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nurse said they would be there any minute. The man, whose name was Mr Tiarapu, finished his letter and addressed the envelope and stuck it down and then lay there with it against his chest, as if not sure what to do next. He looked from side to side.
    I said, ‘Would you like me to take it downstairs and post it for you?’
    He said he would like that, if it were not too much trouble.
    Two doctors entered the ward. They were very young men, younger than I was, and one of them was Australian and the other was Thai. They came to the end of Mr Tiarapu’s bed shyly, as if they and not I were visiting. They looked at the chart attached to the foot of the bed.
    I said, ‘I can speak French, and wondered if I could explain to Mr Tiarapu what is the matter with him, because he doesn’t know.’
    The doctors looked at each other like two schoolboys, each waiting for the other to speak. The Thai said, ‘Well, we are going to do some more tests.’
    I said, ‘Can you perhaps tell him more than that, because he must be very anxious, not knowing what is the matter with him.’
    The Australian said, ‘Does he want to ask us any questions in particular that you could translate?’
    I translated this for Mr Tiarapu who was lying with his big head held up in a strained position, as if trying to understand by sheer effort of will.
    He said, ‘I would like to know if I will be able to walk again. It is my legs, it is awful, not to be able to walk. Will you ask the doctors why I can’t walk, and whether they can do anything about it?’
    The doctors, speaking in duo, said that there was a blockage in the spine somewhere, and that the tests they would do were to determine the possibilities of a cure. ‘If it is only a blockage,’ said one of them, looking slightly helpless, ‘tell him he will be able to walk again if he does the exercises we will give him. If he does the exercises, he can only improve, if all he has is a blockage.’
    I translated this. Mr Tiarapu looked much less anxious. He did not seem to want to make further inquiries, and the doctors said they would come back at a certain time the next day and that they would appreciate it if I could be there to interpret again. I said I would be there.
    Mr Tiarapu took my hand and thanked me. He looked at me in a way that made me feel very bad, and sad, as if I were a kind of lifeline. I would have liked to kiss his cheek, but I was afraid of overstepping some line of protocol that might exist between white and black, or well and ill.
    I said goodbye to my friend, and to Mr Tiarapu, and picked up the cardboard box with the oyster shells in it and dropped it in the rubbish bin on my way out of the ward. I took Mr Tiarapu’s letter across the road in the gritty wind and into the post office, and got them to put the right stamps on it, and posted it.
    Next morning, I returned to the hospital. The weather had not broken. When I walked into the ward I saw that Mr Tiarapu’s appearance had undergone a shocking change. His face was no longer brown at all; the colour had left it, his cheeks had sunk right in, and he seemed to find it difficult to open his eyes. But he saw me and took my hand and held it.
    I said, ‘You look tired. Didn’t you sleep well?’ I did not know whether to call him vous or tu so I said vous.
    â€˜Not very,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of my wife, and I was worried.’
    Before the doctors came on their round, the door at the end of the ward burst open and two cheerful nurses entered. They approached Mr Tiarapu’s bed and seized his chart. ‘Yes, this is the one,’ said one of the nurses. She directed a powerful, jolly smile right into Mr Tiarapu’s face. ‘We’re moving you today!’ she announced. ‘Different ward!’ She grabbed a corner of Mr Tiarapu’s blue cotton blanket.
    Mr Tiarapu’s face was grey now with fear.
    I said,