Keeper of Secrets

Keeper of Secrets
By Arkady Gershteyn

I am the keeper of secrets. My profession is as old as that of rabbi, priest, or psychologist.
But I differ from them in that I do not preach nor lecture. I do not pass judgement. I listen, and remember, that is all. Off course discretions and confidentiality are of vital importance in my trade. I do not advocate like a lawyer for someone who has violated the law, nor do I heal like  a doctor those in suffering, nor do I console those in pain as a friend.

All my clients are strangers. They enter the apartment on the ground floor during dusk, which is depressed halfway into the ground.  They expose the secret that is to them of burning interest. I feign indifference and listen without changing whatever I was doing prior to their entrance. I may be preparing dinner, or perusing a book, or watching television. Sometimes they become annoyed at my inattention and insist I stop whatever I’m doing. I indulge their desire upon additional payment.

I will never drink or eat with my clients. I keep business totally impersonal. After taking in all the intricacies and details related to their secret, I inquire in a melodious voice: “Will that be all?” Generally they reply in the affirmative, thank me profusely, and shake my hand with vigor. Women often kiss me on the cheeks or press my hand ardently to their warm lips. I escort them briskly to the door and calmly decline any invitations or gifts on their part. My payment is an initial fee for the appointment plus an added fee for my complete attention if the client deems it necessary. I appraise the value of my attention based on the importance of the task that I must cease to pursue not by the degree of urgency or gravity of the secret itself.

Why do they come? They come to make their secret real. It becomes more so when one person has heard it. They come to quench the thirst for exposing their hidden ideas or surreptitious actions. They come not for compassion, nor judgment, nor advice, for I offer none. If I encounter them by chance on the street in the morning, on the subway during midday, or in a park in the evening I make no salutation. They may sometimes wave at me, smile or even approach and only then will I engage in conversation with them. In these chance meetings I limit my remarks to banalities about the weather and other small talk. I will never ask when they will come in again and whether they will or not, in fact it is against the rules. I never allow a client to come back for a second appointment. That makes the choice of the secret they tell me the more difficult. And it eliminates any possibility of our relationship to become more intimate or even friendly for repeated sessions would make my indifference fall and shatter like a mask of clay.

My function is not memory. A client is not allowed to test me on whether I remember their secret any time afterwards. Often I forget both clients and secrets, they sometimes mismatch themselves, I compile a list of clients by recording their names in a leather book so as to recognize and discourage them if they come in asking for a second session. Sometimes I recognize an ex-client by a sudden blush, a wink or a squirm.

Often during the session they will fix their eyes on me with a searching glance. They try to decipher any tint of emotion lining my face. They check for nervous gestures or sharp turns. Yet I will invariably play a marble-cold statue in both features and bearing. There are those who hide their eyes in shame, shoulder steeping down, and fingers nervously clutching one another. They are surprised by the lack of castigation, often feeling lighter upon raising and stepping on the ground upon departure. There are those who come hoping to win praise and will extol themselves by demonstrating all the difficulties related to the achievement of their secret possession or the courage inherent in their action or lack thereof. They come with shining eyes and throw quick furtive glances left to right to make sure nobody is watching or approaching the windows. Often the disappointment upon departure makes them cry: “at least now you know!”
There are those who try to remember their secrets, and may sometime fall into voids of silence and doubt. There are those who can’t stop uttering the essence of the secret as a refrain and fail to weave a coherent story.

My clients are often not very persistent in guarding their secret. Criminals have been convicted based on the self-incriminating evidence uttered out of vanity in smoke filled bars. Cheating men have wrecked their families by babbling about their affair to friends. Covert military or intelligence operations leak into the press by officials bragging to an inquisitive ear. When I meet them again by chance they slink away, and treat me as a reproach. To them I represent their cast off resolve to keep their secret hidden. For by telling it to me they hoped to avoid the entreaty of telling it to someone of greater interest in their life. Someone who would perhaps, jump at its utterance in joy or be crushed in despair.

I am weary of advertising. I fear being subpoenaed in court cases, confronted by clients’ loved ones, or harassed by organized crime. I do not wish to become a second opinion bureau. Any opinion I form is kept confidential. I’ve rejected a referral system of gaining clients. That would expose the fact that the recommender has furnished me with a secret. How do people find me?
They just see it, written on my face. I guess my face is an open invitation. After all, isn’t a perched pedestal in a damp basement a trust-worthy confidante?


© Arkady Gershteyn 2006