From the start there were unusual undertones to the relationship, an odd sense of compulsion and blind desire. Following their first evening together she met him for lunch in an obscure provincial cafe. They dined on blood sausage and pumpernickel. There were no other patrons. Although he said nothing particularly revealing about himself, she would tell others that even discussing the weather with him somehow seemed meaningful. He tended to speak slowly, with a soft, melodic voice. She also liked the way he handled small objects or lit a cigarette, always with calm and deliberate movements.

They spent their second afternoon together in a half-deserted coffeehouse with a view of leafless trees and wet cobbles. Once again nothing of real importance was discussed, but she enjoyed the sound of his voice and his measured response to her questions: no, he had never seen her dance; yes, he had been to Paris once, but a long time ago . . .

Next there was the unavoidable dinner with Charles, during which Spangler clearly established himself as predominant. And there were drinks on the Ringstrasse, leading to the inevitable proposal: "Since you are returning to Paris anyway, why not travel with me to Geneva, where I have a small matter to attend to? I know a certain place there which I think you will find very beautiful."

She had reservations, Dunbar not the least of them. Then, too, there were practical considerations involving appointments with agents and further commitments abroad. But nothing really seemed to matter in the wake of his smile, and the suggestive, "I think you will find Geneva very beautiful."

They left on a Monday, shortly after dawn. Her farewell letter to Dunbar took hours to compose, but ultimately communicated nothing. Beyond Vienna the landscape was very still and beautiful, with an early snow between the dingles. She slept for an hour, without the intrusion of a dream.

On arriving in Geneva he took her to a small inn nestled among the pines on the edge of the lake. There was a long view of the quays and irregular hills. Her room was charming with sturdy pine furniture, like something from a sailor's retreat. In the afternoon a wind rose, muffling sounds from below. In the evening she dozed to the tick of a clock, then wept for a while without knowing why.

It was late when he finally came to her. She was still half asleep on the bed. The lights were low, and for a moment he looked almost spectral in white flannels and pale-gray silk. He knelt beside the bed to unfasten her dress, stepped back when she was finally naked, watching but still not speaking. His eyes also seemed remote. His arms hung at his side.

"You really don't know who I am, do you?" he said at last. "You really don't know."

She tried to smile to break the tension, but all that came out was, "Who you are?"

"Yes. Who I am."