This is the building where I direct the taxi. So far as I know, his wife has neither died nor divorced him (she’s Catholic, and they have seven or eight children together at last count) nor yet murdered him herself, as I would have done. I admit, I feel a little anxious when I ring the bell. Will he meet me? Will he care at all? We parted in such terrible anger, after all.

But the door opens, and there he stands, a million years old. His hair has turned gray, his jowls now merge seamlessly into his neck. His famous black eyes glitter as he holds out his arms to me. “Bambina!” he says in his curious accent—Italy by way of old St. Petersburg, a residual disdain for definite articles. “I thought you would be married with dozen children by now.”

I allow myself to be folded into his embrace. “Who says I’m not?”

“Your figure, bambina. So slim and beautiful still. And your skin, smooth like butter. But come inside. I brought out some good wine for you.”

It’s like I never left—like the past dozen years never passed. The vestibule is exactly the same, down to the single umbrella and four ivory-handled walking sticks in the wrought-iron stand. The little courtyard holds the same lemon trees—a few feet taller—and the same stone benches I recall. The staircase curves upward in the same spiral, the stone steps are worn down in the same shiny, dark divots. When he opens the familiar thick wooden door to the studio, every stick of furniture sits where I remember it. I stand next to the large, wide couch, which bears the same soft upholstery, and stare yet again at the domed ceiling, where the nymphs still gambol with their satyrs.

“You haven’t changed a thing.”

“Why should I? This way I am never old. I am always young man with beautiful young woman. Wine?”

“Oh, damn,” I murmur.

“Is that yes or no?”

“Yes. I was just thinking about old buildings, that’s all. Our fanatical need to keep them exactly as they were. I still live in my parents’ old apartment in New York.”

“But you have redecorated.”

“Some of it. Not all.”

He hands me the wine and nods. “Because if it stays as it was, they are not entirely dead, yes? Your childhood still there in walls.”

“What I’ve always hated about you, Orlovsky, is that you understood me better than anybody. Next you’ll be telling me you were actually in love with me.” I clink my glass against his. “Cheers.”

“But I was in love with you. I love each girl I sleep with. I love them with all my heart.” He presses his hand against his chest, where this generous organ resides. “But especially you, bambina.”

“Oh, of course.”

“No, is true. You have quality, special quality in your spirit, I cannot find word in English.”