First, we work through a sexual problem rooted in childhood trauma. I play the uncle who allegedly molested a female member of our group when she was just a child. Ivett is somewhere in her forties, married, and works as an auditor for a telecommunications company. I know her type well, she’s always sniffing around for someone or something. She exudes a sour, old smell, which makes it a bit hard for me to identify with uncle Feri, the perpetrator. Ivett may have been beautiful when the event took place, of course, and now time has left her shriveled, the constant tension and anxiety of the world of multinational companies have ground her down, the need always to be on one’s feet. At the same time, I lament to myself, if as a child she were merely a miniature version of this withered old woman, uncle Feri must have been quite a pervert indeed, and

I am not at all surprised that Ivett is still unable to reach orgasm, even after fifteen years of marriage and two children, with a decent husband at her side,

at least that’s how she describes her accountant spouse, if perhaps in a somewhat muted voice.

To my great delight, in contrast with Ivett, Judit, the forty-something woman playing her in this scene, is a very shapely creature with a perfect hourglass figure. But still, I play the role of uncle Feri with some measure of restraint. I caress her hair and smell it, trying to wear something of a lecherous face, like Joe Biden does, who is suffering from dementia and, according to wagging tongues, other mental problems, when he’s around little girls. Ivett is quick to put her traumas into words: “he fondled my thighs and put his hands between my legs,” she says in a neutral, declarative tone worthy of the profession that has ruled her life. After Dr. Halmos, who is acting as a kind of director for our little impromptu performance, has given me a gentle nod of approval, I happily place my hand on Judit’s thigh. Muscular and taut, you can tell from the feel of her firm flesh, much as you can tell from her whole deportment, that she places considerable importance on her appearance and her body. Which is, we have been given to know, the cause of her problems: her mother was young when she gave birth to her, so as a young woman, she had to watch this budding girl grow into a mature, sumptuous beauty who exuded the intoxicating scent of carnivorous plants (the mere touch of her skin makes me hard), and as so often happens, the mother began to look on her own flesh and blood as a rival. As Dr. Halmos explained on an earlier occasion dissecting Judit’s case- unlike men, who quickly settle the problem with a ritual symbolic murder sometimes even culminating in physical violence, women settle in for a long, cold war. But I don’t have time to dwell on Judit’s problem, because my hand is sliding almost automatically into her lap.

I can feel the adrenaline throbbing through my body,

and although I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, I shed my inhibitions as easily and quickly as I do on those evenings, the consequence of which I now must spend my Tuesday afternoons with these, for the most part, withered figures. Dr. Halmos says something, but I can’t hear him because I’m simply not present anymore. I have closed my eyes, but I don’t have to amble blindly in my secret labyrinth for long, the darkness which has descended on me is dispersed by the beams from the spotlights shining from all directions like light through a thousand keyholes, my brain is tense with music, my pulse has reached a steady thump, and I whisper, as if quoting some familiar song, “you’ve got one hell of a body,” and then the usual feeling comes. I have set out towards something that I know well, in the middle of which I stand alone, I and my desires, something that pulls me towards it like the scent of blood attracts sharks. I have no idea how much time has passed in this murky world when suddenly Dr. Halmos’ voice strikes me on another frequency which is almost earsplitting.

“Thank you Gábor, that will be enough.”

The darkness is immediately scattered, the stars extinguished, and everything around me is again unpleasantly real. I feel empty, and it is no easy task to feign interest as Dr. Halmos explains to Ivett, who in the meantime has burst into sobs, that this uncle of hers, Feri, is exactly like the monsters under the bed that Ivett feared as a child, but now that she has grown into an adult

(and here Dr. Halmos pauses with a look of drunken triumph in his eyes, like a doctor who has just delivered a baby and is now holding the infant in his hands, a creature crying and kicking but nonetheless bearing the promise of new life),

for now she has indeed become a true adult (he embraces her), she clearly knows that there are no monsters under the bed, and, similarly, there is also no uncle Feri. Although the scene is undoubtedly cathartic, I am still hardly present, and I only halfheartedly share the hope that Ivett will now be able to come.

To my great annoyance, I am not next. It is now Ernő’s turn, a man a few years younger than me. This tall, thin, blue-eyed blond specimen has been overlooked for a good position at a multinational company, “though I was really counting on it,” he says in a voice both sorrowful and pleading, as if Dr. Halmos or possibly even I (I was playing the part of his boss in this little chamber play) could somehow help him. “And I deserved it,” he adds, now in a defiant tone, before ceding the stage to Zoltán, the transport specialist who was playing his part. Maybe he’s right, I think to myself without any great sense of empathy, but since this is a common occurrence in our circle, I don’t have any difficulty playing the part of the boss, so I inform him and the transport specialist playing him with almost flippant ease of the heartbreaking decision: “Ernő, I am afraid we have chosen someone else for the position.” “And can I expect a promotion later?” the plucky, bald Zoltan asks. He is dripping with aggression.

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