or one blue eye

looking at the moon. Where are we going tonight?

To the moon. They’re having a party

For refugees and lepers

We’ll kick up our heels.

I couldn’t have said exactly what was going on here, except that whoever it was at least seemed aware that he was having a lot of fun feeling sorry for himself.

It was three days before I went to Viridian’s house. Maybe she’d only invited me out of politeness, and I didn’t want to presume that she, or anybody else, actually wanted to see me. I took my gardening tools, since those might be called for as an alibi.

There was a smell of smoke in the air from a grass fire in the far northeast corner of Sonoma, and a hazy look to the sky. Fire season had started early. It made everybody nervous; we’d all lived through big fires by now. It was only two years ago that the Tubbs fire had burned 5 percent of the houses in Santa Rosa, way too close to home. Driving to Fairfax through the back roads, past fields of blond grass, it was easy to imagine a high wind snaking through the valleys, driving lines of fire before it.

Which is why I was alarmed to reach Viridian’s courtyard—the gate stood open—and find that a big portable firepit had been set up there, an oversized bowl on legs. It stood waist high, and a fire of wood logs, the kind sold in bundles at the grocery, was burning and snapping, unattended, it seemed.

I parked and looked around for the mesh dome that fit on top and put it in place so that at least embers wouldn’t fly up onto the roof or overhanging trees. I still didn’t see anyone. It was probably five different kinds of illegal to leave something burning like this.

I rang the front doorbell. Oscar answered. He sighed. “You. What did I do this time?”

“You left your fire unattended and you could burn up the whole county.”

“What, you’re the fire patrol now? I’m going to barbecue some oysters. It’s not a crime.” His hair was slicked back, still wet, and he smelled faintly of shower products. He wore jeans and an orange shirt that glowed like a bad sunburn. He was one of those men of whom it was said, He’s not afraid of color.

“Where’s Viridian?”

“Making the salad dressing. You’re early.”

He was already walking away, into the house. Early for what? I followed him, trying to get my bearings. Here was the living room, and a room beyond that which I hadn’t seen—an office, I guessed, with a trestle desk and files—and a wide space like a gallery, and beyond that, the kitchen, where something involving a lot of garlic was cooking.