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“his coterie arranged for the monument and its inscription. I’ve never myself set eyes on the stone.”
    The doctor finally turned. He was a plastic surgeon and Kaddish sensed that the doctor was seeing not a whole man but only the collection of faults of which Kaddish was constructed. Stopping when he caught Kaddish’s eye, a sexy eye, he’d admit, but too close to the broad bone of that horrendous nose, the doctor approached. Coming closer, he said, “A figure? How much?”
    He bent at the hips and brought his face near to Kaddish’s ribs as if something suspect had crawled into his line of sight. There was a scar there, raised and long, a childhood accident. The doctor reached out with three fingers pressed together and his thumb tucked. It was a papal gesture. He applied a little pressure, moved Kaddish a step back into better light, and did it again. He straightened up for his pronouncement.
    “That scar could be hidden.”
    “It is,” Kaddish said, “when I’m wearing a shirt.”
    The doctor didn’t miss the point. He had made Kaddish strip down. “For discretion,” the doctor said, explaining.
    “For discretion, of course. I should be thankful you didn’t go for the pants.”
    “I still might,” the doctor said, and Kaddish picked up the shadow of a smile.
    “Even a first-day prostitute keeps her shirt on until some money has changed hands,” Kaddish said. He resisted crossing his arms.
    “You were going to quote me a figure.”
    Kaddish was, but it was essential, he believed, that it be done from the right position. It is always better to be embarrassing than embarrassed.
    “If you’re really interested in scars, there is something that I’ve beenwondering about.” Kaddish opted for the pants on his own. He undid his belt and dropped them to his knees when the doctor stopped him.
    “We can schedule a proper appointment,” the doctor said. “I’d be happy to see you in that context.” His eyes displayed a warm bedside manner, but he was looking at Kaddish’s nose.
    “Sure,” Kaddish said, buckling up and scanning the room. He’d had a number in mind in the waiting room, and another when he was led into this fancy consultation room with its feeling of polished surgical precision—not a bit of personality in it except for one heavy-looking mask up on the wall. An old framed print leaned against the wall below it, a woodsy scene with a man on a horse marked, in English, The Hunt.
    “Nice piece,” Kaddish said, signaling the mask and not really caring. He was figuring his sum.
    “I was in Asia fixing cleft palates.” The doctor looked at the mask and to his picture on the floor. “After months of taking nipples off and sewing them back on, the palates are a salve. They fly you over to fix the poor kids, to put their heads back right. It’s funny there. They only bring you boys.” He paused to consider his own statement, as if someone else had brought it to his attention. “I stopped in Hong Kong on the way back and picked the mask up there.”
    “Looks expensive.”
    “It’s from the New Year’s festivities. They celebrate just now. In China the new year comes late.” Again the doctor seemed friendly, and again he considered his own statement, rapt by his observations. “The Year of the Dragon and their first in forever without Chiang Kai-shek. I was lighting off firecrackers and thinking,
We should be so lucky. Isabelita should choke on a bone”
    “Looks like you’ll get your wish.”
    “It’s no wish of mine. To dream of one government ending doesn’t mean you’ll want the one that comes in its place.”
    Kaddish pictured the before-and-after photographs from the album in the waiting room: mug shots of rejuvenated cheeks and chins, breasts and thighs. Taking it all into account, he doubled the figure in his head.
    Kaddish moved to the middle of the table. He wrote the number in the center of the white paper, this time careful not to rip. It was another of