The Scribe
Page 18

“Thanks.” She settled in, sipping the tea and listening to the quiet hum of the woman’s mind drift over the meditative music that filled the room. In a few minutes, she heard the door on the other side of Dr. Sadik’s office close, signaling that his other client had left. A few moments later, his smiling face poked through the door.
“Ava! How are you this morning?”
Immediately put at ease by his presence, she rose. “Doing fine, thank you.”
The look in his eyes told Ava that he knew there was more to the story, but he didn’t prod in front of the receptionist. She walked to the office and quickly took a seat on the chaise. “Is Rana here yet?”
The nurse who helped with the massage was usually there when Ava came in the office.
“She is running just a bit behind today. I apologize. Why don’t we talk for a few moments?”
She took a deep breath. “Sure.”
“How have the voices been?” He cut straight to the chase.
“Um… good.” She smiled tentatively. “Well, better.”
Dr. Sadik nodded, his gold-rimmed glasses flashing in the light from the window. He was sneaking up on middle age, but something about his expression and manner seemed far older. It was probably just a cultural difference.
The doctor said, “I believe I told you to expect that, did I not? We are not attempting to cure you of anything, because it is my belief, and yours as well, that there is no mental illness to cure. What we are doing is learning to manage the unique circumstances—an unusual perception, shall we say—under which your mind works.”
“Yes.” She let out a breath and tried to relax. “I like it. I feel better. And I’m glad you don’t think I’m crazy. You’re probably the first person to treat me who doesn’t think so.”
He smiled. “I told you, you are not my first patient with this condition. And the others saw relief with the treatments, as well.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Did Rana say how long she’d be?”
“Just ten minutes or so.”
Most of the pressure-point massage happened in the head, neck and shoulders, but Dr. Sadik seemed to be very cautious about contact with Ava unless his nurse was present. He’d insisted on it from the beginning, which had put her at ease. Ava was eager to end the small talk and get on with her appointment.
“How are you enjoying Istanbul?” he asked. “You are traveling alone, am I correct?”
“I am. But everyone here is so friendly, I almost feel like I’ve been here before and they recognize me.”
He smiled. “Turks take hospitality very seriously. It is a wonderful part of their culture.”
Their culture? She frowned. Ava had assumed the doctor was Turkish. “Yes, well… I’m enjoying it. I’ll definitely come back. Someone I met told me that Istanbul feeds the soul. I think he may be right.”
She caught a flash in his eyes, as if he recognized the saying. Was it a common proverb in Turkey? The expression fled, and polite interest took its place again.
“Istanbul has been important to many world religions, particularly Islam and Christianity. But even before that, it has always been rich with enlightenment and culture. One could definitely say it is good for the soul.”
“Maybe that’s why the voices aren’t as loud,” she joked. “My soul isn’t as hungry here.”
“Perhaps.” He didn’t seem to take it as a joke. “There are many beliefs about the soul. Ancient Persians were one of the first to classify the soul as something distinct and eternal. They believed the soul survived death, as do Jews, Christians, and Muslims. The Egyptians believed the soul existed with five distinct parts, one of which was the heart.” He smiled and patted his chest. “Others believe the soul is what gives a person their personality and creativity, though we know those are functions of the brain, of course.”
“Of course.” Why was he on this tangent? And when was the nurse going to get there? She didn’t have all day.
Well, actually she did.
“But the mind is where my interest lies, of course.” Dr. Sadik was still talking. “The mind… such a complicated, wonderful organ. So many mysteries to solve. Perhaps the mind is the seat of the soul. After all, it is the seat of creativity, which many world religions consider a reflection of the divine.”
“What is? The mind?”
“Creativity,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Surely, as an artist, you have experienced this. The flash of insight that seems to come from outside yourself. Some would say creativity is the voice of the soul.”
His inner voice was muffled, but she could still sense his excitement. “I’m… I’m just a photographer, Dr. Sadik. I don’t really create like that. I’m not a painter or anything.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps that is not where your true creativity lies.”
At that moment, Ava heard the door open and Rana walked in.
“Dr. Sadik, I am so sorry! Ms. Matheson, forgive me. My father is unwell, and—”
“Not to worry, my dear.” Dr. Sadik rose from his chair. “Ava and I have just been chatting. But we should begin.” He turned to her and held out a hand. “Ava, are you ready?”
She heaved a sigh of relief that the odd philosophical conversation was over. “Absolutely.”
Chapter Five