She remembered that first conversation, though not in such detail. She had just moved to New York. It had been another of her sudden impulses, but within weeks she had received assignments for two books to translate. She had rented an apartment in the East Village and she had begun to go out. She had found Morton to be magnetic; trim and with abundant silver hair, he had eyes that even on that first meeting ranged from icy to inky blue. Later on she would be able to read his moods, to predict the imminent return of the black feelings he wrote about, or his anger, merely by noting a subtle shift in those eyes. He spoke confidently, as though no person (no woman, no man either) could possibly be immune to his attention, once he had turned it on. Yet his demeanor had a quality of respect to it too. A modesty. The slant of his questions suggested he was genuinely interested in hearing what she had to say. She didn’t often meet men like that. Not men her age, Italian or American. He reminded her of her father. He had a similar touch of old-fashioned decorum. And hauntedness.

Eventually she would learn that this Morton was still much under the influence of his illness and his unsettled life. In time a more autocratic, more complicated Morton, a steelier and colder Morton, would emerge.

She was surprised to receive a phone call from him the next morning. It took her several minutes to realize that he was interested in her in that way. Her cousin Cristina always used to tell her that she was unaware of the effect she had on men.