“Or discomfort.” The Rose finished his Cinnamon Dawn, which was lukewarm.

“Of course, it can’t be imposed.”

“Which would be a contradiction in terms.”

“So there you have it. It can only be initiated by the individual willingly, as and when he or she sees the sense of it.”

“The world only being the individual in the collective sense.”

“Which brings us to you,” said Dr Plante. The Rose managed a smile.

“I thought it might,” he said.

“What do you think made you bury your spirit so deeply?”

“The drugs, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“The drink—I was trying to bury the hangover.” Plante looked at the Rose and smirked.

“Oh, Mister—you who are so intelligent.”

“I was making a joke.” The Rose grinned. It had been a winner on the wards.

“I know. But this may be our last session.”

“Please forgive me my transgression. I’ll promise to be . . . to behave properly.” Plante nodded his head like a cardinal and said, “To sum up, you are cross-addicted. You cleaned out from the drink by shooting up the stuff, and vice versa. A bit like a thief dressing up as a policeman and trying to let himself out of jail.”

“I wasn’t allowed any alcohol as a child.”

“Your parents kept a tight rein on you?”

“My father had travelled—he was a great one for the evils of sex and drink, always warning me against them. His mother liked to drink, you see, and his dad had been a bit of a lad, I think. A sailor. The old Spirochaeta pallida finally got him.” He caught the doctor’s blank look. “Syphilis. He died from syphilis.”

“I see. You’re celibate?”

“No.”

“Not celibate—you don’t practise celibacy?”

The surgeon seemed to find the doctor’s even glance disconcerting. After a moment he replied: “Continence. More like continence. Celibacy breaks itself, doesn’t it? Anyway, energy is energy, you can use it how you choose. Sex is a direction.”

“That’s true. The reason you are in relatively good shape is probably due to your abstinence.”

“Relatively, yes. It’s about the only area I’ve abstained in.”

“You’re alive,” Plante said assuringly. The Rose nodded.

“And you have wet dreams?”

“I do?”

“Well. You said celibacy breaks itself. I assumed that’s what you meant.” The Rose nodded. It wasn’t exactly assent.

“Do you have wet dreams, then?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“We’re not discussing everyone.”

“No, of course we’re not. Yes, I do have wet dreams.”

“Frequently?”

“I don’t exactly keep a wet-dream journal, you know.”

“I understand.” Neither of the men spoke for some time, and then Plante said, “When you have these dreams, are they accompanied by an erotic image?”

“I suppose so. Frankly, I don’t remember.”

“Why not?”

“They stopped some time ago. When drugs became my . . . girl. Do you think my addiction is hereditary?”

“It may be genetic. Why d’you ask?”

“I wonder why I didn’t start drinking earlier.”

“You may have been traumatised as a boy. Only started when life became too painful.” Plante looked at his watch. “Well, I think that’s fine for today. Thank you for dropping by.”