She would joke about it, saying something like, “Well, I’m back. Were there any letters for me while I was away?”

And I would say something like, “No, but there was a telegram from your brother. It seems his grandson is getting married next month.”

“Oh, really?” she would laugh. “Have I been gone all that long?”

“Very long. Nearly a minute. And very far away. Nearly beyond my reach.”

Fragments of the things we talked about during those delicious afternoon hours return to me even now, fresh and whole, like those snatches of melody from one’s youth that slip back unsolicited from the hidden reaches of the memory. Often we exchanged moments and incidents from our childhoods, shards of ourselves shared unselfconsciously, and not so much shared as remembered aloud. She recalled that she was once given a blue silk dress with a bow that she loved so much she saved it for some very special occasion, saved it so long that when she at last found a sufficiently worthy event, it was too small to be worn. She had wept bitterly. But she kept the dress and had it even now. And I told her of a bully in my mountain village who enjoyed taunting me because I did particularly well in school. He took up the practice of slapping me on the back of my head, which expression of subtle wit delighted the other children. I used to cry with rage and shame, but I never dared to challenge the bigger lad until my wise old uncle took me aside and explained that, while the bully was strong, I had the advantage of being quick and adroit. And, what is more, I would be strengthened by the rightness of my cause. So, the next time that fat butcher’s son hectored me, I put up my fists and took a stand… only to experience the soundest thrashing of my life, with my nose bloodied and my lip broken. And when I reported the event to my uncle, he shook his head and advised me not to be so stupid in future as to pick fights with bigger boys. And she told me of the shadow of a tree branch at night on the wall of her bedroom that looked like a monkey and used to frighten her each time a storm made it dance, rippling insanely over the draperies. She would hide under her covers and peek out through a little hole, fascinated, horrified, but unable to look away from the dancing monkey because she had convinced herself that it could not harm her so long as she kept her eyes on it. She dared not even blink. And I told her of the one time I cheated in school and…

There is no purpose in recounting everything we shared. I am sure the reader has been in love, and remembers.

There was no physical intimacy between us, to be sure. We didn’t kiss; I didn’t even hold her hand. Our only contact was when she slipped her hand into the crook of my arm as we walked down to the summerhouse or back from it. But even now, years later, I can still feel the pressure and warmth of that hand, as though my nerves had memories independent of my mind.

There was one occasion when she did touch me, come to think of it. We were chatting when she suddenly put her hand upon mine and hushed me with a gesture.

“What is it?” I asked.

She remained perfectly still for a long moment, looking to the side of the summerhouse with close attention. Then she looked back to me and smiled. “You didn’t see her?”

“Her? Who?”

She evaluated me quizzically, as though wondering if I were trying to trick her. Then she shrugged, “Oh, never mind. It’s nothing.”

“No, tell me.” Then a thought crossed my mind. “You didn’t see the ghost that’s supposed to haunt this garden, did you? Is that it?”

“She’s not a ghost.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot. Spirit, then.”

Katya gazed at me for a moment; then she shook her head and smiled. “I really must be getting back to the house. The local girl working for us requires reminding, or she would never start supper, and poor Father would have to go to bed hungry.”

“Stay with me a little longer. Send the ghost to remind her. It’s an experience she’ll never forget.”

“I won’t have you joke about the spirit… poor thing. Now you go along. But if you wish, you may join us for dinner tonight. Father has asked after you.”

“I accept with pleasure.”

Before we parted on the terrace, I remembered that I had forgotten to give her that day’s pebble. It had become a joke—and a little more than a joke—between us for me to present her with a pebble upon each meeting. I found it in my pocket and offered it with the comically sober ceremony we had fallen into.

“Thank you very much, Jean-Marc. It’s the finest pebble I’ve received since… oh, I can’t remember when. Yesterday, I think.”

“I’ll see you this evening, then?”

“Yes. Until then.”


* * *

It rained that evening, and once again I arrived with dripping hair and sodden jacket. During dinner there were the expected jokes about my bringing the rain with me whenever I visited. I felt a bit uncomfortable at the table, because Katya, fearful that I would catch a cold in my wet coat, had insisted that I change it for one of Paul’s brocade smoking jackets, which was a little too small for me and a great deal fancier than anything I was used to wearing.

