“I’m sorry,” I say. It is best to never argue with the therapists. This gets one nowhere and in the bargain my therapists and I have always had a satisfactory relationship. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“I’m sorry about this,” he says, suddenly apologetic. “I realize that I sound ungrateful, so soon after what you have done for us. But the work must go on. I am afraid that there are rather selfish people above me who will stop at nothing to get the work done. We do the best we can for you, we act as your mediators, but we must constantly produce results or our efforts on your behalf are meaningless. The work is moving forward. Besides that, the sooner the work is completed, the sooner you will be released.” My therapist favors me with a massive wink and, in the abscess of eye, the sudden glassine of eyeball as it darts from me between shafts of light, I understand that he is very frightened, possibly as frightened as I am, and that somehow he has been implicated by the entire incident involving Plotar. Perhaps he is felt to be culpable in some way, inasmuch as his patient was the one who brought this to their attention. This is the way they would think.
“I’ll try,” I say and begin to talk spontaneously upon certain aspects of igneous formation, an area on which my knowledge and their curiosity seem limitless, “I’ll certainly try,” I say in the middle of my ramblings, “I’ll do my best to give you what you want,” but for all my earnest efforts I have the feeling that the information I am giving is useless, redundant, superfluous and at this feeling of shame I try even harder but something throughout is blocking me and from the expression of my therapist’s eyes I can see, somehow, that I failed him.Foryou , his pained eyes are saying,foryouIhavesacrificedmyself and I feel shame because, despite my newfound desire to escape the enclosure I still feel sympathy for him and would not, for anything, hurt him.