In the pool of the Hospital for Special Surgery, which, perhaps because it specializes in diseases, not of life or death, but of locomotion, must be one of the most cheerful hospitals in the world, we aligned ourselves, at first, naturally, conversationally, according to the gravity of our ailments. The pool room is on the ground floor. Along one wall, its windows look out on the drive and the river, the dazzling grey light and the barges. Nobody swims here, no splashing, no barking or echoing tiles. At the deep end, where the water, which is of course heated, reaches only to the chins of the adults, a young therapist walked slowly back and forth, holding in his extended hands a small wooden bar. Clasping that bar, a small child of about six was being drawn gently, laughing, through the water. Mrs. Martinez, mother of eight, who walked back and forth beside me, looked on with approval; then, in order to free the therapist for other patients, she took over the small bar and the child herself. The three of us were soon joined by Mr. Lanier. It is not quite accurate to say, of Mrs. Martinez, Mr. Lanier, or myself, that we walked. We had been lowered into the pool by means of a crane and stretcher, and now we solemnly proceeded, technically upright and on our feet but with most of our weight borne by the water, from one side to the other of the pool. Anna Mills, who was slightly shorter than we were, walked a little nearer the shallow end, but took part in our general conversation. So, from time to time, did the three young athletes just beyond her. Recovering from knee surgery, they stood, arms outstretched along the pool’s edge, bending and straightening their injured legs before them. Buoyantly, gravely, wincing or expressionless, we chatted: about what was wrong with us, how it happened, whether we had been injured, or born this way, or simply, gradually disintegrated; about past surgery, impending surgery, no surgery. But the subject of most profound interest, the one that divided us along lines not of age, or class, or job, or personal affinity, was drugs. The Tylenol set, the group on Empirin with codeine, the poor souls on Bufferin or Darvon, or any non-prescription remedy, were separated from the lucky few on morphine derivatives, on Percodan. The difference, we soon discovered, or rather, the Percodan group discovered it, had less to do with kind of illness or intensity of pain than with the philosophy and disposition of the prescribing doctor. Al Hines, the truck driver, we knew, had been scolded by his doctor for taking too much aspirin, when he had the same problem as Mrs. Martinez, Mr. Lanier, and I. Ten days of traction, Al’s doctor had said, and if that didn’t do it, surgery. But my own doctor had said that traction — and, in our rooms, all of us were in traction — was of no use whatever, just a device to satisfy insurance companies. So there we were; when Al walked with us, like children discreetly withholding from less enlightened children the truth about the stork or Santa Claus, we would not discuss our medication. And the day old Mrs. James, completely warped and crabbed by her arthritis into a kind of clawed, bowlegged arc, mentioned that her doctor, bless him, did allow her Percodan, specifically one half a pill four times a day, we, we lucky few who took Percodan (and sometimes, having surreptitiously stored them, three Percodan eight times a day), we said nothing, only continued our stately procession, like swans, or philosophers, generals or Athenians, back and forth across the pool.
But then, stopping everywhere, as I was, to ask directions, it was by no means clear, at many intersections, which was the straight continuation of the road and which was another road entirely. I asked various bicyclists, farmers, passersby. And once, when I pulled far off the road, for the last of several farmers with their herds of lowing cattle, I met, no, not met, encountered, one of the truly gentle and poetic souls, a man who said, You’ve bent part of your fender against this tall grass; and who bent the metal back in place, along its tidy line, getting mud on his trousers and his hands. A kind man, with the profound sense of natural honor from which, I supposed, the lorry driver’s You have my word, in some way, derived. My sense of the ominous and hostile receded. I began to think these were omens, perhaps, after all, auspicious. As the weather let up, I became aware for the first time of serenity, of the fields, the walls of stone, slate sky, the incredibly long eyelashes of the cows. I passed through the countryside, the towns. Just before dark, I found the unpaved road to Cihrbradàn, then the iron gates, and the long drive to the castle. In the circle of gravel, at the front door, I parked my car in such a way that the driver’s side, the damaged fender side, was visible to all comers on the road. Later, I thought this even then, later I could say, What kind of fool do you take me for; if concealment was what I had in mind, do you take me for such a fool as to park my car in such a way that the damaged side is there for all the world to see? As I opened the car door and got out, I felt watched. I saw a round middle-aged face peering at me through the shades. Celia, I thought, the hearty cook, looking out eagerly for the first glimpse of the stranger. But, as I crossed the few remaining yards of gravel driveway, she made no move toward the door.
