Newsweek—not Evelyne, so even better, for less possible taint of cronyism, but a regular book reviewer — is doing the review. They’re sending up a photographer from Portland this week to photograph you. Oh my darling, I’m so happy for you. I’ll be right down to hug you.” His mother said “Newsweek magazine. You’re really getting up in the world. Your father would have liked that.” The photographer wanted some ideas where to photograph him. “Somehow, backdrops of stunted trees and blueberry fields with rocks sticking out of them don’t do it for me, and to be honest, the house is kind of shabby.” Gwen suggested the shore. “People always look good with the ocean and a beautiful sky behind them.” They drove to it. The photo that ran with the review showed him sitting on a big boulder about ten feet out in the water. “Is there some way you can get out there without soaking your sneakers and socks?” the photographer asked him. “I’ll carry them,” he said, “or just photograph me barefoot. That’d look more normal, surrounded by water,” and Gwen said “No bare feet, sweetheart. You’ll hate me for saying this, but it isn’t dignified for an author’s photo in a major newsweekly.” The photograph made him look good. Thinner, no stomach bulge showing, his hair thicker and darker. He remembers sucking in his stomach when the photographer was snapping pictures, and stiffening his upper arms so they’d look muscular in the short-sleeved polo shirt. “What a fake I am,” he later told Gwen. “Why can’t I let myself look like I look?” “You did fine. And who knows if the photo they use won’t be one where he caught you off-guard, so you’ll get your wish.” That was a while ago. Fifteen years. He does the math in his head. Eighteen. He supposes it could be called a good review. At least positive. Nothing bad said but nothing laudatory. “Fast pace and dialog,” he remembers. And the word “quirky.” Either for several of the stories or some of the writing or maybe even some of the main characters. An appealing and clearly written mix, the reviewer said, of eros, thanatos, deep feeling and snippets of humor. And that this book of interrelated stories could have been called an unchronological novel of self-contained chapters, a form, the reviewer said, that had become prevalent the last ten years. The first printing of fifteen hundred copies sold out in a week because of the review, the editor said. The book went into a second printing, the only book of his that had, of a thousand copies, and is still in print. New Year’s Eves. He thinks it was four years ago near the end of December that she asked him “What do we have planned for New Year’s Eve?” and he said “Nothing; you?” “For a change, let’s go to a really good restaurant. Will you let me take care of it? The kids are probably going to their own parties, but we can eat early if they want to come too.” She made reservations for the two of them at an expensive restaurant. “I don’t know,” he said, looking at the menu. “Why don’t you choose both entrées? Whatever you pick, I know I’ll like. And you know more about wine than I, so you choose that too.” The next year she asked him again and he said “Nothing. You know me, I’d be very content to stay home and uncork a terrific bottle of champagne. And maybe get fancy take-out from Graul’s or Eddie’s or that Persian restaurant you like so much and a movie we both want to see.” She said “Those we can do anytime. How about this year we go to a concert or play? But good seats — I’m sure the kids, like last year, will have their own things to do — and dinner in a restaurant after. We’ll have a glass of champagne there and of course a good red wine. I won’t drink that much, though. I want you to have a really good time, so I’ll drive us home.” “Suits me,” he said. “Then when we get home we can have some more champagne.” Year after that she said “Got any ideas for New Year’s Eve? There are no parties we’ve been invited to, and I doubt I’d want to go to one anyway. They’re always such drags,” and he said “You’ve done such a great job making plans for us the last few years, why don’t you decide? Although, think you’ll be feeling up to going out?” “Right now I do. We’ll see at the time. It’s not always necessary to make reservations. Even at the last minute I’ll find us a place if we don’t stay home,” and he said “No, let’s go out. Let’s have fun.” She chose the restaurant. He sat beside her at the table so he could help feed her. “You don’t have to,” she said. “I can manage,” and he said “I know you can, but I want to.” She studied the menu and said “Food’s a bit pricey. You don’t mind?” and he said “Why would I mind? It’s New Year’s Eve.” “Since you’re the one who’s going to drink,” she said, “you choose the wine. I’ll just have water and maybe tea, and what you