A WOMAN I didn’t know was shutting the door to Inga’s apartment just as I arrived. I saw her hunched body and rust-colored hair on the landing as she turned and, with her head lowered, proceeded slowly down the stairs. When we neared each other, she abruptly looked up into my face for a fraction of a second. I backed off to allow her to pass, but she didn’t move out of the way, and we brushed arms for an instant. “Excuse me,” I said, although I felt I had done nothing that called for an apology. She jerked her head toward me, looked me in the eyes for an instant, and then, before she moved away, she smiled. It was a grim smile, an uncomfortable mixture of self-satisfaction and shame. It reminded me of a child who has just kicked a dog and enjoyed it, but who, when discovered, is also keenly aware of adult disapproval. She said nothing. She turned away immediately and continued down the steps, but the expression I had seen lingered in my mind like the aftermath of a pinch.

I greeted Inga with the words “Who was that?”

Inga looked shaken. Her face was drained of color, and I could see that she was making an effort to control her voice when she spoke, “It was a journalist from Inside Gotham.”

“You did an interview about your book?”

Inga nodded. “That’s what I thought, anyway. It was supposed to be about all my books. I even went back to Essays on the Image and Culture Nausea to make sure I was fresh. The magazine editor must have lied to Dorothy. I thought publishers were supposed to protect you from sleaze. For the first half-hour I was confused about what she wanted, but she kept asking me about Max, insinuating all kinds of things. . . .”

“What kinds of things?”

Inga made a face. “Let’s sit down. I feel sick, Erik.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

Inga clasped them in front of her.

Once we were seated, I asked what on earth the woman had said to her.

“It wasn’t anything she said directly, it was what I smelled coming from her, something rancid . . .”

I stared at her. “Smelled?”

Inga straightened up in the sofa and took a breath, “You know what I mean. She wasn’t interested in my writing or my ideas. She wanted gossip about my marriage, and I refused to say anything. She said, ‘It’s only fair to warn you that lots of people are talking, and it might be better for you to go on the record with your story than keep quiet.’ She’s writing a piece for the magazine. I’m sure it will be one of those gossipy articles that make you want to climb in the shower after you’ve read it.” Inga put a trembling hand on her forehead.

“Is there something you’re afraid of, Inga?”