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‘Where am I?’ as if only now he had noticed. Abruptly, he rose and stumbled over to the window. ‘Where are my pigeons? Where are my cats?’ The feral courtyard cats that he had used to feed leftovers. Throw ing open the window, he shouted down, ‘Where are my cats?’
    Malcolm hurried over. ‘Darling, we moved. I told you that.’ Three sharp blasts—Yvette, thank Christ. ‘Who could that be?’ he asked.
    â€˜How the hell should I know!’ Denis roared.
    â€˜It’s Yvette, you idiot! Come. Let’s meet her at the door.’
    â€˜I don’t know any Yvette,’ Denis muttered. ‘I don’t want to know any Yvette.’
    Malcolm buzzed her in and began coaxing Denis down the hall.
    â€˜Where are we going?’
    â€˜To let Yvette in.’
    â€˜Who is Yvette?’
    A cursory knock, she opened the door herself, surprised to see them standing there. ‘Denis.’ She took a step towards him, ignoring Malcolm as usual and frowning when Denis stepped back.
    â€˜Who is that?’ Malcolm asked, pointing at Yvette, giddy with dread. ‘Who is it, Denis?’
    â€˜I am not a child,’ Denis told him coldly. ‘Do not speak to me in that tone.’ And like a stubborn child he refused to answer who Yvette was, refused even to look at her. He crossed his arms and shrank up small.
    â€˜Now what?’ Malcolm asked in English.
    Yvette dropped her purse; it thudded to the floor. She was not about to be refused—denied or forgotten. She opened her arms to Denis and drew him close. ‘I’m Yvette,’ she told him firmly. ‘Yvette. Don’t you forget it.’
    He began to sob. ‘Please. Take me home.’
    Malcolm had to go and Yvette waved him off. His presence was not required as far as she was concerned.
    Even so, he left with reluctance—needlessly, as it turned out. He phoned when he got to Faye’s, but the morning’s tribulations had already been forgotten. ‘Nothing is the matter,’ Denis said brightly, ‘but it’s kind of you to call.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t ever forget me, would you?’ asked Malcolm.
    â€˜T’oublier? Don’t be silly.’
    â€˜Who is there with you?’ Malcolm tested.
    â€˜Qui?’ A long pause. ‘Un instant.’ Denis set down the receiver; it knocked against the table. And while he was waiting for Denis to come back, Faye tapped him on the shoulder.
    â€˜Look.’
    Turning to the window, he had to shut his eyes. Already the words “Faye’s of Kerrisdale” were burned in negative on his retina from where the writing on the glass blocked the sun. Denis was not going to remember to come back to the phone, so Malcolm hung up and took Faye’s hand, a clutch of knobby sticks in a skin glove.
    â€˜Where are we going?’ she giggled.
    â€˜Hurry. It won’t last.’
    They stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned their white faces to the sun, tilted them to the warmth. Eyes closed, they stood that way for minutes, holding hands. Like the time he had tried on Faye’s rose-coloured glasses and felt more hopeful, so too, the sun’s effect.
    It was still shining when he left work. What Denis needed, Malcolm decided, was to get out into the air, so he went home deliberately empty-handed and announced that he was taking Denis to do the shopping. ‘I wish you’d take him out from time to time, too,’ he hinted to Yvette, though he was already familiar with her views on exercise: she wouldn’t walk any farther than the car.
    Afraid to step over the threshold, Denis clung to the door frame. He reached one foot very tentatively into the hall, as a cat reaching for a goldfish would loathingly dip its paw in water. Yvette and Malcolm each took an arm and led him to the stairs, but on the landing he stiffened. ‘Down we go, Denis,’ said Yvette, who was allowed to talk to him like a