“One day, in South America, where he knew other wealthy but somewhat dreary people, he heard a fantastic story from a young man he trusted, a doctor who, like him, was interested in the theater, in culture. Together—can you imagine?—they put on an amateur production of Endgame. This doctor was moved by the old man’s wish for something unattainable. He confided in him, saying that an amazing thing was taking place. Certain old, rich men and women were having their living brains removed and transplanted into the bodies of the young dead.”

Ralph became quiet here, as if he needed to know my reaction before he could continue.

I said, “It seems logical that technology and medical capability only need to catch up with the human imagination or will. I know nothing about science, but isn’t this usually the way?”

Ralph went on, “These people might not exactly live forever, but they would become young again. They could be twenty-year-olds if they wanted. They could live the lives they believed they’d missed out on. They could do what everybody dreams of, have a second chance.”

I murmured, “After a bit you realize there’s only one invaluable commodity. Not gold or love, but time.”

“Who hasn’t asked: Why can’t I be someone else? Who, really, wouldn’t want to live again, given the chance?”

“I’m not convinced of that,” I said. “Please continue. Were there people you met who had done this?”

“Yes.”

“What were they like?”

“Make up your own mind.” I turned to him again. “Go on,” he said. “Have a good stare.” He leaned into the light in order to let me see him. “Touch me if you want.”

“It’s all right,” I said, prissily, after stroking his cheek, which felt like the flesh of any other young man. “Go on.”

“I have followed your life from the beginning, in parallel to my own. I’ve spotted you in restaurants, even asked for your autograph. You have spoken my thoughts. My audition speech at drama school was a piece by you. Adam, I am older than you.”

“This conversation is difficult to believe,” I said. “Still, I always enjoyed fairy stories.”

He continued, “As I told you, I had made money but my time was running out. You know better than me, an actor walks into a room and immediately you see—it’s all you seehe’s too old for the part. Yet one’s s—tore of desire doesn’t diminish with age, with many it increases; the means to fulfill it become weakened. I didn’t want a trim stomach, woven hair, or less baggy eyes, or any of those … trivial repairs.” Here he laughed. It was the first time he hadn’t seemed earnest. “What I wanted was another twenty years, at least, of health and youth. I had the operation.”

“You had your brain removed … to become a younger man?”

“What I am saying sounds deranged. It is unbelievable.”

“Let us pretend, for the sake of this enjoyable fantasy, that it really is true. How does it work?”