Gulag Two book he’d been reading, in case there’d be a long wait. And thought, standing in front of the drugstore, he thinks, why not let her see him reading a serious book when she came? Will she think it an affect? Easy appeal to a literary woman? No, because moment he sees her he’ll snap the book shut, remembering the page he was on if he doesn’t close it on his improvised bookmark. People have given him store-bought bookmarks — his mother especially — but he always loses them: they seem to drop out of the book, even ones that fasten on to the page. Anyways, scrap-paper ones he can write things on, such as a word from the book he’s reading he wants to look up or something to do with the fiction he’s currently writing or an idea for a new one. He could have brought a much smaller book, one that could fit into his jacket or back pants pocket. But he only reads one book at a time — taking a slim paperback to the party was different — and doesn’t mind carrying a heavy one. He pictures himself reading, holding the book open with two hands, every now and then looking around for her. On the sidewalk both ways. Crossing Broadway. On the island in the middle of Broadway, waiting for the light to change or for there to be no cars coming so she can get across. Surely she remembered, he might have thought; she seemed like the last person to stand someone up. Now he was getting worried. She didn’t think it worth it? But she’d have to know he’d call later, and then what would she say? He looked at his watch. Must have looked several times. What is he, nuts? It’s not even ten after three. It’s not even three-fifteen. She’s two minutes late, if you could call it that and if his watch is accurate. She’ll be here and if she isn’t, she’ll have a plausible excuse on the phone. “So what other day do you think we can make it?” he’d say. He pictures himself turning a page in the book and his eyes going to the top of the next one. “Hi,” she said, or “Hello,” startling him, smiling. He said “Hi” or “Hello” or something and no doubt smiled back and snapped the book shut without looking at the page number or moving the paper bookmark from wherever it was in the book to the new page he was on. She said something like “That must be quite engrossing, for you to get so lost in it.” “Why,” he might have said, “did you have to say ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ a few times before I looked up?” “Just once, but I did have to shake your shoulder to get your attention. Only kidding, Martin, although I didn’t exactly sneak up on you.” That he definitely remembers her saying. “What is it? — your hand’s covering the title,” and he held the book up. She’s been wanting to read it, she said, “but starting — which one’s this?…volume two — with the first volume. I’ve also been told if you read that one you don’t have to read the others. That they become somewhat redundant, and volume three, even boring.” “So far,” he said, “Two’s better than One — the personal stories more riveting and emotional. Reads more like fiction, in other words.” “Still,” she said, “I’ll start with volume one and see if I want to read further.” But because of the humanities courses she teaches, she said, she has little time for outside reading other than for books about what she’s teaching. “Somehow I feel we’ve talked about this,” and he said “I’m sorry; if we did, I forget,” and she said “I could be wrong.” He thinks that this differs from what he previously thought about taking the Solzhenitsyn to the Ansonia drugstore, but he forgets what that was. “One interesting thing,” he remembers saying, “is that this is the first book I’ve read — actually,