“How romantic,” Pia commented sarcastically. She had been receiving simple meals in her room now that the IV had been discontinued. “If you poison my dinner, I promise to eat it.”

Berman laughed. “I thought I’d stop by to give you proper warning. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up. I’ll be back in a half hour or so.”

True to his word, Berman returned when he said, and then led Pia out of her bedroom. She noticed the guard by the door, it was the one with the expressionless face: the one she had seen the most often. He followed after them. Otherwise they didn’t see another person in the large dwelling. The kitchen was below ground level and was dominated by a massive iron stove on which were several covered pots and pans. Pleasing aromas of cooking wafted through the room. A butcher block table fit in one end, and there were three chairs and three place settings at the table. The guard came into the room and stood to the side.

“Are we expecting someone else? Who is it—let me guess. Whitney Jones?”

“Not Whitney, she is busy. Another colleague said he might join us.” Berman busied himself by the stove. Pia looked at him while he worked. A few days ago she would have refused to sit at the table under any circumstances. Now it was apparent to her that she had to concede a little in order to survive, and she had to stop herself from making her customary sarcastic and insulting outbursts at Berman. Pia thought Berman was truly deluded. What a bizarre situation. He was fixing dinner as if the two of them were on a date.

“You’re probably fed up with soup,” he said. “So I made us a salad to begin.” Berman presented a plate on which sat a fresh-looking summer salad. “Some fresh bread?” he asked.

“Can I have a long, sharp butcher’s knife for the butter?”

“Alas, no. I’ll butter the bread for you. Come on, Pia! I’m making an effort here. I’m trying to establish a dialogue with you in a pleasant setting.”

Pia ate. The food was good despite the circumstances being so grotesque.

“I like to cook,” Berman said, trying to be conversational. “I don’t know if I ever told you that. I made some fish—trout. With almonds. I’ve practiced a couple of times this week as a break from the Chinese fare that’s the usual aroud here, and the dish isn’t bad. I’m eager to get your opinion.”

“Whatever,” said Pia. She was feeling dizzy again, and her patience with this charade was wearing thin. Dialogue, my ass, she thought but kept her opinion to herself.

“You want some wine?” said Berman.

“Why not,” Pia said trying to suppress the sarcasm in her voice.

Berman went to the fridge to fetch a chilled bottle of Chablis.