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overwhelmed by her feelings and be unable to cope. Are you prepared to take that risk?”
I took what Diomedes said seriously. But I nodded. “It’s a risk I believe we need to take,
Professor. Otherwise we’ll never reach her.”
Diomedes shrugged. “Then I shall talk to Christian on your behalf.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll see how he reacts. Psychiatrists don’t often respond well to being told how to medicate
their patients. Of course, I can overrule him, but I don’t tend to do that—let me broach the subject with him subtly. I’ll tell you what he says.”
“It might be better not to mention me when you talk to him.”
“I see.” Diomedes smiled strangely. “Very well, I won’t.”
He pulled out a little box from his desk, sliding off the cover to reveal a row of cigars. He offered
me one. I shook my head.
“You don’t smoke?” He seemed surprised. “You look like a smoker to me.”
“No, no. Only the occasional cigarette—just now and then ... I’m trying to quit.”
“Good, good for you.” He opened the window. “You know that joke, about why you can’t be a
therapist and smoke? Because it means you’re still fucked-up.” He laughed and popped one of the cigars into his mouth. “I think we’re all a bit crazy in this place. You know that sign they used to have in offices? ‘You don’t need to be mad to work here, but it helps’?”
Diomedes laughed again. He lit the cigar and puffed on it, blowing the smoke outside. I watched him enviously.