One morning a cat appears in my studio through the open window. I offer him a saucer of milk which he eyes suspiciously. I decide the best thing I can do is ignore him. I begin painting, aware, whenever I look up, of his green eyes studying me. After an hour or so the cat walks to the window, leaps to the sill, and disappears onto the roof. His desertion troubles me. As I rinse away the undrunk milk I feel I have failed a test.

The next day the cat returns. This time he accepts the saucer of milk and laps it up hungrily. Then he settles himself on his haunches to watch me work. I name him Marco Polo.

His visit becomes our daily routine. I find myself waiting for his arrival each morning. I grow accustomed to his piercing stare as I paint. We become friends of sorts. I find an old box and a blanket and clear a space for him near the stove. As I work I talk to him, describing my design or the problems I encounter in its execution. I have the strangest sense that he understands. Soon, his presence is indispensable to me. I find I cannot paint without his jewel-green eyes observing me. I admire his aloofness. I feel flattered that he has chosen me as a companion. Above all, his gaze returns me to those far-off days when we worked alongside each other in the conservatory at home, and plotted our future.

I am in your hall, looking for my cardigan, when the phone rings. I pick it up and listen to a voice describe the fall, the transfer to hospital, the unexpected heart attack. When the voice has said all it has to say I replace the receiver and stare at the number printed on a card on the dial. It is a number I half know and I try to think whose it could be. Then I remember that it is your number and Roger is dead and you and Leonard are waiting out on the terrace and do not know.

You see at once that something has happened. You raise your hand, as if to ward off the blow. The color drains out of your face as I tell you. We sit together in silence for a long time. Then Leonard gets up and goes quietly into the house. I turn to look at you. Your arms are hugged to your chest and you rock backward and forward in your chair like a child. I know, without needing to ask, that you are thinking, as I am, how brutal death is.