I began to work again. I lived in the apartment and constantly intended to telephone John Evanson and give him back the keys of his light-filled house by the marina and tell him that I could no longer live there, but I postponed it. I traveled to New York for a lunch with potential investors and a few days briefing various journalists. I saw Tom Shaw a few times. I even had a drink on my own with him once, but we talked about business and strategy. I did not know if he could tell that I was sick. He was too guarded in his manner and his responses for anyone to know anything about him. I did not think about sex.

Slowly, I became used to the idea that I was going to die. I became afraid only if I thought that something specific was wrong, especially if I woke in the night. In New York the heating was too high in the hotel and I woke in a sweat a few nights in a row. I wondered if this was the beginning of night sweats, and I lay there worrying if I should see a doctor now, if I should telephone Buenos Aires and tell Doctor Cawley about my symptoms. I had lost weight in the hospital; often, I looked in the mirror to see if I looked like a man with AIDS. If I came across the reflection of myself I found that I looked frightened, insecure.

MY SECOND APPOINTMENT with Doctor Cawley was at eight o’clock in the morning on a Friday. I got up early and had a shower and, once more, I dressed carefully in the most expensive clothes I owned. I put gel on my hair. He wanted to go through the results of my blood test and talk about starting on AZT. My T-cells, he said, were less than one hundred. At best, patients lost between fifty and one hundred per year, he said, but the AZT would bring the count up for a while, and improve things generally, though he did not know for how long this would last. I understood what he was saying. I did not ask him any questions. He told me if I noticed anything in my eyes, I should contact him immediately, and he asked me to take off my shirt and tie so that he could examine me.

Afterward, I paid his secretary and made an appointment for two months later. And then when I opened the door to leave I saw Pablo sitting in the small waiting area reading a magazine. He looked up and our eyes met. The secretary told him that he could go in. It was like meeting someone who has been dead for years, who comes into a dream. He looked frightened. I knew that he must be sick. He stood up.

“I’ll wait for you here,” I said.