."

"Everyone loves that ending," said Margaret.

"I know," he said.

She looked at him.

"Tuesday," she said. "We’ll argue."

"Yes," he said.

She went into the clinic.

—

She came out forty minutes later.

They went to the café.

The usual table. Her tea, his coffee. The atrium window.

They talked for ninety minutes about seven of the nine books.

She was precise and opinionated and occasionally wrong in ways that were more interesting than being right. He told her when she was wrong. She told him when he was. Neither of them adjusted their positions without being given a reason.

On the seventh book she was right and he told her so.

"You agreed very quickly," she said.

"Your argument was sound," he said.

"You didn’t even pause," she said.

"Pausing wouldn’t have changed the argument," he said.

She held her tea.

"Catherine used to do that," she said. "She’d receive a correct argument immediately. No performance of consideration. Just: yes, that’s right." She held the cup. "It drove people mad."

"Why," he said.

"Because it looked like she wasn’t taking it seriously," she said. "But she was. She was taking it seriously enough to receive it correctly without delay."