“Not with me, no,” I said, patiently. “But I’ll bring it with me next time I come here. How’s that?” I paused and endured the doctor’s indignant scrutiny for a moment or two. “There’s no one else but me,” I added. “No one else will be visiting her, I can assure you of that.” I waited. Still nothing. “And if all that leaves you uncomfortable then answer me this. If she’s unmarried, why is she still wearing a wedding ring?”

The doctor glanced around my shoulder. Upon seeing Kirsten’s wedding ring still on her finger, he searched his notes again as if there might be some clue as to the proper course of action to be taken. “Really, this is most irregular,” he said. “However, given her condition, I suppose I will have to take your word for it.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

His heels came together and he nodded curtly back at me. I was quickly getting the impression that he had obtained his medical degree at a hospital in Prussia, somewhere they gave out jackboots instead of stethoscopes. But in truth it was a common enough scene in Germany. German doctors have always regarded themselves as being as important as God. Indeed, it’s probably worse than that. God probably thinks he’s a German doctor.

“My name is Dr. Effner,” he said. “Your wife—Frau Gunther—she is extremely ill. Gravely ill. Not doing well. Not doing well at all, Herr Gunther. She was transferred here during the night. And we’re trying our best, sir. You may be assured of that. But it’s my opinion that you must prepare yourself, sir. Prepare yourself for the worst. She may not survive the night.” He spoke like a cannon, in short, fierce bursts of speech, as if he had learned his bedside manner in a Messerschmitt 109. “We will make her comfortable, of course. But everything that can be done, has been done. You understand?”

“Are you saying she might die?” I asked, when, at last, I was able to get a shot back at him.

“Yes, Herr Gunther,” he said. “I am saying that. She is critically ill as you can see for yourself.”

“What on earth’s wrong with her?” I asked. “I mean, I saw her only a few days ago and she seemed fine.”

“She has a fever,” he said, as if this was all the explanation that was required. “A high fever. As you can see, although I don’t advise you to get too close to her. Her pallor, her shortness of breath, her anemia, her swollen glands—these all lead me to suppose that she has a bad case of influenza.”

“Influenza?”

“The old, the homeless, prisoners, and people who are institutionalized or mentally retarded, such as your wife, are especially vulnerable to the influenza virus,” he said.

“She’s not mentally retarded, “I said, frowning fiercely at him. “She’s depressed. That’s all.”