Keith sounded faintly annoyed. Monica murmured, “How sad,” and felt quite a fool, staring at the coffee mug in her hand. But she could not resist—why should she resist?—going on to ask why Keith’s friend had committed suicide.

“Oh, as to ‘why’—!” Keith said impatiently. “Do you think they know? It’s all a sort of a harlequin routine—a sham—”

“A sham?”

“It’s all so stupefyingly self-conscious. Any reason will do: a professional failure, a bad weekend, a love affair that hasn’t worked out, childhood memories that aren’t perfect. There isn’t anything you can do if someone wants to kill himself. These people are incredibly stubborn and devious. They want to die and they’re determined to die and it never has anything much to do with other people, or even with their own lives—their good or bad luck, whatever. There’s something crippled and stunted about their souls.” At this Keith paused; he had been speaking rather dramatically. He said, with an effort at a smile: “Basically they don’t give a damn about other people. Which is why we resent them—we are the other people.”

“I see,” Monica said.

She was deeply moved by Keith’s words; she felt tears gathering in her eyes. But for whom? For the lost Steven? For Keith himself, trembling with hurt and disappointment . . . ?

Then, in the next instant, he startled her with the perfunctory nature of his voice. As if giving counsel he said: “If you know anyone who’s suicidal, Monica, I hope you will simply avoid him or her. Friendship with a person like that is a cul-de-sac—a kind of maze or labyrinth. Strength seems to flow from the healthy person to the unhealthy but it drains away, it doesn’t do the slightest amount of good, it’s a profitless situation all around.” He paused; he took out a freshly laundered handkerchief and dabbed lightly at his mouth. “I hope you aren’t thinking of someone in your family? I don’t suppose it would be someone around here. . . .”

“I don’t know,” Monica said uneasily. Then she realized how ambiguous she sounded. “No, the person I’m thinking of is in North Africa as far as I know. Thousands of miles away. And we’re out of contact.”

Keith had been watching her closely. “Good,” he said. “If you’re wise you will steer clear of him—or her—whoever it is. And consider yourself fortunate.”

“Oh yes,” Monica said, “I do. I do consider myself fortunate.”

And if the world’s secret panels slid shut? and all became slick shadowless surface? and there remained no texture, no resistance? and she could not bring herself to mourn? and her life was a matter of going on—and on—and on?

6