Rennel came to the door in a judo kimono. His chest was bare, and his legs stuck out above the executive socks. The electric typewriter buzzed lazily on the desk. He nodded, let me in, shut the door behind him, and crossed over to switch off the typewriter. He picked up a pipe and watched himself in the big mirror while he filled it. I sat down on the end of his mattress and leaned my head back against the wall. He sat down at the desk, turning, crossed his legs, continued with his long, elaborate pipe-lighting ritual. His kimono draped open suggestively, the yellow-stained front seams of his underpants bulged. I closed my eyes and sighed. He was still playing man of the world. Getting ready to set up a therapeutic practice someplace.

“I got a letter from Sam.” I wormed the letter out of my pocket and tossed it to him.

He puffed his pipe while he read. He nodded and puffed more. He held up the letter and pointed to the tail of the “g” in “things.”

“He must really have been feeling good when he made that. I’m taking calligraphy this year. I think Aram’s getting some place, at least.”

“Han Shan, you mean.”

“Yeah.” Rennel tapped the letter with his pipe stem. He worked up a reverent, serious expression. “It’s interesting that he should choose that name. Kind of indicative that he’s reaching something. It means ‘cold mountain.’ Did you know they named the kid ‘Ishi’ after that book I gave them?”

I lay down on the mattress. Gently cradled my head in my arms. Lovingly, painfully, curled my legs. I hugged myself and wanted to sleep.

“I’m tired, Rennel. I think I’m sick. Can I sleep here tonight?”

His mouth twitched nastily around his pipe.

“Sure.”

He waved his pipe and turned back busily to the typewriter. It started humming again. He set the pipe down beside it and poised his hands over the keys. I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

“Do you want to run up to Montana this weekend?” he called over his kimonoed shoulder. “I think it’s only about six hundred miles.”

“No. Take Clancy.”

He flicked nervously at the yielding keys. I woke up a while later. He was in front of the mirror in his underpants. He stretched and grunted and flexed his arms, watching himself constantly. I went back to sleep.

December. The trees had given up the pretense and admitted death, but everybody else was still at it. There was some kind of masquerade at the school. A party. I was going as Popeye. I had a GI sailor suit left over from the last time the fleet had hit town. I tucked a can of spinach under my arm and a ten-cent corn cob pipe into my mouth. I found I could stick a lit cigarette into the bowl and smoke a little, strenuously.