We'll Always Have Paris by Ray Bradbury

said.
    The cry was repeated: ‘Help!’
    ‘Vesalius?’ I cried.
    A long silence.
    ‘That sounds like you. Gerald?’
    Silence, voices muttering, and then
buzzzz.
    I clenched the phone and felt a rush of tears come to my eyes; that
was
Vesalius’s voice. After weeks of silentabsence, he had cried out to me, implying some danger beyond my
    understanding.
    The next evening, on impulse, I wandered around the Italian-named streets of
    upper Malibu and finally stopped at Vesalius’s house.
    I rang the bell.
    No answer.
    I rang again.
    The house was silent.
    I had spent twenty minutes ringing the bell and knocking when suddenly the
    door opened. That curious person, Gerald’s keeper Blair, stood there staring at me.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘After half an hour,’ I said, ‘all you have to say is
yes
?’
    ‘Are you that pulp-writer friend of Gerald’s?’ he said.
    ‘You know it,’ I said. ‘And I’m not just a pulp writer. I’ve come to see
    Gerald.’
    Blair answered quickly. ‘He’s not here, he’s in Rapallo.’
    ‘I know he’s here,’ I lied. ‘He called last night.’
    ‘Impossible! He’s in Italy!’
    ‘No,’ I lied again. ‘He asked me to find a new doctor.’
    Blair turned very pale.
    ‘He’s here,’ I said. ‘I know his voice.’
    I stared down the hall, beyond Blair.
    Suddenly he stood aside.
    ‘Make it quick,’ he said.
    I ran along the hall to the bedroom and entered.
    There, stretched out like a thin white
    marble carving on a sarcophagus lid, lay my old friend Vesalius.
    ‘Gerald!’ I cried.
    The pale figure, looking ancient and stricken, remained silent, but the
    eyeballs revolved frantically in the thin face.
    Blair, behind me, said, ‘You see, he does poorly. Speak your piece and
    leave.’
    I moved forward.
    ‘What’s wrong, Gerald?’ I said. ‘How can I help?’
    There was a staccato pulse around Gerald’s thin lips, but no answer, only a
    gray moth-flick of the eyeballs, glancing from me to Blair, and back again to me,
    frantically.
    I panicked and thought to seize Gerald and flee, but there was no way.
    I leaned over my friend and whispered in his ear. ‘I’ll be back,’ I said. ‘I
    promise, Gerald. I’ll be back.’
    I turned and hurried out of the room. At the front door Blair, staring beyond
    me, said: ‘No, no more visitors. Vesalius prefers it.’
    And the door shut.
    I stood a long while wanting to ring and knock, knock and ring, but finally
    turned away.
    I waited in the street for an hour; I could not bear to leave.
    At one in the morning, all the house’s lights went dark.
    I crept around the side of the house toward the backand found the French doors leading into Gerald’s room open to the fresh night
    air.
    Gerald Vesalius was as I had left him, eyes shut.
    I cried softly, ‘Gerald,’ and his eyes flew wide open.
    He was winter pale as before and stiff rigid, but his eyes jerked
    frantically.
    I crept into the room and bent over the bed and whispered, ‘Gerald, what’s
    wrong?’
    He could find no strength to answer, but at last he gasped and I thought I
    heard him say, ‘Soli,’ and then, ‘tary,’ and then ‘confine,’ and, gasp, ‘ment!’
    I put the syllables together, shocked.
    ‘But why, Gerald?’ I cried, as quietly as possible. ‘Why?’
    He could only jerk his chin toward the foot of his bed.
    I pulled back the covers and stared.
    His feet had been tied with adhesive tape to the end of the bed.
    ‘So,’ he gasped, ‘couldn’t,’ he said, ‘telephone!’
    There was a phone to his right, just out of reach.
    I unwound the adhesive and then bent back to question him.
    ‘Can you hear me?’
    His head jerked. He cried softly. ‘Yes. Blair,’ gasped, ‘wants to,’ he said,
    ‘marry,’ he gasped again, ‘the…ancient…priest.’ Then, in an ardent burst of words: ‘Philosopher
    of all philosophers!’
    ‘How’s that again?’
    ‘Marry,’ the old man exploded, ‘me!’
    ‘Wait!’ I was stunned. ‘Marry?’
    A frantic nod