Sometimes, alone in her apartment or, working late, alone in her office, she rehearsed a ghostly exchange: Why do you hate me, Sylvester, what have I done to provoke you? . . . Pro-fessor I doan know what in hell you talkin’ about. . . . But Sylvester why do you hate me when I’m nice to you haven’t I always been nice to you how have I provoked you? . . . Professor I’m tellin’ you I doan know what kind of shit you handin’ me, ain’t I paid to do my job . . . ain’t I paid to do my job . . . ?

MARYA, FOR YEARS so absorbed in her work that she had never had much time for colleagues, fell quickly into the habit of speaking with them—talking, laughing, gossiping, even dawdling—whenever she had the opportunity. If Sylvester observed he would understand that she had companions, friends. She had people to protect her should she require protection.

Their names were Ian, and Florence, and Ralph, and Gregory, and a visiting professor named John from Trinity College, Dublin, whose laughter was gratifyingly loud and warming. On lightless winter days Marya readily consented to invitations for lunch at the faculty club, or a cup of coffee, even a drink . . . even dinner, if she wasn’t too pressed for time. She imagined Sylvester watching her from a darkened doorway or a basement window, taking note, revising his plans.

To Gregory Hemstock, whose office was a few doors down from hers, she complained lightly, laughingly, of their “not always very competent” janitor. And Gregory laughed in turn, admitting that he now emptied his own wastepaper basket and did some dusting and sweeping once in a while, when things got too disgraceful. Should we really be doing such things, Marya wondered, when after all the man was being paid and it was his job; and Gregory said no, of course they shouldn’t, but none of them was in a position to complain (“to appear to be less than perfectly happy here—if you understand my point”), and in his own case he didn’t really mind a little housekeeping now and then. In fact, Gregory said suddenly, would Marya like him to clean her office too?—once a week or so, nothing systematic.

ONE MIDWINTER AFTERNOON when Marya was working late in her office, two of her colleagues—Florence and Ralph—dropped by to ask if she’d like to join them for dinner in town. (They gave every appearance of being a couple these days, inclined to outbursts of laughter and unexpected little kindnesses. Like asking Marya Knauer to dinner.)

But Marya said she couldn’t accept, she had too much work to do . . . she was swamped, she said, with work. Her hair was in her eyes and her skin was pale and slightly clammy.

Was she going to stay there much longer, in the building, alone? Florence asked. It was going on seven.

Marya hadn’t noticed the time. She often worked late, she said.