The woman let go of his arm with an abrupt, dismissive gesture as if it had been he who was holding her.
I’m having a hard time keeping up with you, the man said. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by all this . . .
Overwhelmed? the woman asked.
For lack of a better word, the man said. Yes: overwhelmed. Can we go in now?
You really did think I was going to die, didn’t you?
What? asked the man.
You heard me. You thought I was going to die. You had no hope. No faith. For lack of a better word. You resigned yourself to the idea that I was going to die. Didn’t you? Tell me. Be honest.
Well, the man said. Given what the doctors told us, given what you yourself told me, given what I know about stage-four cancer, yes, to be honest, yes, I thought you were going to die. Think you are going to die.
So you don’t believe in anything outside your scope of knowledge or experience?
I suppose not, said the man. I’m sorry. You asked me to be honest.
So you don’t think I could possibly be cured? That I might live?
You might be cured, the man said. Of course, it’s possible. But not by that man. Not in that way.
Why? asked the woman. Why not?
How could he possibly cure you? He didn’t even know that you are ill.
Of course he knew. Why else would he have come in to see me? There was no other reason for him to come in.
Then why didn’t he see you today?
Perhaps because he didn’t need to. Perhaps I don’t need to see him again. You’re being rational, asking these questions. Trying to make sense of it. But it isn’t rational. It doesn’t make sense.
So it’s some kind of miracle? asked the man.
That’s all there is for you? Reason or miracles?
I suppose so, said the man. I’m very literal. I have no imagination, or so you have often told me. Remember when we tried to role-play? What a disaster that was?
Yes, the woman said. I remember. You couldn’t even pretend to be a chef.
A chef? I thought it was a cowboy.
First it was a cowboy and then it was a chef. You failed at both.
And I fail at this too. Whatever it is that this is.
It’s quite clear what this is. It isn’t role-playing. It doesn’t require imagination. It’s very simple. It’s my thinking I’ve been cured. Or rather, my feeling that I’m being cured.
Yes, the man said. We’ve established that, so can we please go in now?
Yes, the woman said. We can go in now.
It became clear that the building that now housed the orphanage was once a school—or perhaps still was, for several of the rooms the man and the woman passed as they followed the nurse down a long hallway on the first floor were furnished with rows of desks, and chalkboards hung on the walls. At the end of the hallway the nurse opened a door that revealed a stairway. She held the door open while they passed through it and then led them up the stairway. On the landing a dead tropical plant of considerable height and stature had been removed from its pot and leaned against the tiled wall, exposing the naked dirty ball of its roots. Beside it a large metal bucket of sudsy water hosted some kind of mop. They followed the nurse up the second flight of stairs, where she once again opened a heavy metal door and motioned for them to pass through.
This floor was identical to the one below it, but the rooms were empty. Even the chalkboards had been removed, leaving their ghosts behind on the painted cinder-block walls. Halfway down the hall, outside a door whose glass window was covered with newspaper, the nurse stopped. She turned to the man and the woman and said, You will see your child now. But I remind you that you cannot take him away until three days pass. You understand?
Yes, the man said. But we may visit him, right?
Yes, said the nurse. For an interval of an hour two times a day, once morning and once afternoon. Are you ready now?
Yes, the man said. He reached out and offered his hand to the woman, as if she needed help to enter the room, but she pretended not to notice. She seemed to have removed herself from the situation, acting like a queen visiting a hospital who must not betray