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“Up the stairs, first right,”h e eventually ordered in a laconic manner.

Up the stairs, first right led me to a door marked RECEPTION. A bored but pretty-looking girl sat behind a desk on which there was a small telephone exchange, an intercom unit, and a computer. She was doodling with noughts and crosses in a notebook and started nervously as I entered and presented my letter to her. She read it carefully, then, without a word to me, reached for the intercom.

“Dr. Sheehan is in reception, sir.”

A muffled voice squawked unintelligibly from the box. The girl regarded me coolly.“Up the stairs, first left,”sh e ordered.

I climbed another flight of stairs, came to an unmarked door, and tapped gently. A male voice boomed, “Enter!”I did so.

“Dr. Joseph Sheehan?”Th e man was beefy, red-faced, overweight, and oozed bon diable. He rose from a massive desk and looked every inch a theatrical entrepreneur, even down to the garish grey-blue suit with the broad stripe. Gold chains jangled from one wrist and his multicolored silk tie would have lit a darkened room. He pumped my arm like a man determined to get water from a dried-up well. Unhealthy beads of sweat shimmered on his forehead.

“Are you Mr. Ronayne?”I asked. That had been the signature on my letter.

“Sit down, Doctor. I am Ronayne, director of Averty Enterprises. Sit down.”

I obeyed. He pulled a sheaf of papers out of a folder and glanced at them. I noted his wheezing breath and wondered whether I should suggest he try an inhaler for the condition. I waited patiently as he peered at the papers.

“Surely there has been some mistake?”I finally ventured after a while. “I am a medical doctor. I know nothing about the entertainment world.”

He reluctantly brought his gaze away from the papers and stared dourly at me for a moment.

“Mistake?”h e seemed puzzled.

“You cannot be looking for a full-time medical doctor for your company, and that is the position that I am looking for,”I added.

“There is no mistake. Let me ask you a few questions—just to confirm some facts. You have just returned to Dublin, right? You’ve been abroad. You did your training here and are a . . . a . . .” He referred to the papers.“You are a Licentiate of the College of Surgeons and Fellow of the College of Physicians, right?”

I wasn’t sure whether the staccato barks were meant as statements or questions. I decided that the word “right?”a t the end made them into questions.

“Right,”I confirmed.

“For the last three years you have been working in Africa with Médicins Sans Frontières, right?”

“Right,”I echoed dutifully.

“Pretty tough work in Africa, I suppose? Famine, malnutrition, and all that, right?”

“Right,”I echoed back, then relented. “It was pretty tough. But how did you know that I was back in Dublin looking for a new position? Your letter was addressed to me at the College of Physicians, but they aren’t supposed to hand out personal information.”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“We have our contacts, Doctor Sheehan. I suppose that you have had to deal with HIV, AIDS, and all that sort of thing?”

“Oh yes,”I said, a trifle bitter by the memory of the suffering that I had seen. “And all that sort of thing.”

“I gather that you were working at the Wambiba Hospital specializing in AIDS screening?”

“For a time. I was specializing in blood diseases.Why does all this interest you?”

Ronayne sat back and placed his hands together across his ample stomach. He stared at his desk for a moment. His eyes seemed to focus on a fly that was crawling across the papers in front of him and, for a while, he seemed oblivious to everything else. My sharp cough caused him to jerk up and he refocused on me.

“We do need an in-house doctor. Full-time. We are a big business. Right? We deal with lots of clients. Big names.We need someone who is discreet. Right? We were informed that you had finished your contract abroad and had returned to Dublin. You need a position. Right? We are prepared to offer you that position. The position of chief medical officer to our company. It may mean some travel,