Why had I called F from the hospital? On the one hand, it was true that at the time my circle of acquaintance had not been large, and it was F who had come to mind when the kindest nurse, after bringing me a blow dryer, a blanket, and a cup of hot coffee, had asked if there wasn’t someone she could call who could come and drive me home.

It had been a mistake; I could see that now. Because if I was completely honest with myself, he had not just “come to mind,” but something less savory: a part of me had hoped that the person who answered the telephone when the nurse called would be not F, but his wife or one of his children.

Because why should they be so oblivious? I thought. It did not seem fair that to them I did not exist at all.

Only by chance that I was alone and could come straightaway, F had written, in the note he left me at the breakfast table, the morning I’d gone to meet my father. Only by chance. Had he suspected? But, I thought, that was not relevant now; it had all been so long ago. F’s children most likely had children of their own now. There had been a time when I’d dreamt of it nearly every night, of the gray and swollen river rising up to meet me.

But honestly, I thought, anguished now, what an inconvenient time for all my thoughts to be pulled toward the past, and not just the general past, but to those particular weeks, the weeks I’d returned to with such alarming frequency in the last few days. I could not allow my thoughts to drift like this—I would not. I dragged them back to the task at hand; I chained them there by force.

Now I was coming along the edge of campus, and I saw that the fog had drawn in much farther than usual, completely obscuring the foothills in a wall of white. There was no real reason to think it, but I had the impression that I was driving to the Old Mission Hotel for the last time.

30

“Mr. Shriver,” said the smooth-faced young man. He stood behind the reception desk, as doll-like and inscrutable as ever. Someone had replaced the vase of white lilies on the counter, and I became aware, as I had before, of their precise and not entirely pleasant scent. “We’ve been expecting you.”

I gave him a long, slow, careful look, which he returned candidly.

“I see you’ve got your briefcase.”

“Yes,” I replied. I had the distinct impression that this was not the first time I had heard his voice that day.

“Were you there today?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“At the lecture.”

A silent pause went by, in which he held my gaze steadily.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”