"It's a lot better than it was.
It was stiff as a board."
Rinaldi bent it more.
I watched his hands.
He had fine surgeon's hands.
I looked at the top of his head, his hair shiny and parted smoothly.
He bent the knee too far.
"Ouch!" I said.
"You ought to have more treatment on it with the machines," Rinaldi said.
"It's better than it was."
"I see that, baby.
This is something I know more about than you." He stood up and sat down on the bed. "The knee itself is a good job." He was through with the knee. "Tell me all about everything."
"There's nothing to tell," I said. "I've led a quiet life."
"You act like a married man," he said. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," I said. "What's the matter with you?"
"This war is killing me," Rinaldi said, "I am very depressed by it." He folded his hands over his knee.
"Oh," I said.
"What's the matter?
Can't I even have human impulses?"
"No.
I can see you've been having a fine time.
Tell me."
"All summer and all fall I've operated.
I work all the time.
I do everybody's work.
All the hard ones they leave to me.
By God, baby, I am becoming a lovely surgeon."
"That sounds better."
"I never think.
No, by God, I don't think; I operate."
"That's right."
"But now, baby, it's all over.
I don't operate now and I feel like hell.
This is a terrible war, baby.
You believe me when I say it.
Now you cheer me up.
Did you bring the phonograph records?"
"Yes."
They were wrapped in paper in a cardboard box in my rucksack.
I was too tired to get them out.
"Don't you feel good yourself, baby?"
"I feel like hell."
"This war is terrible," Rinaldi said. "Come on.
We'll both get drunk and be cheerful.
Then we'll go get the ashes dragged.
Then we'll feel fine."
"I've had the jaundice," I said, "and I can't get drunk."
"Oh, baby, how you've come back to me. You come back serious and with a liver.
I tell you this war is a bad thing.
Why did we make it anyway."