“It’s more like another train comes along and she hops on for a while. Nothing she’s aware of.”

“. . . and she usually ends up where she meant to go. But meanwhile—”

I raised a hand. Two of the gentlemen conference members had settled in rocking chairs on the porch, close enough to hear us. I lowered my voice. “What did the doctor say?”

“I think what he said was the medical version of ‘just one of those things,’” Oscar said. “He wants her to see a gerontologist when she gets back. Anyway, he didn’t say to keep her home.”

Barb said, “I’m in her workshop. I’ll help steer things if I have to. And Sacha’s in the same cabin. She’ll be right there. Her reading’s on the last night. By then we should know.”

“Good. Just don’t tell.”

“Right,” I said. We were all focusing on the short term, on getting through the five days of the conference. Anything much beyond that, we didn’t want to contemplate. Oscar said he was hungry, when did we eat? I said there was a wine and cheese reception at five-thirty.

“Vegan cheese and sulfite-free wine. How could I forget.”

We left Barb in charge of the welcome station in case Viridian or any other stragglers showed up. I took Oscar to the back door of the dining hall and told the staff that the señor needed something to eat. The crew was having their own early dinner, pork stew and rice. They served up a portion for Oscar. Really, these guys were the best. We sat at a table near the kitchen and Oscar polished off the food.

When he was finished, we sat for a time, not wanting to talk much about Viridian. I said it was pretty here, and Oscar agreed, in an absent way. I said I should probably be getting back.

“Can I ask you something? Do I seem old to you?”

“What?”

“Simple question. Do you think of me as an old man?”

Maybe it was my encounter with Ken Spinner that gave Oscar’s question that alarming echo of sleaze. But then, Ken wouldn’t ever ask such a thing. And anyway, it was only Oscar, and he seemed more melancholy than anything else. I said, “You’re older than me. But most of the time you act about fourteen.”

“Really?” This seemed to cheer him up. “What about my hair, do you think I should I cut it?”

“What’s got into you?”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes, cut it. But don’t do it yourself, find a decent stylist.”

“Yeah, good idea.” He was silent again.

“Why are you asking? What’s the deal?”

“Ars longa, vita brevis. You know what that means?”

“‘Art is long, life is short.’ Yes, you told me. More than once. Why?”

“It doesn’t cheer me up the way it used to. You know, how your art will survive you and transcend your wretched, paltry existence, I mean, who cares? Who wants to be famous after they’re dead? What good does that do you?”