Diagnosis had proved to be another series of hurdles, involving trips first to the local hospital and then to a private clinic in Rome, where the consultant that Zen was revisiting that day had prescribed a surgical intervention which was reported to have been ‘routine and without complications’. The patient, on the other hand, seemed to regard this everyday procedure as a nightmarish and potentially lethal ordeal comparable with being the first-ever recipient of a brain transplant.

And so it had gone on ever since. Like any pharmacist in a culture where, even by strictly legal criteria, the profession is granted considerable discretionary powers, Gemma had her share of regulars who frequently dropped in to discuss their latest ailments and general state of health before asking her to supply ‘a little something’ to alleviate their symptoms which, however, were ‘not worth bothering the doctor with’. Nevertheless, she had never before encountered a full-blown case of paranoid hypochondria until Zen returned home to recuperate after his discharge from the clinic.

She had initially been indulgent, reasoning that he would soon pull himself together and return to normal. Not only was there still no sign of this, but he seemed to come up with a fresh complaint every day. If it wasn’t backache, it was toothache. When those afflictions lost their novelty, he claimed to have terrible migraines that made sleep impossible, so that he felt-there was a lot about his feelings-utterly exhausted, confused and depressed. He couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t remember anything, and he certainly couldn’t go back to his job. He’d finally realised how important his work was to him, and now he would never be able to work again. In short, he no longer recognised himself. ‘I just don’t feel like me any longer,’ he’d moaned. ‘It’s as if a thread has broken somewhere and the whole fabric is unravelling before my eyes.’ These melodramatic displays had finally pushed Gemma’s patience to its limits, and the result had been some quite lively rows, followed by long periods of sullen silence. Zen had apparently adopted the tactic of pointedly ‘not speaking’ to her, which she was only too happy to reciprocate. But things plainly couldn’t go on like this much longer.