It was as the young man, confused by my reaction, was putting away the instrument and leaving the room that Sanja appeared with a decaf in a cardboard cup. She noticed my agitation and asked—what happened? I waved my hand, never mind, nothing, the examination took too long and that’s why I was irritated. But then, I was put out by the expression on the young man’s face. While he was packing up his apparatus, there was a smile of mild revolt on his face. Did he think I was a racist? That was it! I could see it in his expression. That’s what he thought. He thought I reacted the way I did not because I didn’t enjoy having him forcing my ribs apart, but because I had something against the color of his skin. I felt a need to talk to him, to set the record straight, but I knew that could only increase the misunderstanding.

So I didn’t say anything.

Nor did he.

He left without a word.

Then Sanja told me my friends were calling and they wanted to visit me in the hospital.

No, no.

They wanted to assure themselves that the heart attack had happened to me, and not to them. That was human and normal, they wanted to confront the confirmation that the misfortune had passed them by.

No way.

I refused.

I didn’t want anyone to visit me in the hospital.

The third day.

I was moved out of intensive care into an ordinary hospital ward, where I shared a room with this old man. He was a Slovak by origin.

Lukas Cierny.

That’s what was written in blue felt-tip on a little board on the wall, to the right of his bed. Nice name. Lukas Cierny.

How old could he be? Eighty? Maybe more.

He had Alzheimer’s disease, and some chest problems, and his breathing was very restricted.

In the middle of the night he got out of bed and set off somewhere, and they brought him back from the corridor.

“Where were you going?”

“I want to get dressed and go for a walk.”