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Malcolm took the opportunity to cross the room and take Mrs. Soloff’s small mottled hand. Bending, he whispered, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
    â€˜Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for coming.’
    Elaine followed him back to the door. ‘Sure you don’t want to stay for coffee?’
    â€˜I really can’t. I have to get back to work.’
    She tilted her hair to one side and put on a face of unfeigned disappointment. ‘We might meet again?’ she suggested.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Malcolm. ‘We might.’
    She smiled, helped him on with his coat, then brushed at something on the arm.
    â€˜What do you do?’
    â€˜I’m a hairdresser.’
    Instantly, her face fell. Her smile literally slid away. Flushing, she clapped both hands over her mouth—ten long brick- red nails—and made an alarming noise, half snuffle, half squeal, as she leaned into Malcolm’s chest. Horrified, glancing back to see if Mrs. Soloff saw her niece in his arms, he hissed, ‘What is it?’
    â€˜I’m embarrassed!’
    â€˜Whatever for?’
    When she lifted her face, he saw she was trying not to laugh. ‘Oh, God.’ She took a step back and looked him up and down. ‘And I even phoned and left a message for you! That was you, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You’re not Jewish, are you?’
    â€˜No,’ said Malcolm.
    She seemed relieved. ‘At least I didn’t get that wrong.’ At ease now, she was suddenly what she really was, a handsome woman who tried too hard. ‘Never mind,’ she said, opening the door for him. ‘Maybe I’ll get your card from my aunt. My hair’s not right, is it? It’s too big, right?’
    â€˜It’s not doing you justice,’ admitted the Queen of Tact and Elaine laughed.
    â€˜Can I ask you something?’ He pointed to the draped picture above the chair. ‘Is that your uncle’s portrait?’
    For a second, she was confused. ‘Where? That? Oh, no. It’s a mirror.’
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    He finished shaving and rinsed the razor under the tap. Dried his face then carefully refolded the towel around the door of the medicine chest. Every mirror in the apartment was draped now with a towel or cloth, like they were in mourning, sitting shivah on the death of their former life.
    The sky, too, had a grey cloth tossed over it, he noticed from the bedroom window as he dressed. An inconsolable sky, drab with tragedy. So green, so green, was what they always said about Vancouver, but in the perpetual half-light he seemed to lose his ability to distinguish colour. All winter he had felt as if they’d been living in monochrome.
    In the dining room, Denis brought him his coffee with unsteady hands and sat down with his list. ‘I was thinking about matelote d’anguille for tonight. It’s been years.’
    â€˜Denis,’ said Malcolm, valiantly patient, endeavouring not to gag. ‘Matelote d’anguille requires three bottles of Bordeaux.’
    â€˜It does not. Two Bordeaux, one vin ordinaire. And twenty pearl onions,’ Denis wrote. He was having difficulty with the pencil and it moved stiffly in his hand.
    â€˜Denis! It’s too expensive!’
    â€˜Trop cher?’ He looked at Malcolm with pale, mocking eyes and half a smile, then said what he always said when expenses were brought up, ‘Aren’t we worth it?’ Malcolm, fingers pressed to his eyes, sighed.
    â€˜One Spanish onion,’ Denis wrote. ‘Twenty button mushrooms. On the small side. Will you remember or should I write it down?’
    â€˜See you in the poorhouse,’ was Malcolm’s offhanded comment. ‘Of course, you’ll still fancy yourself in the City of Light.’
    He didn’t think Denis would catch his meaning, but evidently he did. He let the pencil drop and, after a long stunned moment, turned to Malcolm and asked,