don’t drink, we’ll take home. But don’t drink too much, okay? Because you no longer have a fill-in driver.” “If I order the least expensive bottle of red, will you think I’m being cheap?” and she said “I’m sure all the wine is good here, and I never would anyway.” The kids were out of town, though had been with them a few days before and after Christmas. Babies. A month before they married, she said “It’s my optimal fertile period, so let’s try conceiving a baby now.” “So you’re actually going through with the marriage?” and she said “If we’re successful, late September or early October are ideal times for having a child — not too hot — and then for lots of years later, birthday parties.” But he already went into that. She on her shins with her rear end to him and telling him to stay in as long as he can after. Same thing with Maureen? Same. Last two weeks of December. This time Bach. The procreative Partita Number 2 for Unaccompanied Violin. Nursery. She did some research and visited several nurseries in New York and chose one Rosalind would go to for three hours every weekday morning while Gwen was on fellowship and he was on leave for a year. “That’ll give us enough time to get something done,” and he said “Plenty, and then later, to enjoy ourselves and maybe work some more.” Rosalind’s first movie. Gwen said “There’s a movie at the Charles I want to see,” and he said “So go. I’ll stay home with Baby.” She said “Let’s all go together,” and told him how they’d do it. The theater was the only foreign film house in Baltimore. It was still a single-screen then. Rosalind was in a padded baby carrier that was like a small duffel bag with two cloth handles. She was only a few months old and slept through the entire movie. If she woke up, or even stirred but wasn’t going back to sleep immediately, he’d already designated himself as the one to take her to the lobby till she was asleep again, and Gwen would later tell him what he’d missed. The seat next to hers was too narrow to put the carrier lengthwise against the back, so she set it on the floor. “Not too dirty and cold down there?” and she said “I checked. She’ll be all right. And she’s covered.” They bought a medium-sized bag of popcorn, with no butter on it because it made their fingers greasy, and she held it while they watched the movie. “I’ll take that off your hands if you’re tired of holding it,” and she said “It’s okay. You’re always doing things for me. Have some more.” The movie was Brazilian or Argentinean or Chilean — anyway, South American — had the word “case” in its title—A Special Case? An Official Case? — and was a contemporary historical political drama of people — opponents of the government — being picked off the streets by party thugs, shoved into cars and never seen again. He thinks he has that right. The police state finally ends and some of those who disappeared are released, or something good at the end happens. He knows they both thought the movie powerful. Why’d he bring all that up and in such detail? To show them some more together and how she handled so many things for them — well, he already said that, and he for her sometimes too, and the two of them also just having a good time. So what else? All those languages she knew. French she became fluent in as an undergraduate, Italian and German and a little Spanish she studied while going for her Ph.D. Russian and Polish she learned from her parents. He loved hearing her speak one foreign language or another, but usually French, when she was on the phone. When they went to Germany with Rosalind in ’85, he didn’t know that she knew German and he was the one who ordered the food for them in the restaurants and asked directions on the street. He had two years of German in college and brushed up on it before they left for Europe and he also knew some Yiddish from hearing his folks speak a little of it at home. But she corrected his German once when they were in a café in Munich, or maybe it was when he was buying tickets at the modern art museum there, and he said “Wait a minute. You speak German too?” and she said “I had to pass a test in it to get my doctorate — that or Italian, and for some unaccountable reason I was better in German — but my proficiency in it is mostly in reading.” “How come I never knew?” he said. “Now, if it’s possible, I’m even more impressed by you.” Anything else? Someone knocked on his classroom door. He was standing at one end of the long seminar table, about to write some proofreader’s marks on the blackboard and explain what they mean. He said to his students “Now who could that be?” or “Now what can that be?” and he indicated to the student nearest the door to open it, and then said “No, sit; I can do it,” and said loudly in the direction of the door “Come in.”