—The Destruction of the European Jews, by Raul Hilberg. — That’s all you could find for the hospital? — It’s perfect for the hospital. When things aren’t going right, you have to read sad books. Darius picked up the thick volume. He flipped through it dull-eyed. — So you recommend this? — Heartily. He managed a smile. Then he put the book down and said, she should have warned me. I can’t accept that she cheated on me in secret. Despite Chemla’s inspection, I still had the feeling that my arm was swelling up. I said, look at my arms, do you think they’re the same size? Darius got up, put his glasses on again, looked at my arms, and said, exactly the same. Then he sat back down. We remained in silence for a brief while, listening to the noises in the corridor, the gurneys, the voices. Then Darius said, women have swiped the martyr’s role for themselves. They’ve theorized about it out loud. They groan and make people feel sorry for them. Whereas in reality, the real martyr is the man. When I heard that, I thought about something my friend Serge said right at the beginning of his struggle with Alzheimer’s. For some unknown reason, he wanted to go to Married Man Street. No one knew where Married Man Street was. Eventually, it dawned on his friends that he was talking about Martyrs’ Street. I related this story to Darius, who knew Serge distantly. He asked me, how’s he doing now? I said, as well as can be expected. The main thing is not to contradict him. I always tell him he’s right. Darius nodded. He looked at a point on the floor near the door and said, what a marvelous disease.