He was still shouting when the doctor arrived to explain matters more fully. He advised Corte to calm down unless he wanted his temperature to rise and explained that there had been a misunderstanding, at least in a sense. He agreed once again that Giovanni Corte would have been equally suitably placed on the seventh floor, but added that he had a slightly different, though entirely personal, view of the case. Basically, in a certain sense, his condition could be considered as needing treatment on the sixth floor, because the symptoms were so widespread. But he himself failed to understand why Corte had been listed among the more serious cases of the sixth floor. In all probability the secretary, who had phoned him that very morning to ask about Giovanni Corte’s exact medical position, had made a mistake in copying out his report. Or more likely still the administrative staff had purposely depreciated his own judgment, since he was considered an expert doctor but overoptimistic. Finally, the doctor advised Corte not to worry, to accept the move without protest; what counted was the disease, not the floor on which the patient was placed.
As far as the treatment was concerned, added the doctor, Giovanni Corte would certainly not have cause for complaint: the doctor on the floor below was undoubtedly far more experienced; it was almost part of the system that the doctors became more experienced, at least in the eyes of the administration, the further down you went. The rooms were equally comfortable and elegant. The view was equally good; it was only from the third floor that it was cut off by the surrounding trees.
It was evening, and Giovanni Corte’s temperature had risen accordingly; he listened to this meticulous ratiocination with an increasing feeling of exhaustion. Finally he realized that he had neither the strength nor the desire to resist this unfair removal any further. Unprotesting, he allowed himself to be taken one floor down.
Giovanni Corte’s one meager consolation on the fifth floor was the knowledge that, in the opinion of doctors, nurses and patients alike, he was the least seriously ill of anyone on the whole floor. In short, he could consider himself much the most fortunate person in that section. On the other hand, he was haunted by the thought that there were now two serious barriers between himself and the world of ordinary people.
As spring progressed the weather became milder, but Giovanni Corte no longer liked to stand at the window as he used to do; although it was stupid to feel afraid, he felt a strange movement of terror at the sight of the first-floor windows, always mostly closed and now so much nearer.
His own state seemed unchanged; though after three days on the fifth floor a patch of eczema appeared on his right leg and showed no signs of clearing up during the following days. The doctor assured him that this was something absolutely independent of the main disease; it could have happened to the healthiest person in the world. Intensive treatment with gamma rays would clear it up in a few days.
“And can’t one have that here?” asked Giovanni Corte.
“Certainly,” replied the doctor, delighted; “we have everything here. There’s only one slight inconvenience . . .”
“What?” asked Giovanni Corte with vague foreboding.
“Inconvenience in a manner of speaking,” the doctor corrected himself. “The fourth floor is the only one with the relevant apparatus and I wouldn’t advise you to go up and down three times a day.”
“So it’s out of the question?”
“It would really be better if you would be good enough to go down to the fourth floor until the eczema has cleared up.”
“That’s enough,” shrieked Giovanni Corte, exasperated. “I’ve had enough of going down! I’d rather die than go down to the fourth floor!”
“As you wish,” said the doctor soothingly, so as not to annoy him, “but as the doctor responsible, I must point out that I forbid you to go up and down three times a day.”
The unfortunate thing was that the eczema, rather than clearing up, began to spread gradually. Giovanni Corte couldn’t rest, he tossed and turned in bed. His anger held out for three days but finally he gave in. Of his own accord, he asked the doctor to arrange for the ray treatment to be carried out, and to move to the floor below.
Here Corte noticed, with private delight, that he really was an exception. The other patients on the floor were certainly much more seriously affected and unable to move from their beds at all. He, on the other hand, could afford the luxury of walking from his bedroom to the room where the rays were, amid the compliments and amazement of the nurses themselves.
He made a point of stressing the extremely special nature of his position to the new doctor. A patient who, basically, should have been on the seventh floor was in fact on the fourth. As soon as his eczema was better, he would be going up again. This time there could be absolutely no excuse. He who could still legitimately have been on the seventh floor!
“On the seventh?” exclaimed the doctor who had just finished examining him, with a smile. “You sick people do exaggerate so! I’d be the first to agree that you should be pleased with your condition; from what I see from your medical chart, it hasn’t changed much for the worse. But—forgive my rather brutal honesty—there’s quite a difference between that and the seventh floor. You’re one of the least worrying cases, I quite agree, but you’re definitely ill.”
“Well, then,” said Giovanni Corte, scarlet in the face, “what floor would you personally put me on?”
“Well, really, it’s not easy to say, I’ve only examined you briefly, for any final judgment I’d have to observe you for at least a week.”
“All right,” insisted Corte, “but you must
