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on Friday afternoon. She would depart the following morning, early. Íso was surprised by Susan’s warmth, and her generous hug, and the looseness in her body.
    Think of me, Susan said.
    I will, Íso answered.
    Susan kissed her on one cheek and then the other. She clasped Íso’s hands. She hugged her again.
    I’m afraid, Susan said.
    I know, Íso said.
    I may return.
    It’s possible.
    And you will be here.
    That’s probable.
    Susan laughed.
    Ãso stepped back.
    And they parted.

2.
    D OCTOR E RIC M ANN HAD ARRIVED AT THE CLINIC IN J ANUARY, in the midst of the dry season, six months before the appearance of his wife. He was an American gynaecologist who was attractive and elegant and friendly. He was very popular: with the director, who was happy to have an American doctor at the clinic; with the keepers, who found him to be both handsome and carefree; and with the patients themselves, who claimed that the doctor’s hands had mysterious powers. Rumour had it that Doctor Eric Mann had been married, but that his wife had left him and so he was now single. What was exactly true was unclear. He lived off the clinic grounds, at a hotel that bordered the lake, and he was frequently seen on weekends riding his motorcycle to the various pueblos that surrounded the lake. He was quite a sight, with his long blond hair flowing out behind him and his sunglasses.The picture he presented was romantic and tender, almost to the point of caricature. His attempts at speaking the local language endeared him to the people. He might have thought of himself as an American Che, a doctor who worked with the poor and lowly, only he worked mostly with the wealthy and despondent women who appeared at the clinic. Women who no longer loved themselves, but hoped to rekindle that love as they took the waters. In truth, Doctor Mann was interested in the people from the village. He had greater affection for them than he did for the wealthy women he treated. He proposed to the director that the clinic should be expanded to include general care for the villagers: physicals, treatments of infections, minor outpatient surgery, dietary guidance, maternity advice. And so it came to be that these services were provided, and were funded by the thousands of dollars that the barren women paid to take the waters.
    The first time Íso spoke to Doctor Mann it was as a translator for a village girl who was five months pregnant and was spotting. The girl was very young, about seventeen, and though it was not uncommon in the region for girls that young to have children, the doctor seemed surprised by her youthfulness. If the girl felt pain, she did not show it. She and Íso spoke in the local dialect. Íso asked various questions. The girl explained that she had been in the hills with her husband, collecting firewood, and she had fainted.
    Ãso translated.
    Doctor Mann asked if the girl had carried to full term before. Does she have other children?
    Yes, Íso said. This is her second. Her first child is two. She hada miscarriage a year ago. Very similar to this. She began to spot, and then there was heavy bleeding and she lost the fetus.
    And how do you know all this? Doctor Mann asked.
    I asked. She told me. When Íso spoke she looked briefly into the doctor’s face and his eyes, and then turned away slightly, in order to pay him respect. He was, after all, a doctor.
    She’s very young, Doctor Mann said. He recommended bedrest. She was to stay at the clinic.
    The family can’t afford it, Íso said.
    She doesn’t have to pay. She’ll lose the baby if she goes home.
    The husband will insist on taking her home.
    That’s silly. There is no understanding here of health or safety. It’s all instinct and witchcraft. They’re afraid of science.
    Perhaps they’re afraid because science doesn’t have a heart or a soul.
    Doctor Mann looked at her for a long time and then asked, What’s your