“Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little,” I recited as I unbuttoned my shirt, “and that true reality is only in dreams.”

I felt the icy sting of the stethoscope on my chest. “What nonsense,” said the doctor.

“They’re Baudelaire’s words. They’re just as true now as they were when they were written, almost a century ago.”

“You’re an incorrigible Jew with a very sick heart. One more shock will do you in. You’re best off forgetting that romance novel of yours. It is useless to you.” He returned his stethoscope to his bag and took out a pump for testing blood pressure.

“I have thirty-two capsules of morphine in my jacket pocket. I intend to swallow them all, here, tonight. In your professional opinion, will it be a sufficient quantity to kill me?”

He did not seem shocked by the question. Rather, he considered it for a moment before replying. “Not immediately. You’ll lose consciousness first, maybe twenty minutes or half an hour after ingestion. But you won’t die for several hours.” He noted my blood pressure and put the pump back in the bag. “The nuisance of it is that they’ll send for me again in the morning when they find your body.” He closed the bag and paused. “Of course, I’d be more than happy to supervise the process, make sure everything goes smoothly. That way I won’t have to come back tomorrow.” My physician, I suspected, was a sadist, inwardly drooling at the opportunity to witness my death. “And I’ve never had the opportunity to observe the physiological effects of morphine overdose at first hand.”

“In that case, I’ll go ahead and take the pills now.”

“Wait,” he said. “I have to check on the other Jews in your group. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you wait until I’ve returned. I’ll bring a glass and a pitcher of water. It helps. I’ll be back in just a few minutes. Agreed?”

“Yes, I’ll wait. While you’re gone, I’ll finish writing my book.”

That snarl again. “Make sure it has a happy ending, like all good romance novels!” He stood, took his bag, and opened the door. Before closing it, he turned and, lifting a cautionary finger, added, “Don’t swallow a thing until I return.”

“No chance of that, doctor,” I murmured after he’d closed the door.

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