As she made her way toward a trattoria that was not far from the market, Costanza thought about how the Jews managed their grief. For a year they grieved, then they set their stone. It didn’t mean they forgot. She was incapable of forgetting anyway. That was not her goal. She had something different in mind. Engaging with that young man, inviting him to go for a walk: it was all part of her plan, to force herself to do one thing every day that was completely unrelated to Morton. Only in the doing it didn’t feel like an assignment. She had spoken to Andrew and remembered how much she liked talking to strangers.

Was it specific to this boy, or would it have been the same with anybody else? She had no idea, and she didn’t care. She had done it; that was what mattered.

Costanza ordered a quartino of red wine and drank several sips thirstily. She saw that she had been anticipating the anniversary with more anxiety than she realized. She had invested its ceremonial quality with meaning. And so, clearly, had they.

They: Morton and his brother Howard. Morton and his minions. Morton and his army of helpers: the agents, the editors, the lawyers, the producers, the accountants, the financial advisers, his assistant Ivan, and, later on, the doctors, the nurses, the physical therapists, the acupuncturists and alternative healers, each of whom came into his life with a notion as to how the Great Writer should present his work, care for his body, organize his time, understand his psyche, guard his literary legacy, and—finally—die. For someone who was fundamentally so private, in his later years Morton surrounded himself with an awful lot of people who had an awful lot of responsibility for his affairs.

Howard, as Morton’s executor, might have sent the package, but it was impossible to know who ultimately was behind the appearance of Morton’s diary a year after he died. Most likely it was Morton himself. The gesture had his mark, his flourish, on it. His theater. The theater of Morton, with a surprise fourth act, or epilogue. A few words from the author, spoken—“spoken”—from the grave.