It was often a call from Robert, mostly at the last minute. “Me. Come quick. I’ve just met a woman who worked as a Paris runway model with Jean Rhys, back when they were both sort of hooking on the side? And she has the most complicated accent and knew Joyce, then toured with the Gish girls, and you know how I am about Lil Gish. There are radioactive stories here and my big ole Geiger counter it’s a-clickin. Not to mention, she’s crazy to meet you, Hartley.”

“As it happens, I’m done with work today and I’d love to join you. But, Robert, this old gal? she doesn’t know me from a cat’s ass.”

“She will. You have so much that she’ll like.”

“Charm, you mean?” Fishing, pitiful.

“Oh sure, charm, but … charm is easy. The two of us put out more charm while flossing than most people do during their entire honeymoons. You know that, don’t you. —Charm? I’m told there’s even one New York cab driver who has some. No, you’ve got something far better than charm, Hartley Mims the umptyumpth.”

“Yeah? Like … what?”

“You have potential, Hartley. Such potential. We all see that. Problem is—you insist on writing about nice people trying to stay nice in only moderately tough test-situations. You need a higher octane of trouble. Only then will you find how decent or not they really are.”

“But, Robbie? Just inventing tortures—feels so sadistic.”

“That doesn’t stop God.”

“What’s ‘God’? A category on Double Jeopardy?”

He laughed, sad. “You’re not cruel enough to be a novelist. But at least you found the right city.

“Assignment: Hartley must think up some dreadful things to jump the bones of his fictional darlings, by drinktime. Wild mushrooms that a family gathers then cooks into an omelette, but there was a misprint in their guidebook, see, and they picked four pounds of the wrong kind … And … what? … wait, some jerk’s trying to get this phone … Lead-based paint is chewed off a crib by the baby son of a professor and his wife and the kid is left a bit retarded. But, see, it’s the one thing, the boy’s being dumb, they cannot live with but they must. And I’m not even trying. Meanwhile, take the A train. Meet you here in twenty minutes.” He was gone.

I now know: The term Fairy Godmother has many shadings.

Never forget this is a fairy tale. Fairies make good subjects. Though they are very hard to keep around.

A Fairy cannot Marry. A Fairy believes in Magic, because he cannot get a credit line in anything else. And since he so believes in Magic, he really gets to practice it at times.

One rainy day, Robert, holding forth at our table, using handy sugar cubes, built a vertical white temple. “Doric?” Ang, entering, asked. “No,” he quipped, “Doris. —Why?”