“He gave all that money away,” the woman said. “He blew it, like a fool. He was reckless when we were married. Easily bored. ‘I was a soldier,’ he used to say. ‘Burned out that self. Then I was a student. Burned out that self. Then a software geek. Burned that out.’”

Sharkey listened intently, wishing to remember the words. He said, with feeling, “I totally get that.”

“A wasted life,” the man said.

“What do you know?” Sharkey said, enraged again. “You got a job?”

“I’m a stylist,” the man said. “I have my own salon.”

“What is that?”

“Hairdresser,” the woman said.

And Sharkey lost his anger; he laughed—hooted, clapped his hands to his knees, and gagged when he tried to respond. He had not laughed for months, and it was more than laughter—he was purging himself of his sadness, expelling the misery he’d accumulated, ridding himself of gloom in a yell of pleasure. “Hairdresser!” He caused the dog to explode in a torrent of yapping.

Sharkey could not sit still in his hilarity. He got up and walked in circles, bumping the furniture, disturbing the flowers; and it was as though he were laughing on behalf of Max Mulgrave, because he was sure that Max would let out a mocking scream if he heard that the man sitting beside his ex-wife—her husband, Cesar—said he was a hairdresser. He was laughing for himself, he was laughing for Max—laughter was health and strength.

“Do you need a glass of water?” the man said, raising his voice because the dog was still yapping. Sharkey seemed to be choking. But it was a spasm of hilarity.

Sharkey raised one hand, indicating no.

“Take your declaration,” the woman said. “I’m not signing.”

Sharkey sat on the sofa, he wiped his eyes—his laughter had produced tears. He was quieted by the woman’s refusal. He said, “The ashes are in the mortuary.”

“They can stay there.”

“If you don’t sign, they’ll likely be put in a common grave.”

“Maybe that’s where they belong, with the other bums.”

The man put his arms around her, but when he hugged her she seemed to stiffen and go sad.

“Call him a cab, Cesar,” she said, and as she stood up the small fluffy dog jumped to the floor and frolicked at her feet. But she was unsteady, and, seeming determined to leave the room briskly—in her cold, uncooperative mood—she stumbled and had to grip the doorjamb to regain her balance.

“Darling,” the man said. But she ignored him. He said to Sharkey, “You upset her!” Seeing that Sharkey had gone mute, he added, “I’ll call you a cab. Where are you going?”