He again telephoned the hospital

He again telephoned the hospital. To his surprise, he found himself speaking with Gruner. He had asked for the private nurse. One could get through? Elya must be molested by calls. With the mortal bulge in his head he was still in the game, did business.
"How are you?"
"How are you, Uncle?"
The actual meaning of this might have been, "Where are you?"
"How are you feeling?"
"There's been no change. I thought we would be seeing each other."
"I’m coming in. I'm sorry. When there's something important there is always some delay. It never fails, Elya."
"When you left yesterday, it was like unfinished business between us. We got sidetracked by Angela and such hopeless questions. There was something I was meaning to ask. About Cracow. The old days. And by the way, I bragged about you to a Polish doctor here. He wanted very much to see the Polish articles you sent from the Six-Day War. Do you have copies?"
"Certainly, at home. I have plenty."
"Aren't you at home now?"
"Actually I'm not."
"I wonder if you'd mind bringing the clippings. Would you mind stopping off?"
"Of course not. But I don't want to lose the time."
"I may have to go down for tests. EIya's voice was filled with unidentifiable tones. Sammler's interpretive skill was insufficient. He was uneasy. "Why shouldn't there be time?" Elya said. There's time enough for everything." This had an odd ring, and the accents were strange.
"Yes?"
"Of course, yes. It was good you called. A while ago I tried to phone you. There was no answer. You went out early."
Uneasiness somewhat interfered with Sammler's breathing. Long and thin, he held the telephone, concentrating, aware of the anxious Intensity gathered in his face. He was silent. Elya said, "Angela is on her way over."
"I am coming too."
"Yes. Elya lingered somewhat on the shortest words. "Well, Uncle?"
"Good-by, for now."
"Good-by, Uncle Sammler."
Rapping at the pane, Sammler tried to get Shula’s attention . Among the wagging flowers she was conspicuously white. His Primavera. On her head she wore a dark-red scarf. Covering up, afflicted always by the meagerness of her hair. It was perhaps the natural abundance, growth power, exuberance that she admired in flowers. Seeing her among the blond openmouthed daffodils, which were being poured back and forth by the wind, her father believed that she was in love. From the hang of her shoulders, the turn of the orange lips, he saw that she was already prepared to accept unrequited longing. Dr. Lal was not for her; she would never clasp his head or hold his beard between her breasts. You could seldom get people to long for what was possible—that was the cruelty of it. He opened the French window.
"Where is the timetable?" he said.
"I can't find it. The Gruners don't use the train. Anyway, you'll get to New York quicker with Emil. He's going to the hospital."
"I don't suppose he'd wait at the airport for Wallace. Not today."
"Why did you say that about Lal, that he was just a bushy black little fellow?"
"I hope you're not personally interested in him."
"Why not?"