Paul squinted at me across the table. “I wonder, Montjean, if I look that silly in my smoking jacket. Or are you one of those rare fellows who can diminish the effect of any garment he wears?”

“I think he looks charming,” Katya said.

“Do you indeed?”

I had been aware of a regular erosion of graciousness on Paul’s part since that first tea, when he had been surprisingly pleasant. His principal method of letting me know that he was not totally pleased to see me every day at the tea table was an affected surprise, followed by a declaration that he was delighted to see me there again—or was it still?

After a longish silence, during which he had been lost in his thoughts, Monsieur Treville leaned forward and said, “You know, I have been thinking about your having to change your coat to protect your health, Dr…. ah… Doctor.”

“Have you really?” Paul said. “How fascinating.”

“Yes. Man is so fragile! It’s almost frightening to contemplate. We live in a universe in which the constant temperature is nearly absolute zero. No life could survive in the millions of miles that separate the specks of light we call stars. And that space makes up the overwhelming majority of the universe. Nor could any life as we know it exist in the thousands of degrees of heat on the stars. Life—all of life—is restricted to the insignificant little particles of dust revolving about the stars… these planets. And most of them are either too hot or too cold for the survival of man. In the thousands of degrees that separate the cauldrons of the stars and the lifeless cold of space, Man can survive in only the narrowest conceivable band of temperature—only a few degrees. Indeed, without shelter and heat, we can survive in only a few places on our own miniature planet. Men die of heat prostration at thirty-five degrees, and of exposure at minus twenty-five. And even within those strict limits, we can catch cold and perish of pneumonia by getting a little damp, even during the finest summer in memory. It’s both frightening and wonderful to consider how precarious our existence is and how the slightest change in our lives can snuff us out.”

“The trick then,” Paul said, “is not to permit change to enter our lives.”

I glanced at him and found his level gaze upon me, his eyes creased with an arctic smile. Then he took a quick breath and said, “You’re a remarkable conversationalist, Father. As children we were trained that in polite conversation we should avoid religion, politics, and, above all, functional matters. We were told that the only totally safe subject is the weather. And here you have proven that even the weather can be dangerous. What do you think, Montjean? Do you view Mankind as teetering in precarious balance between sunburn and the sniffles?”

“I am more moved by the wonder of our existence than by the danger of it. That we exist at all is, as Monsieur Treville has pointed out, amazing. But the real marvel is that we know we exist and we ponder the amazement of it.”

Paul frowned. “Did I forget to list metaphysics along with religion, politics, and biological functions as maladroit subjects for polite conversation?”

“Oh, the metaphysical can be a fine exercise for the mind,” Katya said. “But the physical world has its delights as well. Consider how thoughtful Nature has been all this summer. She brings rain only at night. We have the refreshment of it, and the earth has the nourishment of it, but not a single day is spoiled. It’s a wonder She didn’t think of so admirable a system earlier.”

Monsieur Treville leaned towards his daughter and patted her hand. “I notice you speak of Nature as being feminine, darling.”

“Yes, of course. Fertility and all that. And the concept of ‘Father Nature’ is patently silly.” She rose. “Which of course leads us to the question of taking our coffee in the salon.”

As I followed Katya across the hall to the salon, my attention was so totally absorbed by the beauty of the nape of her neck, revealed by her high-piled coiffure, that I was startled when the trailing edge of the storm passed over, delivering a final barrage of thunder.

“Good Lord, Montjean,” Paul laughed. “You jumped as though you’d seen a ghost. You must have been miles away.”

I smiled. “Not miles away, but perhaps months away.” This meant nothing to anyone but me, but it gave me pleasure to say it aloud nonetheless.

“What’s all this about ghosts?” Monsieur Treville asked.

“Nothing important, Father,” Paul said, as he knelt to stir the fire.

“No, tell me. I want to know.”

Paul sighed. “Very well. Montjean is lost in reverie… thunder cracks… Montjean jumps and gasps… son offers inane comment about ghosts… Montjean parries with incomprehensible prattle about miles and months… and there you have it. The entire gripping episode.”