As I wrote the last sentence, a knock came at the door. I was glad enough of the interruption and called, “Come in,” expecting some student perhaps, or associate. Instead to my surprise there was Ram-Ram, standing in the hallway, grinning, with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. I leaped to my feet. “What are you doing out of the sanatorium?” I sputtered, sorry at once for the question. “Well, you’re cured, then. They released you?” I was so relieved to see him that I grasped his arm and pulled him inside, feeling that he was the only person in the world to whom I could talk. Granting he was sane, of course.

“I’m as sane as you are,” he said, as if reading my mind. “And that’s a loaded statement.”

“Is it?” I answered, thinking, if he only knew how loaded.

“In any case, I felt that you wanted to see me,” he said, now ensconced in the wicker chair that literally groaned beneath his weight. “Actually, I’m as sane as the doctors are, which isn’t saying much. Or rather, I’m saner, which places me in a peculiar situation—”

He was joking, in excellent spirits, but I said uncomfortably, “Saner than sane? That sounds suspicious.”

“Can’t tell if I’m sane or not, huh? That puts you in a peculiar position, for which I apologize. So since I’m here, in your territory, we’ll play it your way. You can assure yourself that I’m sane, using your definition of the word—presuming you know what you mean by it, of course. Now, since my glass is empty, I’d like to suggest that you offer me a drink?”

“Sorry. Of course.” I made us each one, leaving the liquor bottle out on the table.

“So, I’ve been given a clean bill of mental health,” he said.

“I’m more relieved than I can say,” I said, meaning it.

“I know you are,” he said, and I had the curious impression that his words were double-edged, or that he knew more than he was letting on. But about what? Or was his attitude simply a hangover of his condition, a sly reminder of psychological duplicity? “How is Queen Alice?” I asked, testing.

“Fine. As well as can be expected,” he answered—which told me nothing, of course.

“But you’ve been writing a report or thesis or book of sorts, haven’t you?” he asked.

I stared at him. He looked no different. He didn’t act as if he realized that he was talking about something he had no way of knowing was true.

“What’s the matter? Secret, huh? Well, I’ve heard your typewriter going up here for hours at a time, from my rooms below. Not complaining, you understand. But I took it for granted that you were working on a manuscript of some sort.”