The Collected Stories

her, but he couldn’t move any part of his body. He prayed to God, “I don’t need help any more, but don’t let that poor creature die of hunger!” He pledged money to charity. Then he fell asleep.
    Herman opened his eyes, and the day was just beginning—an overcast wintry day that he could barely make out through the frost-covered windowpanes. It was as cold indoors as out. Herman listened but could hear no tune from the radiator. He tried to cover himself, but his hands lacked the strength. From the hallway he heard sounds of shouting and running feet. Someone knocked on the door, but he couldn’t answer. There was more knocking. A man spoke in Spanish, and Herman heard a woman’s voice. Suddenly someone pushed the door open and a Puerto Rican man came in, followed by a small woman wearing a knitted coat and matching hat. She carried a huge muff such as Herman had never seen in America.
    The woman came up to his bed and said, “Mr. Gombiner?” She pronounced his name so that he hardly recognized it—with the accent on the first syllable. The man left. In her hand the woman held the letters she had picked up from the floor. She had fair skin, dark eyes, and a small nose. She said, “I knew that you were sick. I am Mrs. Beechman—Rose Beechman.” She held out a letter she had sent him that was among those she found at the door.
    Herman understood, but was unable to speak. He heard her say, “My grandmother made me come to you. I was coming to New York two weeks from now. You are ill and the furnace in your house has exploded. Wait, I’ll cover you. Where is your telephone?”
    She pulled the blanket over him, but the bedding was like ice. She started to move about, stamping her boots and clapping her hands. “You don’t have a telephone? How can I get a doctor?”
    He wanted to tell her he didn’t want a doctor, but he was too weak. Looking at her made him tired. He shut his eyes and immediately forgot that he had a visitor.
    VI

    “How can anyone sleep so much?” Herman asked himself. This sleepiness had transformed him into a helpless creature. He opened his eyes, saw the strange woman, knew who she was, and immediately fell asleep again. She had brought a doctor—a tall man, a giant—and this man uncovered him, listened to his heart with a stethoscope, squeezed his stomach, looked down his throat. Herman heard the word “pneumonia”; they told him he would have to go to the hospital, but he amassed enough strength to shake his head. He would rather die. The doctor reprimanded him good-naturedly; the woman tried to persuade him. What’s wrong with a hospital? They would make him well there. She would visit him every day, would take care of him.
    But Herman was adamant. He broke through his sickness and spoke to the woman. “Every person has the right to determine his own fate.” He showed her where he kept his money; he looked at her pleadingly, stretched out his hand to her, begging her to promise that he would not be moved.
    One moment he spoke clearly as a healthy man, and the next he returned to his torpor. He dreamed again—whether asleep or awake he himself didn’t know. The woman gave him medicine. A girl came and administered an injection. Thank God there was heat again. The radiator sang all day and half the night. Now the sun shone in—the bit of sunlight that reached his window in the morning; now the ceiling light burned. Neighbors came to ask how he was, mostly women. They brought him bowls of grits, warm milk, cups of tea. The strange woman changed her clothes; sometimes she wore a black dress or a yellow dress, sometimes a white blouse or a rose-colored blouse. At times she appeared middle-aged and serious to him, at others girlishly young and playful. She inserted a thermometer in his mouth and brought his bedpan. She undressed him and gave him alcohol rubs. He felt embarrassed because of his emaciated body, but she argued, “What is there to be ashamed of? We are all the way God made us.” Sick as he was, he was still aware of the smoothness of her palms. Was she human? Or an angel? He was a child again, whose mother was worrying about him. He knew very well that he could die of his sleepiness, but he had ceased being afraid of death.
    Herman was preoccupied with something—an event, a vision that repeated itself with countless variations but whose meaning he couldn’t fathom. It seemed to him that his sleeping was like a long book which he read so eagerly he