lders.

"You look very well, not a day over forty," Charlie said, standing
back. "Here, let me take that." She handed him a stout canvas bag.
"Jesus! What's in here?"

"Rocks and books. You're looking pleased with life. How's the world of
architecture?"

"All right. Still looking for the perfect client." He rubbed his
stomach with his free hand and pointed across the street to Standard
Baking Company. "Croissants," he said. "A croissant a day keeps the
doctor away. Are you hungry?"

"No. Let's get on with it."

Charlie led the way to his car, an elderly red Volvo. "Rocinante,"
Margery remembered.

"As good as ever." Charlie lowered the bag into the back seat.

"Could we swing by the library? I need to return these books."

"Sure. What have you been reading?"

"Tolstoy. The Russians. Dostoyevsky, Chekhov."

"That'll get you through a long night."

"There's no one like Tolstoy," Margery said. "So serene. Cosmic and
down to earth at the same time."

"I wrote a novel once," Charlie said.

"What happened?"

"It wasn't very good." Charlie stopped by the library book drop.

"At least you finished."

He watched her slide three souls and twenty years work through the
brass slot. "There's a story I love about Chekhov," she said, getting
back into the car. "He paid a visit to Tolstoy. Late in the evening, on
his way home after a certain amount of wine, he cried out to his horse
and to the heavens: 'He says I'm worse than Shakespeare. Worse than
Shakespeare!'"

"Wonderful," Charlie said. "Chekhov--didn't he die after a last swallow
of champagne?"

"It was sad," Margery said. She turned and stared out the side window.

They drove out of town in silence. The cemetery where Margery's father
and son were buried was an hour and a half up the coast and midway down
a long peninsula. The drive had become an annual event. Margery had no
car. Charlie drove her one year and then had just continued. This was,
what, the fourth or fifth trip? He couldn't remember.

"Margery, did you see that picture of President Bush on the carrier
deck, wearing the pilot get up?"

"I did."

"Wasn't that ridiculous? The little son of a bitch went AWOL when he
was in the National Guard. I read that it delayed the troops their
homecoming by a day and cost a million dollars."

"Light comedy," Margery said. "The Emperor Commodus fancied himself a
gladiator. Romans had to watch him fight in the colosseum many times.
He never lost. His