“Vintage Velan,” Desmond said, trying to shrug off his blunt disdain for the party. After all, it hadn’t been Desmond’s idea to have this party and he’d even tried to discourage Peter when he first brought it up. Desmond hated going-away parties, almost as much as he hated birthday parties; it was embarrassing to be applauded for leaving town for a few months or for having been born, as if these were great personal accomplishments. “You can’t pay too much attention to anything he says.”

Velan was in charge of publicity for an intimidatingly trendy chain of Manhattan hotels. He drank too much, a prerequisite for his job, he maintained, and frequently made bitter, scathing comments you were supposed to appreciate as examples of his wit. It was Peter, a dour, portly lawyer, Desmond had originally befriended, but he and Velan had been together so long, it was impossible to think of either of them as entirely separate people.

“Unfortunately,” Russell said, adjusting his glasses against his face, “you can’t ignore what he says either. Not when he’s wearing all that aftershave.”

About thirty men and women, most of whom Desmond recognized, were crowded into the long, narrow living room, all holding glasses of wine and politely grabbing sticks of chicken satay from the waiter’s tray. There was background music set at an appropriately low volume—poor Billie Holiday, Desmond thought, whose art had cost her so much pain and so many painkillers, now reduced to aural wallpaper for these kinds of gatherings—and the massive air conditioner in the front window had taken the bite out of August’s most recent heat wave. It was after six, and the temperature outside was still hovering in the low nineties. Calm and cool though the apartment was, there was something slightly tentative in the way people were laughing and talking, as if a piece of bad news had started circulating moments before Desmond and Russell had arrived. There was a disappointingly controlled murmur when Desmond entered—guest of honor, indeed; the only thing worse than being undeservedly applauded was not being applauded at all—and only a few people raised a glass toward him and then stood apprehensively, waiting, it seemed, for the sound of the other shoe hitting the floor. Sybil Gale, a former teaching colleague from Fordham, rushed up to him and grabbed his arm.

“I was afraid you weren’t going to show,” she said. “Hi, Russell.”