The holidays grew near. Lawyers left messages, sent forms in the mail. She was supposed to make copies of Russell’s tax returns. They wanted to know his net worth. The calculus bewildered her. The value based on his potential future earnings, on 1040 forms. A man apparently was worth more than a woman. A white more than a black; a young man more than an old. (An American more than just about anyone else.) But how much was a body, any body, really worth? How much for the nitrogen, carbon, oxygen, the hair, the bone? Thirty-nine cents, she recalled from high school biology. Thirty-nine cents; perhaps more for living blood. But she had no body, not even a bone. Each time the phone rang she held her breath. She let the forms pile up. What could she possibly tell the lawyers of her husband’s potential worth?

One afternoon in December, Pars called her in the lab.

Where are you? she asked.

The Strand, he said.

The beach?

No. Broadway and Twelfth.

It took a moment to register. There were horns honking on the other end of the line.

You’re in Manhattan?

I’m in Manhattan.

Her heart leapt. For a moment she felt light-headed, confused, terribly distraught.

Don’t move, she said. I’ll be right up there.

Before she hung up he told her: he’d be in poetry.

She was somehow not surprised—nothing surprised her lately. She pulled on her coat, her beret. Sprayed deodorant beneath her sweater to cover her lack of showering. She was afraid to see Pars. Afraid not to see him. Outside, the skies were lead; a damp wind ripped up the avenues. She stopped at a shop window on the corner of Eleventh and checked her teeth in the glass. How gaunt she looked. How haggard. She fixed her beret on her head. For some inane reason she felt a twinge of infidelity. She took a tube of lipstick from her bag, but thought better of it and tossed it back inside.

At the bookstore, Pars was up a ladder, coat folded over one arm.

Parviz? she said.

He almost stumbled off the ladder. His face erupted into a smile, then he colored and climbed down and they half hugged, with his coat between them.

What a surprise, she said. What are you doing here?

He showed her the book in his hand.

I was looking for Hafiz.

I mean here—she stamped a foot—New York.

Well—he shrugged, I’ll tell you…But he didn’t finish his sentence. He was looking at her instead.

How are you?

How do you think I am?