AN OLD FRIEND of Eric’s, lately divorced from his wife, telephoned Marya frequently, took her to lunch, dinner, invited himself over to her apartment. In his presence she was rather cool, even formal; away from him she contemplated becoming his lover, experimentally . . . they could talk a great deal about Eric, they could indulge themselves in mourning Eric while yet enjoying him, laughing over him (there must be a cornucopia of Eric Nichols anecdotes and tales, Marya thought greedily, she hadn’t yet heard). Also, if she had a lover again, the ghostly thing in her womb might disappear. It might be pounded forcibly into extinction.

One day Eric’s friend telephoned Marya to propose that they go together to a literary conference to be held in Budapest the following spring. One of those prestigious gatherings, all expenses paid, “distinguished” writers from fifteen nations East and West, many familiar faces no doubt, and Budapest was supposed to be exotic, the very best of the Communist capitals: had Marya ever been there?—wouldn’t she like to go?—he could easily arrange for her to be invited. “They seem to be desperate for women and I’m sure your name is already known to them,” he said.

Marya told him she had already been to this conference.

She had already met the “distinguished” writers.

She had heard their prepared speeches and she had heard their spontaneous outbursts.

She had shaken all the delegates’ hands and received their courtly compliments. She had been toasted in Hungarian; her hand had been kissed.

She had seen Budapest, she said, though she’d never been there. She had seen the lavish interior of the Budapest Hilton though she’d never been there.

Her response had begun calmly, quietly enough, meant only to be ironic, to amuse, but as she continued her voice rose hysterically, her words came faster and faster, she found herself gripping the telephone receiver so hard that her fingers ached.

“I’ve heard all the speeches, do you know what that means?” she said, laughing, angry. But when she finally paused to catch her breath she discovered that the line had gone dead, her friend had hung up.

“Do you know what that means . . . ?”

HE SENT HER a postcard a few days later with the message I don’t think you’ve necessarily heard ALL the speeches, Marya, but she didn’t trouble to reply to it, she tossed it carelessly aside.