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His mouth was awash in regurgitated Dylar foam； half chewed tablets； flyspeck shards of polymer。 I felt large and selfless； above resentment。 This was the key to selflessness； or so it seemed to me as I knelt over the wounded man； exhaling rhythmically in the littered street beneath the roadway。 Get past disgust。 Forgive the foul body。 Embrace it whole。 After some minutes of this； I felt him e around； take regular breaths。 I continued to hover just above him； our mouths almost touching。
〃Who shot me？〃 he said。
〃You did。〃
〃Who shot you？〃
〃You did。 The gun is in your hand。〃
〃What was the point I was trying to make？〃
〃You were out of control。 You weren't responsible。 I forgive you。〃
〃Who are you； literally？〃
〃A passerby。 A friend。 It doesn't matter。〃
〃Some millipedes have eyes； some do not。〃
With much effort； many false starts； I got him into the back of the car； where he stretched out moaning。 It was no longer possible to tell whether the blood on my hands and clothes was his or mine。 My humanity soared。 I started up the car。 The pain in my arm was a throb； less fiery now。 I drove one…handed through the empty streets； looking for a hospital。 Iron City Lying…in。 Mother of Mercy。 miseration and Rapport。 I would take whatever they had； even an emergency ward in the worst part of town。 This is where we belonged； after all； with the multiple slash wounds； the entry and exit wounds； the blunt instrument wounds； the traumas； overdoses； acute deliriums。 The only traffic was a milk van； a bakery van； some heavy trucks。 The sky began to lighten。 We came to a place with a neon cross over the entrance。 It was a three…story building that might have been a Pentecostal church； a day…care center； world headquarters for some movement of regimented youth。
There was a wheelchair ramp； which meant I could drag Mink to the front door without banging his head on the concrete steps。 I got him out of the car； clutched his sleek foot and moved up the ramp。 He held one hand at his midsection to stanch the flow。 The gun hand dragged behind。 Dawn。 There was a spaciousness to this moment； an epic pity and passion。 Having shot him； having led him to believe he'd shot himself； I felt I did honor to both of us； to all of us； by merging our fortunes； physically leading him to safety。 I took long slow strides； pulling his weight。 It hadn't occurred to me that a man's attempts to redeem himself might prolong the elation he felt when he mitted the crime he now sought to make up for。
I rang the bell。 In a matter of seconds； someone appeared at the door。 An old woman； a nun； black…habited； black…veiled； leaning on a cane。
〃We're shot；〃 I said； lifting my wrist in the air。
〃We see a lot of that here；〃 she answered matter…of…factly； in an accented voice； turning to go back inside。
I dragged Mink across the entranceway。 The place appeared to be a clinic。 There were waiting rooms； screened cubicles； doors marked X…Ray； Eye Test。 We followed the old nun to the trauma room。 Two orderlies showed up； great squat men with sumo physiques。 They lifted Mink onto a table and tore away his clothes in neat short practiced strokes。
〃Inflated…adjusted real ine；〃 he said。
More nuns arrived； rustling； ancient； speaking German to each other。 They carried transfusion equipment； wheeled in trays of glinting implements。 The original nun approached Mink to remove the gun from his hand。 I watched her toss it in a desk drawer that held about ten other handguns and half a dozen knives。 There was a picture on the wall of Jack Kennedy holding hands with Pope John XXIII in heaven。 Heaven was a partly cloudy place。
The doctor arrived； an elderly man in a shabby three…piece suit。 He spoke German to the nuns and studied Mink's body； which was now partly clad in sheets。
〃No one knows why the sea birds e to San Miguel；〃 Willie said。
I was growing fond of him。 The original nun took me into a cubicle to work on my wound。 I started to give her a version of the shootings but she showed no interest。 I told her it was an old gun with feeble bullets。
〃Such a violent country。〃
〃Have you been in Germantown long？〃 I said。
〃We are the last of the Germans。〃
〃Who lives here now； mostly？〃
〃Mostly no one；〃 she said。
More nuns walked by； heavy rosaries swinging from their belts。 I found them a merry sight； the kind of homogeneous presence that makes people smile at airports。
I asked my nun her name。 Sister Hermann Marie。 I told her I knew some German； trying to gain her favor； as I always did with medical personnel of any kind； at least in the early stages； before my fear and distrust overwhelmed any hope I might have had in maneuvering for advantage。
〃Gut； besser； best；〃 I said。
A smile appeared on her seamed face。 I counted for her； pointed to objects and gave their names。 She nodded happily； cleaning out the wound and wrapping the wrist in sterile pads。 She said I would not need a splint and told me the doctor would write a prescription for antibiotics。 We counted to ten together。
Two more nuns appeared； wizened and creaky。 My nun said something to them and soon all four of us were charmingly engaged in a childlike dialogue。 We did colors； items of clothing； parts of the body。 I felt much more at ease in this German…speaking pany than I had with the Hitler scholars。 Is there something so innocent in the recitation of names that Cod is pleased？
Sister Hermann Marie applied finishing touches to the bullet wound。 From my chair I had a clear view of the picture of Kennedy and the Pope in heaven。 I had a sneaking admiration for the picture。 It made me feel good； sentimentally refreshed。 The President still vigorous after death。 The Pope's homeliness a kind of radiance。 Why shouldn't it be true？ Why shouldn't they meet somewhere； advanced in time； against a layer of fluffy cumulus； to clasp hands？ Why shouldn't we all meet； as in some epic of protean gods and ordinary people； aloft； well…formed； shining？
