“Did they say nothing more could be done?”

She laughed. “Believe me, if they could have done something, they’d have done it. That’s how they make their living.”

“Did you get a second opinion?”

“I got a second opinion, I looked into different treatments, I even researched miracle cures. And I’d rather you didn’t interrogate me.”

I was stung, because I had meant well, and annoyed with myself because I’d put it so clumsily. Irene noticed and said: “I know. If I could…I’d rather not die.”

For the first time, it really hit me. Irene was going to die. Last year, on holiday, a colleague from the firm lost his strength, and appetite, and upon his return went to the doctor, who sent him for a check-up at the hospital; three weeks later he was dead. My dentist lasted two months after his diagnosis. Now, whenever someone starts telling me about a sudden death, I ask “Pancreatic?” I’m always spot on. The meanest, quickest, deadliest form of cancer. I’ve also learned that, with luck, you don’t suffer pain or thromboses, or struggle to breathe, but just get weaker and weaker. The body simply shuts down, refuses, says goodbye. If you’re lucky, you fall asleep and never wake up.

“Would you like something? Can I bring you something?”

“Another pillow.”

I brought her the pillow. As I was about to go, she said: “Will you fetch a chair and sit with me?”

“I need to hang up the laundry.”

“Will you come back when you’ve finished?”

What did she want from me? My wife had also wanted me to sit by her bed and hold her hand once, when she had pneumonia. But she hadn’t asked me anything, and answered my questions in monosyllables, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do at her bedside. From then on, I brought files along, and worked. Irene had a shelf of books in her room. Maybe I could find one that was interesting?

But when I sat down, she asked: “Will you tell me how it would have been?”

I did not understand.

“How it would have been if I had come to you.”

3