Mayer is back at the sitting room outside my office, the folding chairs and old sprung ottoman already filled with candidates. They recognize him, thrilled to be in his presence. They regard me with puzzled interest, as if thinking, And I should know you, too.… All the women are taller than Mayer.

The first woman’s features are too coarse, and her age too advanced. Despite that, there’s something remarkable in her line readings—suggestive of venomous energy—and we tell her to keep in touch. She’ll be of use, perhaps as one of the neighbors.

The fifth is perfect. A newcomer. When introduced, she thrusts out her hand with a shy abruptness. When we start to speak, she listens with flattering attention. Throughout she wears a look of piercing disappointment, as if she’s already been rejected. We’re both excited by her. Before our eyes, the role of the daughter takes shape. Thus the possibilities of leaving a character like a pencil sketch, to be filled in by the right person.

Despite her pessimism, upon leaving she kisses our cheeks with perfect aplomb. I’m always attracted to poise in women. The untrained actress looking for work needs either unusual beauty or a thorough knowledge of her strengths. If she has the first, she usually possesses the second; if she has the second, she can make people believe she also has the first.

By that point, it’s noon and everyone’s yawning. Four hours have slipped away. The rest of the candidates are sent home. Lunch in my office, brought in, is shared with a German shepherd we’ve named Pal, who arrived out of nowhere and became a fixture around the studio once he realized the stagehands carried lunches to work. Just like that, the dog leads me to a memory of Hans, and an immovable sadness shoulders into the room. The anniversary of his death is a month away.

The dog whimpers and waits and, after what he considers a sufficient interval, eases my sandwich off its waxed paper and onto the floor. In two or three head-bobbing bites it’s gone. I no longer have anyone who provides a sounding board for my nature.

I no longer have anyone with whom I can discuss the mysteries. I no longer have the certainty of being understood and answered. Now, whatever my current friendships, I have only this journal.

And yet for long stretches he disappears from my consciousness. I have made no headway as to the question of his death. For long stretches I seem to carry on regardless.

The dog gags and aspirates from eating too fast. Then the room is quiet. I call my car to take me home. I leave messages for Freund and Mayer to proceed in my absence.