She lived erratically after that day in Rotterdam, rising either very early or very late, wasting the afternoon with mindless pursuits. Her little house on the Nieuwe Uitleg would never be completed—the rooms only half furnished, walls unpainted, windows without curtains. There were, however, four memorable performances with the Royal Theater in Arnhem and an abbreviated ballet in The Hague. She also received some critical acclaim for a series of eight "mood" pieces in yellow veils.

But eventually it was clear. There was nothing for her here, nothing to hold her through the restless hours, nothing to grip through the bad hours—including the baron, although he remained kind and generous. So she drifted again, sometimes literally along familiar canals into neighborhoods she remembered from her youth; sometimes only in daydreams while resting in a cane chair among the garden ferns. On rainy afternoons she often found herself at that piano again; not actually playing, just tapping out notes as they came. On warmer afternoons she often browsed through the local shops but rarely stopped to buy. On slower nights she continued to read or leaf through old photograph albums from Paris, where she decided she'd been happy.

It was early October when she seriously began to consider returning to Paris, late April when she finally received her passport. Contrary to later allegations, the decision had not been prompted by a scandal or some indiscreet affair. Merely, there was no one who cared enough to keep her from staying away from it, and she lacked the foresight to keep herself away. Even after the obvious signs, even after Karl Cramer . . . she still couldn't see it.

Unused furniture was draped with dust clothes, the valuables locked away, the garden, as if sensing her imminent departure, had withered with a late frost.

Cramer arrived at about ten in the evening. Zelle had dismissed the maid an hour before, then retired to her bedroom. The house had been fixed in slatted moonlight since dusk. The neighborhood was still again. She heard the limousine, then saw him from the window as he moved up the path. His tuxedo seemed incongruous with the briefcase tucked under the arm.

"Hello. Do you remember me?"

"What do you want, Herr Cramer?"

"May I come in?"

"It's rather late, isn't it?"

"It's rather important."

She led him to a library off the entrance hall, a cold room, now even colder with bare shelves and sheets draped over the furniture. She supposed that he expected her to offer him a drink, but she remained watching from the mantle.

"Do you always pay unannounced visits to women at this hour?"

He laid his briefcase on the coffeetable. "This is not a social call."

She ran a hand along the plaster. "No, I don't imagine it is."

"We know that you are leaving for France and we—"

"Paris, Herr Cramer. I'm leaving for Paris."