“Jiri,” the Czech said, “that is not your firsthand knowledge.”

“Letters from my father, the papers, yes. Reliable origins, I’m sure,” a voice said.

Bolo said, “Various texts, but they congeal. If I were filming this, I’d include Amida’s frock, her little radio playing Vivaldi. . . .”

“Scarlatti,” the Czech said.

“We men, sitting a certain way, competing for her attentions . . .”

“Selection, no?” someone said. “What it means to be an artist.”

“That is again, Jiri, not your idea but a received one,” said the Czech.

I elbowed up and, dragging my chair behind me, moved away from the scholars. They were reminding me too much of Cambridge.

Raymond sharked the pool from edge to edge now, wriggling along the basin submerged. He did well in the water, although there seemed not enough of it for him.

He vaulted out, switched around so he was seated with his shins dangling over the cement ledge, his burnished back to me. “I’m ten years younger,” he said without turning.

He knew I was watching him, though.

Raymond pulled his Levi’s on over his soaked trunks and made three more calls.

“Jesu Christay,” he said, banging the receiver. “We just can’t get this old truck painted.”

“Raf,” I said.

“I mean, damn! He could be in Saskatchewan or in the next room,” Raymond said. He braced his back on the headboard, finally squinting at me in my poolside outfit: a tank top and jeans hacked off high on the thigh. “Are you real skinny? Or am I just used to different?”

“My weight could be down.”

“No, maybe that’s how you all’re supposed to look these days. Maybe Luisa should tighten it up a button or two.”

“I’m probably too thin . . . haven’t been eating much the last few weeks,” I said.

“Hunger strike? Or’d the cook run off with Raf?”

“Raf is the cook, in fact,” I said.

“Don’t get scratchy with me, darlin’. I know marriage is sacred, even if yours has gone screwy. But I’ll tell you true, I’m glad I’m not married to Raf. Was he embellishing or you really teach at Harvard?”

“I do but it’s nothing hard,” I said. “A lot of the time it’s like being a camp counselor.”

“Raf was bragging on you,” Raymond said.

He lit a cigarette, still studying me. His hair was towel dried, tousled. “So, what’s your uh—what do you teach?”

“Poetry. Writing it. Reading it some.”

“Brr,” Raymond said.

“Poetry forms especially,” I said. “Fixed forms are my area and what I try to write.”

“Publish any of it?”

“Four books.” I nodded. “And I’m halfway through another. Well, maybe not halfway. Haven’t got much done since Raf left, though I’m supposed to be writing full-time. I have a year’s leave from teaching. June to next June. I got an arts grant bigger than my Harvard salary.”