I shrugged. “My grandparents asked only the most basic questions. Do you want to learn to play piano? To play tennis? To dance? And I too asked only for what I needed. I’d like to go to the theatre, to the opera, or on holiday to Spain with friends – could you give me the money? Until one day they raised my allowance and I didn’t have to ask for money any more. They were truly generous.”

“What was it like in your family? With your wife and your children? Did you ask them a lot of questions?”

Under Irene’s questions, I began to feel uncomfortable. “I thought I was supposed to ask more questions. But instead you are interrogating me.”

“Sorry.” She placed her hand on mine. “Sleep well.”

I went down to the house on the beach and sat on the bench on the veranda. The water was so smooth that it reflected the sickle of the moon like a mirror, and made no sound on the pebbles. I missed that sound, and I would have preferred to see the moon dancing on the waves. I was upset. Did Irene want to psychoanalyse me? Therapize me? What business of hers was it how many questions I asked my wife and children? Some families ask more questions than others. With our children, my wife handled the questions and the talking. And with her – the beauty of it was that we understood each other without questions. She lived her life and I mine, and I was there for her when she needed me. Did I need to justify that to Irene?

Parsifal. I remembered that on his first visit to the castle he didn’t ask the old man about his suffering, and didn’t relieve him of that suffering, so lived under a kind of curse until, on his second visit, he asked the redeeming question. But how did he know that he was supposed to ask the question that time? How was I supposed to know what sort of questions Irene wanted me to ask? Unlike Parsifal, I had at least asked about her illness.

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