I rang the doorbell and a scratchy intercom said something, presumably in English. I spoke my name and said that I was here to see Doug about the magazine.

After a time, the door was opened by a slim guy in a black T-shirt and black jeans.

“Carla, right? I’m Jonathan. Welcome welcome! We’re going to the top floor. Thank God there’s an elevator. I only use it to go up. Exercise.” He was a little breathless, though maybe that had something to do with taking the stairs.

I followed him through the foyer, past a large, open living room, trying to see as much as I could. I’d imagined that people who owned Victorians would go whole hog with fringed lamps and period furniture. Ed and Doug went the other direction, everything sleek and contemporary, aside from a fireplace with old-fashioned plaster moldings. There was a lot of white upholstery and a white furry rug and I was pretty sure that the paintings on the wall were Art.

I would have liked to slow down and look some more, but Jonathan kept us moving, down a hallway with a quick glimpse of a kitchen featuring a lot of stainless steel and blond wood. Past a couple of closed doors to a single small elevator.

“This is some house,” I said while we waited for the door to slide open. You just about had to say it and get it over with.

“Isn’t it amazing? There’s a sauna in the basement. That’s where I live. I mean the basement apartment, not the sauna.”

“Aren’t you lucky.” The elevator door slid open and we stepped inside. It chimed and whooshed. I guess it made sense to rent out your extra space if you wanted to keep an expensive roof over your head.

“Yeah, it’s part of my compensation. Which is good, because otherwise I’d be living in like, Stockton or somewhere.”

Like, Petaluma or somewhere. I kept that thought to myself. Doug already knew I was a backwoods rube type, it wouldn’t be any surprise. I wondered about Jonathan’s job, and how exactly he was compensated. Then the elevator settled, and its doors opened.

Reggaeton music, turned up loud. And a big, bare room, the furniture all pushed to the sides. In the center of the room, beneath a large skylight, was a hammock, and in the hammock was Doug.

“Carla! Important question. Do you speak Spanish?”

“A little.” I’d picked up enough to swear back at the landscape crew when I had to. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to translate any poems.

“What is she saying?” He waved his hand and I understood he meant the music, the singer.