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either.”
    He smiled. “I see you’ve already done some research on the subject. Do you ever have the feeling that other people can read your thoughts?”
    “No.”
    “Do you sometimes feel watched or followed?”
    “Only by the voice.”
    “Do you sometimes feel that other people can influence your thoughts?”
    “Don’t they always?”
    A delicate smile was his answer. He eyed me critically.
    My tension mounted. I was entrusting my inner life to him, at least a part of it, and I did not have the feeling that it was in good hands. For a moment I considered cutting the session short. The thought of once again being plagued by the voice held me back. I needed his help.
    “Where is the voice coming from?” I asked after a pause. “How do I get rid of it?”
    He rocked thoughtfully in his chair. “To judge by your portrayal I would assume that it is merely a psychotic or near-psychotic reaction.”
    “What is that? Why would it happen?”
    “It varies. That sort of thing can emerge suddenly in stressful situations, during critical phases of transition. With young adults, for instance, when they move away from home. Starting a new job. Moving. The death of a family member, as I mentioned, could be a cause. Have you experienced any extraordinary strains in recent months?”
    I hesitated briefly. “No.”
    “Of course, I can’t rule out some form of schizophrenia at this point. But the way you describe the voice, I don’t really think it’s likely. In order to establish a clearer diagnosis I would need to know more about you and to follow the further developments. We’ll see.”
    He saw the fear in my eyes and added, “But don’t worry. Even in that case, we have medication for it. Has anyone else in your family had a mental illness?”
    “My mother suffers from depression.”
    “Since when?”
    “As long as I can remember.”
    “You, too?”
    “No.”
    “Your siblings?”
    “No.”
    He nodded thoughtfully and took a few notes. “Is there, or has there been, to the best of your knowledge, anyone in your extended family who hears voices?”
    “My father could hear heartbeats,” I answered spontaneously without thinking about what I was saying.
    Dr. Erikson laughed. He took it for a joke.
    I was not interested in letting him string me along. He had asked, and now he was going to get an answer: “He was born in Burma. His father died young, and his mother abandoned him because she was convinced that he was the cause of her misfortunes. A neighbor raised him. He was stricken blind when he was eight years old. In compensation he discovered the gift of hearing. He could distinguish birds by the beat of their wings. He knew whenever a spider was spinning a web nearby because he could hear it.” I paused to see how the doctor was reacting. He was staring at me in disbelief, quite uncertain whether I seriously meant what I was telling him. I was gratified by his confusion and continued:
    “And, as I said, he was able to hear heartbeats.”
    “Heartbeats?” echoed Dr. Erikson, as if attempting to ascertain whether he had heard me correctly.
    “Yes. My father could recognize a person by his or her heartbeat, and he discovered that every heart sounds different, and that the tone of the heartbeat, as with a voice, was a window onto a person’s inner state. He fell in lovewith a young girl because he had never before heard any sound as beautiful as the beating of her heart.”
    “Very interesting,” he said with a worried expression. “Do you have other fantasies, or do you sometimes see things that others cannot see?”
    “The girl’s name,” I continued, undeterred, “was Mi Mi. She was extremely beautiful but could not walk on her own because her feet were misshapen. So my father would carry her on his back. He became her legs, and she his eyes, if you understand what I mean.”
    Dr. Erikson nodded. “Of course I understand what you mean, Ms. Win.”
    “Later, thanks to an operation, he regained