Bernard had taken several days off during my absence to meet the plumber at my house to try to deal with the problem about the washing machine, but it was not really settled in any very satisfactory way, and I knew that in the end I was going to have to spend an afternoon with the plumber and the electrician if anything was to function again. I also had to decide whether what the plumber had said to Bernard about the basement wall made sense, and I had to decide what to do about that wall, which was not looking terrific. I had to get my favorite umbrella repaired so I could take it back to New York, and to get my hair cut, and to buy my mother a birthday present. Between all these other things, I had to practice the music I was to play for the concert. I had spent too little time at the piano in New York, even less time than I had thought.

After a month with nothing more sociable than the crush in my mother’s hospital room or a late-night drink with Helen, I suddenly had parties to go to. What was happening in New York remained inexplicable, but it also turned into anecdote, so that I could speak of it with the same fluidity I brought to the continuing situation with Norman and the question about Patrick. At dinner at Claire and Michael’s house, we discussed the nature of illness and the advantages and disadvantages of American hospitals and the National Health. At Frieda’s drinks party, she introduced me to a woman called Elaine who had had exactly what my mother had about ten years earlier and who was now divorcing her second husband since the illness. Jane seated me at her house next to a friend of hers whose mother had recently died; we made polite but rather uncomfortable conversation. Everyone took me aside to tell me how anxious Bernard was. “I’ve been talking to him every day,” Claire told me. “He’s keeping us all posted. And he’s so worried for you. Michael’s been absolutely worried about Bernard being so worried.” I smiled and observed that this was very like Michael, and generally said how lucky I felt I was. And in fact, though I had spent the month mostly feeling cursed, I did feel that week that I was lucky.

• • •

My mother and I spoke regularly on the phone. Usually I called her, but the day before my concert it was she who called me, in the afternoon. “How are you doing?” asked my mother.

“I’m fine,” I said. I was trying to practice and I was frustrated by the interruption. “How are you?”

“Well, I have a new collection of revolting symptoms, but perhaps I’ll wait and tell you about them some other time. Are you feeling ready for the concert tomorrow?”