656
RAMON SENDER
remaining hundred and fifty. thousand dollars, after giving
fUty
thousand for the building of the chapel, could bring in five per–
cent annually, well administered, ·or seven thousand,· five hun–
dred dollars. And he hesitated.
He had not intended 'going to the dance, although he did
feel a certain curiosity about the women suffering from mental
disorders, especially if they were young and pretty. This was not
an unhealthy curiosity. So he went to the sanatorium. The night
was cool and mild, with a yellowish desert moon. The moon of
the desert of Cibola.
As
he entered the vestibule and found himself surrounded
by marble over which
his
own shadow glided smoothly, he re–
membered that he had had a shoeshine and haircut, important
details when one
is
going to a party, even a party for madmen.
He moved forward feeling his feet sink into the thick car–
peting and thinking of poor Miss Slingsby who wanted the insane
to dance after her death.
It was certainly a pleasant place. Marble that was not
marble, rugs of coco fiber that was not coco, aluminum murals
that were not aluminum. But everything clean and tidy. In the
air welcoming him was the odor of wax and freshly cut grass
intermingled, not the typical hospital smell.
It suddenly occurred to him that, thanks to Miss Slingsby
and to him, the poor patients in the sanatorium were going to
have a delightful evening. Arner felt like an instrument of provi–
dence.
In the elevator he met the director, Dr. Smith. A physician
fifty years old with modern ideas, although he was in the habit
of speaking of them as if he were not quite sure. Other people
were in the elevator, among them the good bourgeois of Ger–
manic air and gold-rimmed glasses that one is likely to find
in
elevators and who, as the elevator goes up, appears to be think–
ing: "Just watch me raising myself by my own merits."
"In what part of the building is the dance?" Arner asked.
