“Telling me if a person is a patient at your hospital is also patient information.”
“That is correct.”
“But your colleague confirmed that by asking me how Dr. Krupka-Weisz spells his name.”
“That wasn’t confirming. That was curiosity. And we do slip up once in a while, for this is a very emotional job.”
“Okay, I’m curious too. I’m curious if he’s alive.”
“Curiosity killed the cat. Him too.” Gloom inundated her voice.
“So he is dead.”
“You still didn’t spell Prague.”
“P…r…a…g…u…e…”
The supervisor burst into tears. “He was such a special man. Everyone in the hospital loved him. One of the most unusual patients I ever met. There was something otherworldly, even saintly, about him… Do you know, when he came into the emergency room with a heart attack there was a child crying next to him and he told the doctor to take care of the little one first? Did you ever hear such a thing? But you didn’t hear the news from me. It’s not official. And probably wrong.”
I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t thank her. I was touched by her sudden weeping.
I wanted to call Jiri’s apartment but his phone was unlisted.
Or maybe it happened this way:
I called the gabbai at the Eldridge Street Shul.
“Hello. This is Amschl. Do you by any chance know where Dr. Krupka-Weisz is?”
“Isn’t he at the hospital?”
“I called them and they won’t tell me. Privacy laws. And I’m not on their ‘give information to’ list. Are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“If he died would you be notified?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No. He wasn’t a member of the shul, so he’s not registered with us, even though he davenned here quite regularly. I just saw him once at the hospital last week. He was a very private person, you know. He never invited anyone to his house.”
All the more reason not to tell the gabbai that I had walked home with him but failed to note his address.
I tried Patient Information again. This time it was a man.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give out personal information without the patient’s consent. This call is being recorded for quality control or training purposes.”
“Can you contact him if he will allow it?”
“Who am I speaking to?”
I gave him my name and said I was Jiri Krupka-Weisz’s half kid brother.
“How can you be his kid brother if he’s eighty and you sound like you’re thirty?”
“My mother was very attractive. And I always sounded thirty, even when I was fourteen.”
“Physiologically impossible, a fifty-year birth span. I used to be a doctor… And how come you have two different names?”
“Because in our society first and last names are always different. Yours are too, I’m sure, though I won’t ask because it’s personal information. I have two different names because I’m not Chinese, where you have people named Chin Chin, Ling Ling, and Ping Pong.”
“I mean your family name and your so-called brother’s family… are different.”
“Oh. That’s because we come from two different mothers and two different fathers. But because both of us were twins we’re actually half-brothers on either side.”
“If he’s really your half-brother, why aren’t you here watching over him?”
“Am I my half-brother’s keeper?”
He didn’t answer me.
“All right. Let’s try it this way. If you had a patient named Jiri Weisz-Krupka…”
“It’s Krupka-Weisz, but I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
“Okay. But if you did have a patient by that name, how would he be doing?”
“If I had a patient by that name — and mind you, this is all sup-positionally speaking — he wouldn’t be doing.”
“Which means he’s been discharged.”
“That would be a gross exaggeration.”
“Then how is he doing?”
He remained silent. I tried another approach.
“All right, if he hasn’t been discharged and he’s not here, then should I assume…?”
“You certainly should… He took an alternative route out.”
“Then he’s…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“Logical conclusions,” said the man stiffly, “are the sole responsibility of the interlocutor. At the risk of losing my job, we cannot, dare not, give out personal information about Dr. Jiri Krupka-Weisz, God rest his soul.”
“When did he die?”
“Who said he died?” the man shrieked.
“You did.”
“I did not. I could lose my job.”
“But you just…”
“And what’s more, now I know you’re not his brother. Dr. Krupka-Weisz spoke with an accent. You don’t. And what’s even more more, he doesn’t even have a brother. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“You’re driving me crazy,” I burst out.
“Just a moment, please, and I’ll connect you.”
The phone buzzed.
“Psychiatric counseling, how may we help you?”
I drove to the shul, parked, and tried to retrace the way to Jiri’s house. After several wrong turns I found it. At the apartment house entrance hallway I looked for Krupka-Weisz on the bell list. Not under Krupka, not under Weisz. I rang the super and spoke my question into the intercom.
“Mr. Weisz-Krupka? No longer live here.”
“Not Weisz-Krupka. Krupka-Weisz.”
“He gone too. Both of them.”
“The wife too? I wanted to speak to his wife.”
“He dead, you know. Shame.”
“But is his wife still here? I must see her.”
“What you say? Speak into microphone.”
“Where’s the lady?”
“What lady?”
“His wife.”
“Wha choo talking mabout? He got no wife.”
“No wife? Impossible. What about lady?”
“Lady he with no wife.”
“Then where is she?”
“Who?”
“The lady who no wife.”
“No lady here, I said,” he said.
“She move?”
“Who?”
“The lady. The wife.”
“All four move. Weisz-Krupka. Krupka-Weisz. Wife. Lady.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Don’t you understand English?”
“No. If I understand English, I be outside where you is and you be here inside listening to me asking question that Eisenstein hisself can’t answer.”
“Okay, me talk slow. Where lady move?”
“There never no lady here.”
“Impossible. I saw her. You say she move. Her name be Betty.”
“You seeing things, mister. Need glasses.”
“I’m wearing glasses.”
“Then take off glasses. No lady here.”
“No lady here? Ever? Named Betty?”
“No. She move. Jump into moving van with other four. Weisz-Krupka. Krupka-Weisz. Lady. Wife. And Betty. Crowded plenty. Boy. Tight. All five. Almost each other’s laps on. Need stretch limo.”
“Then where she go?”
“Who?”
“She.”
“Oh, she? She gone too.”
“Gone?”
“How gone?” I probed. “Where gone?”
“Gone gone.”
“Gone gone?”
“Gone gone. With others. Hitch ride. On roof.”
“Apartment empty?”
“Rented. One two three. Hard to get apartment here. Big Apple. Big waiting line. Sorry. Much regrets. You like your name on list? I put.”
“No. Me no want apartment. Me want speak to lady.”
“Wha choo talking mabout, mister? I tell you no lady ever be here. She move. With three girlfriends. All going. Going. Gone. No lady. No wife. No Betty. No she. No here.”