door, suburban lawns to sound of the water sprinkler, in calm jungle night under silent wings of the Anopheles mosquito. (Note: This is not a figure. Anopheles mosquitoes are silent.) Thickly carpeted, discreet nursing home in Kensington: stiff brocade chair and a cup of tea, the Swedish modem living room with water hyacinths in a yellow bowl—outside the China blue Northern sky and drifting clouds, under bad water- colors of the dying medical student.“A schnaps I think Frau Underschnitt.”The doctor was talking into a phone with a chess board in front of him. “Quite a severe lesion I think . . . of course without to see the fluoroscope.” He picks up the knight and then replaces it thoughtfully. “Yes . . . Both lungs . . . quite definitely.” He replaces the receiver and turns to Carl. “I have observed these people show amazingly quick wound recovery, with low incidence of infection. It is always the lungs here . . . pneumonia and, of course, Old Faithful.” The doctor grabs Carl’s cock, leaping into the air with a coarse peasant guffaw. His European smile ignores the misbehavior of a child or an animal. He goes on smoothly in his eerily unaccented, disembodied English. “Our Old Faithful Bacillus Koch.” The doctor clicks his heels and bows his head. “Otherwise they would multiply their stupid peasant asshole into the sea, is it not?” He shrieks, thrusting his face into Carl’s. Carl retreats sideways with the grey wall of rain behind him.“Isn’t there some place where he can be treated?”“I think there is some sort of sanitarium,” he drags out the word with ambiguous obscenity, “up at the District Capital. I will write for you the address