In fact Bertram has been, on every occasion I can recall, clean, presentable, freshly shaved, and dressed in clothes that look ironed. But you never know. The lining could be out on his coat, and his pockets frayed, so that money spills through the holes. His loafers might be on third or fourth soles beneath trouser cuffs held in place with staples. On these first cold evenings in autumn, it is easy for me to imagine such decadence. Outside there is always the wind. Our rows of gaunt, denuded trees present their broken limbs as, now and then, scattered fallen leaves bluster upward in brown or reddish, swirling twisters that catch, then fling shut, loudly and abruptly, again and again, the unpainted wooden gate that opens onto the rose garden. It was, I believe, someone’s job one summer to go out and repair the latch on that gate. Nothing was ever done, and now ages have passed and no one seems to notice or much care about the rose garden gate as it slams and slams in the dark. At this point it’s just one worry among many. In strong winds the library’s windows rattle thunderously, and it seems certain they will burst and rain glass on our heads. Drafts pour in. Even with Hiram’s great fire roaring in the hearth—and with one of Clayton’s tasty whiskey cordials in hand—it is possible, in nighttime, to feel a chill, the brisk fluttering against one’s skin of subtle, icy gusts. What must it be like, in this bitter season, to inhabit the shabby tent city that covers the meadow beyond the wall? From time to time I will happen to peek out a rattling window and glimpse the trash-can fires here and there illuminating bleak lean-tos and crouched, windblown figures. Invariably I contemplate the happy fortune we in this room share; and I will offer, almost always, a silent prayer of thanks; and once in a while, in my prayers, I might name one or several of my brothers, those suffering inordinately.

I stared down at blood spilled on my hands and my tie, at the blood still trickling from Maxwell’s busted nose, and said to Bertram, “Why don’t I go see if Clayton and Rob can spare a few cocktail napkins.”

“Good idea.”

“Can I bring you anything from the bar?”

“Seltzer.”

“Not drinking tonight, Bertram?”

“Better not, I think. You know how it is.”

“Absolutely. One seltzer, coming up,” I said, extracting the stethoscope’s rubber plugs from my ears. My ears were sore from wearing them. Bertram said, “Bring me some peanuts if there are any,” and I told him I would. I coiled the stethoscope and shoved it into an outside coat pocket, then headed off in the direction of Early Modern Architecture and Decorative Arts. That’s where our bar is located.

Along the way I had to step over Virgil. He lay coiled in a ball at the edge of the carpet. His eyes were shut—tight. He must have fallen into nightmares, judging from the way his body twitched all over. I stole a pillow from a nearby chair and, gently, so as not to disturb his rest, slid it underneath Virgil’s head.