To calm him, the doctor pretended to concentrate on the matter for a moment and then, nodding to himself, said slowly, “Oh, dear! Look, to please you, I think after all one might say the sixth. Yes,” he added as if to persuade himself of the rightness of what he was saying, “the sixth would probably be all right.”
The doctor thought that this would please his patient. But an expression of terror spread over Giovanni Corte’s face: he realized that the doctors of the upper floors had deceived him; here was this new doctor, plainly more expert and honest, who in his heart of hearts—it was quite obvious—would place him not on the seventh but on the sixth floor, possibly even the lower fifth! The unexpected disappointment prostrated Corte. That evening his temperature rose appreciably.
His stay on the fourth floor was the most peaceful period he had had since coming to the hospital. The doctor was a delightful person, attentive and pleasant; he often stayed for whole hours to talk about all kinds of things. Giovanni Corte too was delighted to have an opportunity to talk, and drew the conversation around to his normal past life as a lawyer and man of the world. He tried to convince himself that he still belonged to the society of healthy men, that he was still connected with the world of business, that he was really still interested in matters of public import. He tried, but unsuccessfully. The conversation invariably came around, in the end, to the subject of his illness.
The desire for any sign of improvement had become an obsession. Unfortunately, the gamma rays had succeeded in preventing the spread of the eczema but they had not cured it altogether. Giovanni Corte talked about this at length with the doctor every day and tried to appear philosophical, even ironic about it, without ever succeeding.
“Tell me, doctor,” he said one day, “how is the destructive process of the cells coming along?”
“What a frightful expression,” said the doctor reprovingly, “wherever did you come across that? That’s not at all right, particularly for a patient. I never want to hear anything like that again.”
“All right,” objected Corte, “but you still haven’t answered.”
“I’ll answer right away,” replied the doctor pleasantly. “The destructive process of your cells, to use your own horrible expression, is, in your very minor case, absolutely negligible. But obstinate, I must say.”
“Obstinate, you mean chronic?”
“Now, don’t credit me with things I haven’t said. I only said obstinate. Anyhow that’s how it is in minor cases. Even the mildest infections often need long and intensive treatment.”
“But tell me, doctor, when can I expect to see some improvement?”
“When? It’s difficult to say in these cases. . . . But listen,” he added after pausing for thought, “I can see that you’re positively obsessed with the idea of recovery . . . if I weren’t afraid of angering you, do you know what I’d suggest?”
“Please do say . . .”
“Well, I’ll put the situation very clearly. If I had this disease even slightly and were to come to this sanatorium, which is probably the best there is, I would arrange of my own accord, and from the first day—I repeat from the first day—to go down to one of the lower floors. In fact I’d even go to the . . .”
“To the first?” suggested Corte with a forced smile.
“Oh, dear, no!” replied the doctor with a deprecating smile, “oh, dear, no! But to the third or even the second. On the lower floors the treatment is far better, you know, the equipment is more complete, more powerful, the staff are more expert. And then you know who is the real soul of this hospital?”
“Isn’t it Professor Dati?”
“Exactly. It was he who invented the treatment carried out here, he really planned the whole place. Well, Dati, the mastermind, operates, so to speak, between the first and second floors. His driving force radiates from there. But I assure you that it never goes beyond the third floor: further up than that the details of his orders are glossed over, interpreted more slackly; the heart of the hospital is on the lowest floors, and that’s where you must be to have the best treatment.”
“So in short,” said Giovanni Corte, his voice shaking, “so you would advise me . . .”
“And there’s something else,” continued the doctor unperturbed, “and that is that in your case there’s also the eczema to be considered. I agree that it’s quite unimportant, but it is rather irritating, and in the long run it might lower your morale; and you know how important peace of mind is for your recovery. The rays have been only half successful. Now, why? It might have been pure chance, but it might also have been that they weren’t sufficiently intense. Well, on the third floor the apparatus is far more powerful. The chances of curing your eczema would be much greater. And the point is that once the cure is under way, the hardest part is over. Once you really feel better, there’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t come up here again, or indeed higher still, according to your ‘deserts,’ to the fifth, the sixth, possibly even the seventh . . .”
“But do you think this will hasten my recovery?”
“I’ve not the slightest doubt it will. I’ve already said what I’d do if I were in your place.”
The doctor talked like this to Giovanni Corte every day. And at last, tired of the inconveniences of the eczema, despite his instinctive reluctance to go down a floor, he decided to take the doctor’s advice and move to the floor below.
He noticed immediately that the third floor was possessed of a special gaiety affecting both doctors and nurses, even though the cases treated on that floor were very serious. He noticed too that this gaiety increased daily; consumed with curiosity, as soon as he got to know the nurse, he asked why on earth they were all so cheerful.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” she replied, “in three days’ time we’re all going on vacation.”
“On vacation?”
“That’s right.
