Generosity: An Enhancement by Richard Powers Page B

important the paper trail. She leaned forward into his accounts, as if some scrap might otherwise fall between them. As he launched into his exposition—Algeria, murder, exile—she had to remind herself to stop listening and keep writing.
    He wandered deep into backstory. She tried to guide him, but he seemed trapped inside a thick volume, and all the pace and cadence of her profession were powerless to extract him.
    She asked: Are you worried Ms. Amzwar might be suffering some kind of breakdown?
    Her transcript has him answering: “I’m worried that she is excessively happy, in a way that can’t possibly be right.”
    Why not?
    “Because she’s an Algerian civil war orphan refugee.”
    Why couldn’t an Algerian refugee be happy?
    But at that question, Fyodor just slumped and shrugged.
    She asked if he’d consulted with anyone at the college—any of Ms. Amzwar’s other teachers.
    “One or two of the other students . . .”
    Seeking another opinion had clearly never occurred to him.
    Had Ms. Amzwar ever approached him in distress?
    Fyodor: “I’m not sure she’s capable of distress.”
    Then why, exactly, was he so concerned?
    “From what I understand, if she’s truly hyperthymic, then she doesn’t need anything from anyone. But if she has hypomania, she’s in trouble. All that elation is just waiting to crash.”
    She breathed in and transcribed his words, not for the first time in her counseling career silently cursing Wikipedia. Out loud, she said, “She’d have to make an appointment for me to do a complete assessment.”
    He shut his eyes, then opened them. “Of course. I just don’t know how I can ask her to do that without . . .”
    “Without asking her to see a psychological counselor?”
    He nodded, defeated.
    “I understand,” she said. “Tough to tell someone, ‘Get help. You’re too happy.’ ”
    He nodded again, his lip half curling.
Fyodor smiled
.
    “You should consult with her other instructors. See if any of them are also concerned.”
    “Okay,” he said, not even pretending that he might.
    Obeying the protocols, Candace Weld bit down and started again. Would he say that Thassadit Amzwar was sociable?
    The question amused him. “Every single person she meets is a long-lost friend.”
    Did Thassadit race or free-associate when she talked?
    “Just the opposite. She brings everyone back down to a reasonable pace.”
    Did she fidget or jiggle or bite her nails?
    “She sits beaming for the whole class period.”
    Did she ever seem cryptic or allusive or grandiose?
    “My God, no.”
    Was she ever edgy or aggressive?
    He twisted his lips and shook his head, the question too ludicrous to humor.
    What did she eat? How much did she sleep? He answered the best he could. Something heartbreakingly amateur clung to him. But
he
wasn’t the subject of the consultation.
    The psychologist set down her pen. She steepled her fingers to her lips. “Maybe someone should get a urine sample from this woman?”
    He took his time answering. She admired that.
    “If I knew a drug that produced sustained, intense, level, loving well-being without any trace of stupor or edge, I’d take it myself.”
    She cocked her head and twisted her lips. “You’d have to. Everyone else would already be on it.”
    He laughed then, a sharp little bark of alarm. She caught her hand smoothing her cheek and dropped it into her lap. “You’ve never seen her get irritable?”
    He waited a beat, but only out of respect. “I’ve watched her for almost two months, and I’ve never seen her even grimace.”
    She flipped through her notes for a hidden explanation. “Obviously, I can’t say anything without seeing her in person. This isn’t a diagnosis. I’d never say you have no cause for concern. But . . . you aren’t really describing mania, from what I can tell.”
    He couldn’t even pretend composure. She liked that in him. “What
am
I describing?”
    “We can talk more, if you’d like. About why