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“Ah. Like Alicia.”
“Yes.”
“Again, I pose the question—what is your difficulty?”
“Well, obviously there’s a link—but I don’t understand it. Why doesn’t Alcestis speak at the
end?”
“Well, why do you think?”
“I don’t know. She’s overcome with emotion, possibly?”
“Possibly. What kind of emotion?”
“Joy?”
“Joy?” He laughed. “Theo, think. How would you feel? The person you love most in the world
has condemned you to die, through their own cowardice. That’s quite a betrayal.”
“You’re saying she was upset?”
“Have you never been betrayed?”
The question cut through me like a knife. I felt my face go red. My lips moved but no sound came
out.
Diomedes smiled. “I can see that you have. So ... tell me. How does Alcestis feel?”
I knew the answer this time. “Angry. She’s ... angry.”
“Yes.” Diomedes nodded. “More than angry. She’s murderous—with rage.” He chuckled. “One
can’t help but wonder what their relationship will be like in the future, Alcestis and Admetus. Trust, once lost, is hard to recover.”
It took a few seconds before I trusted myself to speak. “And Alicia?”
“What about her?”
“Alcestis was condemned to die by her husband’s cowardice. And Alicia—”
“No, Alicia didn’t die ... not physically.” He left the word hanging. “Psychically, on the other
hand...”
“You mean something happened—to kill her spirit ... to kill her sense of being alive?” “Possibly.”
I felt dissatisfied. I picked up the play and looked at it. On the cover was a classical statue—a
beautiful woman immortalized in marble. I stared at it, thinking of what Jean-Felix had said to me. “If Alicia is dead ... like Alcestis, then we need to bring her back to life.”
“Correct.”
“It occurs to me that if Alicia’s art is her means of expression, how about we provide her with a voice?”
“And how do we do that?”
“How about we let her paint?”
Diomedes gave me a surprised look, followed by a dismissive wave of his hand. “She already
has art therapy.”
“I’m not talking about art therapy. I’m talking about Alicia working on her own terms—alone,
with her own space to create. Let her express herself, free up her emotions. It might work wonders.” Diomedes didn’t reply for a moment. He mulled it over. “You’ll have to square it with her art
therapist. Have you come across her yet? Rowena Hart? She’s no pushover.”