I remembered that Ben looked up at the mountain, looked at it as though he were seeing it for the first time. Then he said, “You know, Bobo, ain’t nothing scary about that old man being crazy. What’s scary about him is how smart he is.”

I thought: Perhaps that is what I should tell the people at the memorial service. Perhaps I should tell them about Ben Benton and Avrum. It would be a good story, one they would understand.

But I knew it was not the story they would want to hear. They would want to hear about Amelita Galli-Curci.

One last telling of Amelita Galli-Curci. A story they had not heard.

And I knew the story. Avrum vowed he had never told it to anyone but me, and I believed him.

The door leading into the Inn opened behind me and closed with a sharp bang, and I heard Lila say, “Bobo.”

The girl on the bicycle stopped suddenly. She looked up, her eyes on my eyes, and she smiled, then she looked at Lila and her smile faded and her face became defiant. She pedaled away, down the street.

“What are you doing out here?” Lila asked.

I turned to her. She looked fresh and happy and content. The sweet odor of her perfume floated across the porch.

“Watching the world,” I said. “Watching the world.”

“And how goes the world?”

I looked back to the street, where the girl had been riding her bicycle. “Around in circles.”

“You’re strange, Bobo. Did you get breakfast?”

“Just coffee.”

She fell into a chair near me. “I’m going to fire that bitch,” she sighed wearily. “Damn it, I can’t get her to understand the first thing about this business.”

“She offered,” I said. “I just wasn’t hungry.”

“I’m still going to fire her,” Lila declared. “She’s a pig. She eats more than the guests and, for Christ’s sake, it’s her own cooking, which tells you she’s got no taste whatsoever.” Lila lit a cigarette and spewed smoke into the air.

“We had a talk,” I said. “She’s the daughter of a man I used to know.”

“Who?”

“A man named Ben Benton. We were friends.”

A puzzled frown crossed Lila’s face. “Seems as though I’ve heard that name.”

“Maybe,” I said. Then: “Did you sleep well?”

Lila smiled from the memory of the night. She nuzzled against the cushion of the chair and, avoiding the question, said, “What time’s the memorial service?”

“Eleven.”

“Are you ready for it?”

“No,” I said. “I think I’ll have to wing it.”

“You’ll do great. Oh, by the way, that man from the Home called a few minutes ago.”

“Sol Walkman?”

“Yeah. Him.”

“What did he want?”

“You got me. I think he’s as crazy as some of those old people he keeps locked up in his nut house.”