his family's country of origin and having learned its language only from his parents.

"And no one, my friend," he now explained, leaning over Klima with a confiding smile, "no one in this entire spa understands me. Even the nurses, who are otherwise quite obliging, look indignant when I invite them to share a bit of pleasant time with me during breakfast, so I must postpone such appointments until the evening, when I am really a little tired."

Then he went over to a small telephone table and asked: "When did you arrive?"

"This morning," said Klima. "I drove."

"You are surely hungry," said Bertlef, and he picked up the receiver. He ordered two breakfasts: "Four poached eggs, cheese, butter, rolls, milk, ham, and tea."

Meanwhile Klima scrutinized the room. A large round table, chairs, an armchair, a mirror, two couches, and doors leading to the bathroom and, he remembered, to Bertlef's small bedroom. Here in this luxurious suite was where it had all started. Here had sat the tipsy musicians of his band, for whose pleasure the rich American had invited some nurses.

"Yes," said Bertlef, "the picture you are looking at was not here before."

It was only then that the trumpeter noticed a canvas showing a bearded man with a strange, pale-blue disk behind his head and holding a paintbrush and a palette. The picture seemed ineptly done, but the trumpeter knew that many seemingly inept pictures were famous works of art.

"Who painted that?"

"I did," replied Bertlef.

"I didn't know you painted."

"I love to paint."

"And who is this?" the trumpeter was emboldened to ask.

"Saint Lazarus."

"What do you mean? Was Lazarus a painter?"

"This is not the Lazarus in the Bible, but Saint Lazarus, a monk who lived in the ninth century in Constantinople. He is my patron saint."

"Really!" said the trumpeter.