“What a suit! Where did you steal it?” Claudia said, coming in. One more remark about my suit and I would take a pair of shears to it. Claudia handed the little girl over to me and I took her and went and sat down on the couch. She had grown in those months, with that slow, inexorable premeditation unique to children. She was unsure whether she recognized me, but in the end she sat there and we started playing while Claudia made dinner. After a while, with her usual wisdom, she came and took the kid from me and put her in her playpen. She treated her with tender ease, and as she bent down, seeing those two blond heads close together made me think what rotten luck the guy had had who’d gotten her pregnant before marrying her and then gone and died in a motorcycle accident.

“How are things at school?”

“Tough,” she said. “Like walking through a minefield.”

“Still fighting with the other teachers?”

“Oh yes,” she said as I started looking at the bookshelves to see if there was anything new. I found Dylan Thomas’s letters to Vernon Watkins. “To hear him, you’d think Thomas owes him everything,” Claudia said. “It’s true, though—it’s always a bad idea to die before everyone else. Take that work of mine off the table, dinner’s ready,” she said. I removed her pupils’ exercise books from the table. We’d spent some good evenings, once upon a time, doing the marking together.

“What wine do you have?” I said.

“The best discount bulk wine I could find.”

“Forget it,” I said, slipping out the door. I went back out on the street and managed to get a bottle of already chilled Soave at a trattoria.

“This was Hemingway’s favorite wine when he was in Venice, did you know that?” Claudia said as we sat down to dinner. For some reason, this made me feel emotional. “What’s the matter?” she said. “What a face you’re making.” Then she put a hand on my arm. “No,” she said, “don’t tell me.”

The little girl was asleep and we ate in silence, listening to the noises coming in through the window. When the phone rang, Claudia gave a start and raised her head. She let it ring several times, looking at me. Then she went to answer it.

“Hi,” was the first thing she said after she lifted the receiver. She had her back to me, and for a while all I heard was yes and no. “Yes,” she said abruptly, “but not this evening, I’m sorry.” The person at the other end insisted and she gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “but I really can’t. Tomorrow, yes. I’m sorry.”