I said to my nun； 〃What does the Church say about heaven today？ Is it still the old heaven； like that； in the sky？〃
She turned to glance at the picture。
〃Do you think we are stupid？〃 she said。
I was surprised by the force of her reply。
'Then what is heaven； according to the Church； if it isn't the abode of God and the angels and the souls of those who are saved？〃
〃Saved？ What is saved？ This is a dumb head； who would e in here to talk about angels。 Show me an angel。 Please。 I want to see。〃
〃But you're a nun。 Nuns believe these things。 When we see a nun； it cheers us up； it's cute and amusing； being reminded that someone still believes in angels； in saints； all the traditional things。〃
〃You would have a head so dumb to believe this？〃
〃It's not what I believe that counts。 It's what you believe。〃
〃This is true；〃 she said。 〃The nonbelievers need the believers。 They are desperate to have someone believe。 But show me a saint。 Give me one hair from the body of a saint。〃
She leaned toward me； her stark face framed in the black veil。 I began to worry。
〃We are here to take care of sick and injured。 Only this。 You would talk about heaven； you must find another place。〃
〃Other nuns wear dresses；〃 I said reasonably。 〃Here you still wear the old uniform。 The habit； the veil； the clunky shoes。 You must believe in tradition。 The old heaven and hell； the Latin mass。 The Pope is infallible； God created the world in six days。 The great old beliefs。 Hell is burning lakes； winged demons。〃
〃You would e in bleeding from the street and tell me six days it took to make a universe？〃
〃On the seventh He rested。〃
〃You would talk of angels？ Here？〃
〃Of course here。 Where else？〃
I was frustrated and puzzled； close to shouting。
〃Why not armies that would fight in the sky at the end of the world？〃
〃Why not？ Why are you a nun anyway？ Why do you have that picture on the wall？〃
She drew back； her eyes filled with contemptuous pleasure。
〃It is for others。 Not for us。〃
〃But that's ridiculous。 What others？〃
〃All the others。 The others who spend their lives believing that we still believe。 It is our task in the world to believe things no one else takes seriously。 To abandon such beliefs pletely； the human race would die。 This is why we are here。 A tiny minority。 To embody old things； old beliefs。 The devil； the angels； heaven； hell。 If we did not pretend to believe these things； the world would collapse。〃
〃Pretend？〃
〃Of course pretend。 Do you think we are stupid？ Get out from here。〃
〃You don't believe in heaven？ A nun？〃
〃If you don't； why should I？〃
〃If you did； maybe I would。〃
〃If I did； you would not have to。〃
〃All the old muddles and quirks；〃 I said。 〃Faith； religion； life everlasting。 The great old human gullibilities。 Are you saying you don't take them seriously？ Your dedication is a pretense？〃
〃Our pretense is a dedication。 Someone must appear to believe。 Our lives are no less serious than if we professed real faith； real belief。 As belief shrinks from the world； people find it more necessary than ever that someone believe。 Wild…eyed men in caves。 Nuns in black。 Monks who do not speak。 We are left to believe。 Fools； children。 Those who have abandoned belief must still believe in us。 They are sure that they are right not to believe but they know belief must not fade pletely。 Hell is when no one believes。 There must always be believers。 Fools； idiots； those who hear voices； those who speak in tongues。 We are your lunatics。 We surrender our lives to make your nonbelief possible。 You are sure that you are right but you don't want everyone to think as you do。 There is no truth without fools。 We are your fools； your madwomen； rising at dawn to pray； lighting candles； asking statues for good health； long life。〃
〃You've had long life。 Maybe it works。〃
She rattled out a laugh； showing teeth so old they were nearly transparent。
〃Soon no more。 You will lose your believers。〃
〃You've been praying for nothing all these years？〃
〃For the world； dumb head。〃
〃And nothing survives？ Death is the end？〃
〃Do you want to know what I believe or what I pretend to believe？〃
〃I don't want to hear this。 This is terrible。〃
〃But true。〃
〃You're a nun。 Act like one。〃
〃We take vows。 Poverty； chastity； obedience。 Serious vows。 A serious life。 You could not survive without us。〃
〃There must be some of you who aren't pretending； who truly believe。 I know there are。 Centuries of belief don't just peter out in a few years。 There were whole fields of study devoted to these subjects。 Angelology。 A branch of theology just for angels。 A science of angels。 Great minds debated these things。 There are great minds today。 They still debate； they still believe。〃
〃You would e in from the street dragging a body by the foot and talk about angels who live in the sky。 Get out from here。〃
She said something in German。 I failed to understand。 She spoke again； at some length； pressing her face toward mine； the words growing harsher； wetter； more guttural。 Her eyes showed a terrible delight in my inprehension。 She was spraying me with German。 A storm of words。 She grew more animated as the speech went on。 A gleeful vehemence entered her voice。 She spoke faster； more expressively。 Blood vessels flared in her eyes and face。 I began to detect a cadence； a measured beat。 She was reciting something； I decided。 Litanies； hymns； catechisms。 The mysteries of the rosary perhaps。 Taunting me with scornful prayer。
The odd thing is I found it beautiful。
When her voice grew weak； I left the cubicle and wandered around until I found the old doctor。 〃Herr Doktor；〃 I called； feeling like someone in a movie。 He activated his hearing aid。 I got my prescription； asked if Willie Mink would be all right。 He wouldn't； at least not for a while。 But he wouldn't die either； which gave him the edge on me。
The drive home was uneventful。 I left the car in Stover's driveway。 The rear seat was covered with blood。 There was blood on the steering wheel； more blood on the dashboard and door handles。 The scientific study of the cultural behavior and development of man。 Anth