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“Why not run toward
something, for once?”
    He paused a moment for this to sink in, then said, “He’s not from Pakistan.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œYour potentate. Sahran’s from Paris.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me a little about Mr. Sahran.”
    Which he did, precisely: a little. How Emil Sahran was that rare distillation, a man from a haute Paris family of North African descent, a family established and wealthy enough to have amassed considerable influence, which Sahran had expended (in part) advancing third-world health. His efforts were long-standing but had escalated dramatically in the past year, after he had a run-in with cancer. Lymphoma. An early diagnosis, a successful lymphectomy, and a deft application of radiation had cured him, but the experience had confirmed his conviction that the practices that had saved his lucky life should be available to those on earth least lucky. He redoubled his efforts, in part through an exceedingly handsome endowment to Willem’s foundation, currently being finalized, and also by escalating his own work.
    Sahran handled the delicate political side of trauma relief: getting care to refugees and field surgeries to civilians caught in civil war, and sparing the survivors of natural disasters the subsequent disaster of cholera. He ran interference behind the scenes, flattering the vanities of dictators and calming the suspicions of local chieftains so the medical teams could safely get into the villages. That’s how Willem and Sahran had met, one monsoon-season night between the Niles, in the guest bar of a rattletrap, previously grand colonial hotel in Khartoum, a city made of sand and no higher than a sand dune, where they’d begun a conversation whose eventual fruits included the Frenchman’s fiscal support for Willem’s foundation. And also, eventually, Willem’s involvement in this surgery, for which Sahran was the major-domo.
    â€œCalming suspicions?” I ventured. “Or flattering vanities?”
    Willem snorted. “Look,” he said. “I owe him, and I’m delighted that I do. He does things his own way, but he does them right, which for you means you’ll have everything you need. You’ll have more essential information than any physician in any operation that’s ever been performed. Your patient’s been tested and retested and re-retested, and you’ll get the full dossier. And if there’s some iota of mystery that you can unearth that you think needs addressing, ask me. I’ll tell you.”
    â€œAll right, then,” I said, not to be shrugged off with boys’ adventures in colonial Khartoum. “Who’s the patient?”
    â€œWho’s the patient,” Willem echoed, with dismay. His head rolled in frustration. “Who is the patient. Well, that’s easy: Someone interested in privacy and able to afford it. And in dire need of a new heart. That’s it. That’s already more than you need to know.”
    I pursed my lips, aware that I’d hit a dead end. I looked around at the basking crowd and caught an image from on high of the two of us, statuary gnomes squabbling amid the hollyhocks.
    â€œWhat beautiful weather,” Willem said, clinching his victory with largess, turning his face to be a flower too. He peeked at me sidelong and placed a conspiratorial hand on my arm. “It’s okay,” he said, and then, in the voice of another, “Only a house divided against itself can stand.” He laughed, and I couldn’t help it and laughed with him.
    â€œAre we finally entering our golden age?” he asked.
    Joined at the hip
, I thought, not happily.
    Â 
    The day was too lovely to defile with a direct route home, and once our curdled brunch had ended—none too thankfully soon—I kissed Willem’s cheek and headed out, intending to get lost. I succeeded, but only geographically.