Lucian made a funny face. Kate sometimes thought that the young man would make a better comedian than doctor, his wit was so quick and face so flexible. “Strange!” he cried. “It is unprecedented! Unheard of! An efficient bureaucrat in Bucharest . . . my God! The next thing you will be telling me is that there is a real patriot in the National Salvation Front! “

Lucian had not lowered his voice, and two hospital administrators down the corridor turned to stare and scowl.

“Seriously,” said Lucian, patting her hand. “What is this bureaucrat's name? I, too, may need an efficient man someday.”

Kate had met Lucian's father, a wellknown poet, intellectual, and critic ®f the regime; while, somewhat ironically, his mother was connected with the Nomenclature . . . the Party elite that could shop at Command stores and which always received special privileges. Bucharest had almost two and a half million inhabitants, and sometimes Kate thought that Lucian knew all of them personally. As connected as he was to the Nomenclature and a life of privilege, Lucian was openly contemptuous of both the Ceausescu and postCeausescu regimes.

“The man's name was Stancu, I think,” said Kate. “Yes, Stancu.”

“Ahhh,” said Lucian, “like the novelist who died seventeen years ago. No wonder he is a good man. He has large socks to fill with a name like Stancu.”

“Large shoes to fill,” Kate corrected absently. She was remembering just how efficient the bureaucrat had been, making calls, cutting through paperwork, assuring her that the child's Romanian exit visa would be completed by eight-thirty the next morning. When she had brought up the ticklish subject of Joshua's healthshe thought of the infant only as Joshua now, although she was not sure why that name had occurred to herMr. Stancu had waved away the detail, saying that it might be a problem only with the American Embassy.

“Shoes, yeah,” said Lucian, still teasing her. “But what kind of slob would wear black wingtipped bureaucrat shoes without socks? He must fill novelist Stancu's socks before he can fill his shoes. And speaking of socks . . .”

They had taken the elevator to the third floor, gotten clean smocks and masks from the supply closet, and now Lucian was gesturing toward the oversized socks that hospital workers wore over their shoes in the isolation wards. “Just masks,” said Kate. Joshua's white cell count had been moderately low in this morning's charts.

“Hi ho, Silver,” said Lucian, tying his mask in place.

Kate shook her head. Lucian had told her that he had visited America once with his father. But that had been for only a few days. How would he know about the Lone Ranger?

Lucian seemed to read her mind. She could see his cheeks crinkle into a grin under the mask. “Tapes of the old radio show,” he said. “I picked some up when I was in New York a few years ago.”

“When you were a child,” said Kate. Whenever she began to find Lucian irresistible, she reminded herself that the boy had not been born when President Kennedy was assassinated . . . that he was only three years old when Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were killed. The fact made Kate feel very old indeed, although she herself had been just ten when the President had been killed and still in high school when Bobby had been shot.

Lucian shrugged. “OK, Gramma. Touché. Now are we going to look at your baby here or what?”

Kate led the way inside, her heart suddenly frozen with the premonition that Joshua would be lying dead and cold in the crib.

The baby was alive. He lay on his back and looked up at them with wide eyes, his little hands clenching and unclenching. Naked except for his bulky diaper, the flimsy blanket having been kicked off and not set back in place, Unidentified Juvenile Male Patient #2613soon to be Joshua Arthur Neumanlooked a little like a bruised baby bird dropped prematurely out of its nest: distended belly, ribs sharp against pale, pink skin, tiny fingers flexing, and the obscenity of the tape and needle holding the clumsy umbilicus of the i.v.drip in place.

Kate moved to check the i.v. but Lucian was already doing it, adjusting the flow with a practiced hand.

Kate leaned over the high crib rails and lowered her face to the infant's, kissing him softly on the cheek. “A few more days, Little One.”

The baby screwed up his face as if to cry, then sighed instead. His eyes shifted to Lucian's face, now hanging over the crib.

“Hey, kid,” said Lucian in a stage whisper, “it's Neil Diamond time.” Lucian hummed a few bars of “Coming to America. “

Kate had picked up the metal clipboard hanging on a nail at the foot of the crib and was frowning at the lab notes added since she had stopped by that morning before heading down to the Ministry. “Well, they finally got around to completing the extra blood analysis I asked for three weeks ago,” she said. “I would have done it myself if this goddamn place had a centrifuge or decent microscope. “

“What did it show?” asked Lucian, using his finger to poke ribs and play with the baby's belly button.

“The same low Tcell count we're finding now,” said Kate. “Also, it confirmed a critical shortage of adenosine deaminase. “

Lucian suddenly stood at mock attention, closed his eyes, and spoke in a rapid clip, as if answering questions in his oral final exams. “Adenosine deaminase . . . a critical enzyme required to break down toxic byproducts of normal metabolism . . . missing in such rare disorders as adenosine deaminase deficiency. “ Lucian opened his eyes and when he spoke, his voice was serious. “I'm sorry, Kate. That's not treatable, is it?”

“Yes, it is,” snapped Kate, slamming the clipboard down on the radiator so hard that the clash of metal on metal echoed in the small room. “It's an extremely rare disorder . . . perhaps fewer than thirty children worldwide . . . but it's treatable. In the States we use“

“A synthetic enzyme called PEGADA,” Lucian finished for her. “But I doubt if there is any PEGADA in Romania. Perhaps not in Eastern Europe. “

“Not even in the Party hospitals?”

Lucian slowly shook his head. Kate noticed how strong his chin was, how smooth the skin of his cheek. He had put on a pair of round tortoiseshell spectacles to read the lab report, but they just made him look more boyish rather than older or more serious.

“I can requisition the enzyme from America or the Red Cross, “ she said, “but by the time they get the shipment through all the red tape, a month or more will have passed and Joshua will be dead from some virus or the other. No, it'll be faster for me to take him to the States.” She paused. “Lucian, you are good to know about the adenosine deaminase deficiency. Most GPs in the States wouldn't have heard of it. What did you get on your finals?”

“Four point oh, oh, oh,” he said. “Outstanding in all areas, just like my lovemaking. “ He bent over the crib again. “And you, you little homunculus. You'd better get your tiny little Transylvanian ass to Boulder, Colorado, with Doctor Mama Neuman here so they can puncture it with a shot of PEGADA.”

In his crib, Joshua seemed to ponder the statement a moment before he clenched his fists tighter, screwed up his face, and began crying loudly.