And so Vann volunteers: he has lived with several women in the course of his life, and he has offspring scattered in the Midwest—“probably”—but he has not been married, and no child has ever looked at him and called him Daddy.

L.K. laughs. But is this curious remark meant to be funny? Vann seems to be boasting of having children he doesn’t know, who have never known him.

Should she say Too bad, you would have made a wonderful father.

Probably, this is not true. Artists do not make wonderful fathers, to the degree that they are serious, driven artists.

Presumably it’s time for L.K. to reveal to her companion that her husband, that’s to say her former husband, has departed from her life irrevocably. She cannot bring herself to say My husband has died, still less My husband is dead. Her lips turn numb at the prospect.

She cannot bring herself to say, with a sob of fury—I am not a widow, don’t condescend to me. I am not defined by any man living or not-living.

Her lips tremble. She is frightened of crying. How humiliating, the infantile face of one about to cry …

Yet Vann persists: “Not for a while—does that mean that you aren’t in contact with him?”

Yes. That is what that means.

“And you have—don’t have—children?”

L.K. is irritated, embarrassed. It is the mere question that unsettles her, that a stranger should feel he has the right to interrogate her so intimately.

A flush rises to her face. No. None. And it is none of your business why.

“I’m sorry if I—I’ve—overstepped …”

The voice trails off. L.K. is furious at if.

At last, in awkward silence, the elevator jolts to a stop. A clang, a clatter as Vann forcibly opens the door.

L.K. laughs aloud, she is flooded with relief.

Never again, that elevator. She will find a stairway when she leaves.

They are on the top, fourth floor. Here remodeling has been crude. Dirt like grit beneath her feet.

Vann leads her along a corridor past artists’ studios, some of them open to view—smells of clay, paint, turpentine are strong here. In one of the studios a radio is playing staccato rap music. On an easel, a half-completed abstract painting like a superannuated Jasper Johns.

L.K. has been irritated with Vann, yet now she is thinking that she likes him. Or rather, she is attracted to him. Vnn.

(The name is vaguely familiar, she has seen it somewhere recently—has she? On one of the hideous collages exhibited at the Chateau Renaissance?)

It has been a long time since L.K. has felt anything approaching sexual attraction for any man. That the man seems to feel an attraction for her is the excitement.

Vann is leading L.K. some distance, to a farther wing of the warehouse. Grit beneath her feet is more noticeable. Offhandedly telling her that you wouldn’t think junkies could find their way into the Durant, let alone to the fourth floor, but they do—“We’ve all been ripped off at least once.” Vann is both disgusted and rueful.