“We leave by train at midday, right after the session. We’ve rested, fortified our constitutions, so enough, duty calls. This time tomorrow, I’ll be in Prague, but don’t worry, we will speak tomorrow. The most important thing is that we found each other,” replied Jovan, patting Trevor on his shoulder.
“Right, and I am really happy we did. It's kinda weird that we so unexpectedly…”
“You have some business in Geneva?” Jovan asked. “Are you here alone or with somebody?”
“No, Jovan. I’m done with business for the year. I’m vacationing here. By the way, now's a good time for some decent brandy.” Trevor pointed towards the downtown. “Let’s go, I know a great place here. You won’t drink, I know, but you can keep me company.”
“No, Teo,” Jovan protested. “I’d love to, but I keep a strict schedule. I must be in bed in 30 minutes, and preferably on an empty stomach.”
“Well, if you have to, I won’t keep you.” Trevor smiled. “I wanna hang out a bit longer. I like the liveliness of the city. Besides, I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.”
“That’s another reason to speak to a good psychologist,” Jovan said happily. “You just need to reboot your brain. You will sleep like a baby after the first session with her. What have you got to lose? An hour of relaxation and you will feel better right away.”
“Fine, Jovan,” Trevor answered after a moment’s thought. “Have it your way. I’ve got time anyways. Let’s go to her tomorrow. When is your session?”
“Okay, look, it starts at 9am and lasts not more than 40 minutes. I will schedule you for 10 am and wait for you there. Sound good?”
“Sounds good,” agreed Trevor and hugged his friend goodbye. “Let’s see your ‘classy woman’. By the way, Jovan, what’s her name?”
“Amanda. Her name is Amanda.”
The two friends bid each other farewell and agreed to meet the next morning at Rue du Cendrier 19.
16 December 2011. 17:15 Prague, Czech Republic (Robert)
"Insomvita[10]? A life in dreams? Right… Interesting… Very interesting… Ahem… Insomvita… Is this your own idea or did somebody put you up to it?” a man in his sixties in a white coat and a thin gray beard said as he examined Robert. He paused and stared into Robert’s eyes, half-smiling in distrust. “Mr. Blanche, if everything you are saying here is true and there is not a hint of deceit, then you are a true discovery for a psychiatrist!”
Dr. Alexander Friedman did not look one bit like a psychiatrist. To Robert, a psychiatrist was a serious, stout man in an expensive suit, with the neat hands of a piano player, high forehead and wide, neatly trimmed beard up to the ears. But the man standing before Robert was short, skinny, and elderly, with a small, carefully trimmed beard and a closely clipped moustache. His face, streaked with a web of thin wrinkles, was well cared for, small and feminine by most metrics. His gray hair was neatly cut and combed back in long streaks.
The doctor was very nimble. When he spoke, and he spoke very quickly, his hands flew in a flock of gestures. At the same time, his enunciation was precise and he spoke every word very clearly.
The psychiatrist followed his examination ritual, going from eyes to tongue and throat, massaging hands and lightly swinging the reflex hammer against the knees.
“Everything seems to be in order! Do you take antidepressants? Do you suffer from migraines?”
