LITMIR.BIZ

      WONG OPENS THE car door. The mother glances nervously across the vast plateau of backseat, unsure, then steps from the car, clutching her bundle. Mohr leads her past the two Sikh policemen standing guard at the front entrance to the nursing station on the first floor. After a brief flurry over what to do, he watches as the young woman and her baby are taken through the doors and into the isolation ward. She glances over her shoulder just as the doors begin to close. He smiles, offers a halfhearted wave, feeling that, perhaps, his skills of dissociation have been developed a little too far.

      Then upstairs to Nagy’s office. The Hungarian pediatrician manages the staff of part-time doctors who work at the hospital. It has been two weeks since Mohr has received any salary. Nagy is in his office. “Good morning,” he says without looking up. A compact man in his midfifties, bureaucratic in the old-school manner. His upper lip, though always clean-shaven, seems to bear the shadow of a large Balkan mustache. If he has never worn one, perhaps he should start. As Mohr waits for Nagy to finish writing, his eyes wander to the wall of photographs that have interested him from the first day he called here. They are arranged in four rows of five, in identical black-lacquer frames. Dead trees. Nothing else. Just dead, leafless trees. As Nagy finishes the note, he begins talking about a refrigeration crisis and the problem of evaporating ether. Then, suddenly, he breaks off, opens a drawer in his desk, and takes out a book. “Your novel,” he beams. “Die Freundschaft von Ladiz. Would you do me the honor of signing it?”

      Mohr is too surprised to answer.

      “I got it at Kelly and Walsh. They ordered it directly from Zurich.” Nagy smiles, offers the book.

      Mohr flushes, red heat in his cheeks, his ears. He turns the book over, reads the description on the back cover: A mountain-climbing adventure, a story of heroism and friendship. Then he shakes his head and places the book facedown on the edge of the table. “No.” He shakes his head again. “Thank you, but no.”

      Nagy is taken aback. “But I thought you would be pleased to know that your books are still available.” A nervous smile. “Personally, I would find it an honor to have my work banned by the Nazis.”

      Mohr glances at the book once again, then at Nagy. “I don’t know,” he stammers. A rising anger, a familiar and unwelcome lack of clarity. He fingers the handle of his medical bag, feeling unsteady and somehow trapped, regards Nagy for a moment longer. Then, with sinking calm, he mutters, “I’m sorry,” and strides out of the office without another word—down the corridor, down the crowded, narrow staircase, through the front doors, and out into the full heat of day. “Shantung Road hospital,” he tells Wong as he climbs into the backseat.

      Driving through the crowded city, the big Ford V8 feels excessive, big enough to house an entire Chinese family. He has always felt conscious of taking up too much space here, rushing about, tactless and not quite welcome. It is hot. He lowers the window, takes the little ivory fan from the side pocket of his medical bag, begins to fan himself. Beautiful little objects, fans. In one of his first letters home he drew a picture of one for Eva, with pagodas and dragons and promises to take her out to find one for herself the moment she arrived—of paper or bamboo or ivory, painted and carved and decorated and hanging in roadside stalls all over the city. And moonstones—because anything that falls to earth from the moon brings good luck, little Eva. And noodles. And bean sprouts. He smiles at the thought of Eva using chopsticks. It is something he still can’t do himself, in spite of several attempts, and Wong eager to demonstrate. “No b’long plopper, Doctor. No can do.” Food dribbling down his chin, he persisted until the front of his shirt was completely ruined. Wong laughed and shook his head. “Doctor no b’long Shanghai side.”