“Well, at least can we stop and get a few of those magical bagels?” I ask.

“I am certain the bakery has since closed.”

For some reason the fact that the bakery has closed makes me feel incredibly sad. We drive in silence for a few minutes. What’s wrong with me? Why am I fighting back tears?

“That’s it. That’s the story. It’s not much, I know. A lonely guy wakes up, decides to hide out in Brooklyn, smokes cigarettes in a beautiful garden, drives around interesting places—Park Slope, Bed-Stuy, sometimes as far as the Atlantic Ocean itself, down at Brighton Beach. But the ride through Brooklyn usually calmed me down. Plus, I learned a lot. I was an eyewitness to the gentrification of Williamsburg. I watched weekly progress on the construction of Barclays Center. And I discovered a great deli in Mill Basin. And…I think I’ve talked enough.”

I only say, “Thank you for sharing.”

And Sarkar says, “I’m very glad I told you about my wandering Sundays, and I’m very glad you at least pretended to care.”

That certainly pisses me off. “I was not pretending!”

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

WE RIDE SILENTLY FOR a few minutes. For blocks and blocks and miles and miles, the only sound is the classical music coming from the speakers. He turns up the volume. Someone is sitting in my ear playing a cello.

As you might guess, I have absolutely no idea what the pieces are. Who wrote them? Who is playing them? My musical knowledge goes back no further than Michael Jackson and Phil Collins.

As Dr. Sarkar turns onto Roebling Street, far to the north, he shouts very loudly, “Back!”

I twist my neck slightly and try to look behind me.

“Back!” he shouts again.

I’m confused. For a moment.

Then he says, “Listen, Lucy. Cello Suite Number One in G Major.”

Mercifully, I finally figure out what he’s saying. “Oh. Bach!” I say. “Now I get it. Bach.”

Sarkar smiles, and we drive south again, now along Nostrand Avenue, as Yo-Yo Ma’s cello comes pouring out of the speakers and into the car.

As we get closer to my neighborhood, Dr. Sarkar slows the car significantly. Then he suddenly pulls the car over and parks in front of Family Dollar.

“Are we going to go in and buy some polyester pillows?” I say.

“No. We are going to talk.” He is not smiling. He is not being his usual charming self. Sarkar looks quite serious.

My late grandmother had an expression: “I was so scared that I thought a flower was opening up in my stomach.” Right now, I’m feeling that a whole garden is opening up in mine. What are we going to talk about? Romance? Sex? Life? Death? Medicine? The hospital? No. Those subjects don’t seem, well, I don’t know, appropriate to the place we’re in right now.