After I had knocked for quite a while, the door was opened by a younger woman. Kathleen, I thought, but when I introduced myself, she did not give her name. She said, There’s a note for you from Captain and Mrs. Walton, and led me to a small room, full of guns, boots, hunting jackets, and a large desk. On the wall above the desk, there was an ancient telephone, on a wooden panel, with many wires and switches. An envelope addressed to me lay on the desk. Kathleen handed it to me; and walked back across the little entryway, down a short, narrow corridor, to an immense kitchen, where she introduced me to Celia, who stood beside the kitchen table, watching protectively over a round pink child. You’ll be wanting to see your room then, Kathleen said. We climbed a beautiful, old, slowly rounding staircase, to a room which looked out in two directions, on an old grey tower, and on the sea. The waves were placid against the black rocks of the bay; to the absolute verge of those rocks, and the sea itself, the fields extended, in calm, perfect, implausibly familiar, muted green. Three sources of heat in the room, Kathleen pointed out to me briskly: central heating, an electric blanket, the peat fireplace. She also showed me the closet and the bed. Not the bathroom, which I found later, at some distance, down the hall. You’ll be wanting tea, she said, as she was going down the staircase. I said, Thank you, yes. And what time would you like your dinner? I looked at my watch. It was five-fifteen. I said, At seven, please. And then, On second thought, with dinner as soon as that, instead of tea, I’d like a drink. I like to go to bed early, I added, and get up early. We walked through the first kitchen, past Celia and the baby, through a second, still larger kitchen, to a pantry, with an enormous wall safe. We always keep it locked, Kathleen said, when the ambassador’s away. The door swung open, revealing shelves and quantities of every kind of whiskey, gin, rum, brandy, vodka. As you’re his guest, she said, I’ll leave the key in while you’re here. I chose one of the Irish whiskeys, Bushmills. Have you known the ambassador long? she asked, as she led me through several dark rooms, one of which seemed to be the study, to the drawing room, where the lamps nearest the sofa were on, and there was a peat fire burning in the grate. He had said, Talk to them, they are friendly; so I said, Not long, and told her how I met him, and that he sent his best. Will you be wanting ice? she said. She brought cubes, in a glass, and some water in a small pewter pitcher. I stayed a long time, alone, with my drink, beside the grate in the drawing room. I opened the envelope from Captain and Mrs. Walton. An invitation to dinner, the following evening, at eight. Paddy, the groundskeeper there, will give you directions, it said. Hope you can come. An illegible signature. A legible phone number. One digit, like the number of the castle. I sloshed a bit more water from the pitcher into my glass. A little tired now, from the whiskey, and the day itself, I thought I should call to accept. I found my way to the hunting and phone room, looked at the wooden panel, with its wires and switches. Celia appeared in the doorway. I’d like to phone the Waltons, I said. I can’t figure out quite how this works. Kathleen does that, Celia said. A pause. She’s upstairs. Feeding the baby. Shall I call her down? I say, It’s nothing urgent. Another pause. Celia walks to the phone, turns a crank, flips several switches, then hands the receiver to me. So glad you’re here, says the Captain; heard all about you; look forward enormously; just ask Paddy for directions; eight o’clock then. Hangs up. Celia stands in doorway. Whenever you’re ready, she says. Your dinner’s there.