Which is not to say that I had illusions about it. It was clear to me even then that I had most likely been asked as a last-minute replacement for some other person, someone more naturally inclined to the company of others, and less remote from the department’s social universe. But all the same, I thought, I had certain professional obligations. And perhaps it was … a renewal of something. Perhaps if I had not been the first choice of dinner guest, I also had not been the last.

The guest lecturer turned out to be a woman, of the heavily made-up, sand-colored variety. Her décolletage had been squeezed into a tight lavender suit jacket. She was, she explained, from Colorado.

“I imagined it would be so warm here,” she said, shaking her head incredulously. “California! I thought. You know how you imagine it. I tried to go to the beach! I had to wear the sweater I brought for the plane!”

We (myself and my two colleagues, whom I knew only slightly) nodded appreciatively.

“And the fog!” she went on. “I could barely find the rental car this morning!”

We murmured our condolences politely, and I thought: It is one thing to be surprised, even pleased, by an unexpected invitation to dinner, and another thing entirely to attend. It’s easy to forget, when one is so much alone, just how taxing the company of other people can be. And as the meal went on, the guest lecturer, no doubt delighted to find herself in a strange restaurant, in a strange city, in the company of three men, grew increasingly voluble and intoxicated. By dessert she was holding forth on a minor issue of internal politics at her home institution, pausing only to ferry spoonfuls of baklava into her open mouth and wipe its corners daintily with her napkin. There was a tangible feeling of relief when the check came, was perfunctorily fussed over and paid, and we all went out into the dark night, where the air was cold and sweet.

“Where did you say you were staying?” one of my colleagues asked our female companion, barely concealing a yawn.

“Oh, what is it called,” said the guest lecturer with a laugh, as if to say: Look at scatterbrained old me! And then, with curious sharpness: “The Old Mission Hotel San Buenaventura.”

“Oh right,” he replied. “That’s the one with the—you probably don’t know, but there was a big thing about it, when they let them move in; in fact, some people say it was the nail in the coffin for our former—”

“No,” interrupted my other colleague, in an unnecessarily loud voice, “I’m sure our guest is not aware.”

The first man stared at him, flicked his eyes to me—and fell silent.

“No,” he said sheepishly. “Right.”