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enough.”
    â€œThe third person, the other guy, tell us more?”
    â€œThere’s nothing more.”
    â€œImmigration …” said Morgan.
    â€œHe was Lebanese.”
    â€œGood,” said Morgan. “How do you know? Did you know him?”
    â€œNo, he’s not from here. I’d have seen him around. Ethnics, you know, we stick together.”
    â€œHow do you know he was Lebanese?” Morgan repeated.
    â€œI speak the language. I know.”
    â€œDid the other guy speak Lebanese?”
    â€œNo, the Lebanese guy, he just said a few words. To me.”
    â€œHe knew you were Lebanese?”
    â€œHe knew I wasn’t Giovanni. I was just part of the ambiance, man. We didn’t have a relationship.”
    â€œYou’ve never seen him before?”
    â€œLike I said.”
    â€œThanks for your help,” said Miranda. “Do you think you could give the police artist a description?”
    â€œYeah,” said the man. “But it would, you know, be generic. He just looked like a prosperous Lebanese guy about my age in good condition.”
    â€œDid you go to university?” said Miranda.
    â€œYes, in Beirut, engineering.”
    â€œGet legal,” she said. “Do what you’re trained for.”
    â€œI make more money as a waiter,” he said with a shrewd grin. He smiled. “So you’re not going to turn me in?”
    â€œNo,” said Morgan.
    â€œThanks, man. Yeah, and he wore a big ring.”
    â€œA big ring?”
    â€œLike a sports ring, like if he won the Stanley Cup or the Boston Marathon.”
    â€œA lot of gold, no diamond,” said Miranda.
    â€œYeah, like that.”
    â€œWe’ll be in touch,” said Morgan.

3
    Strange Bedfellows
    M organ telephoned Miranda in mid-evening to see how she was doing. She was touched and a little irritated by his concern. It was warm but she was wearing flannel pajamas, purple moose printed on white. Morgan was in boxer shorts, which he wore as pajamas, and a T-shirt from Home Hardware.
    â€œYou want me to come over?” he said.
    â€œI’m watching Buffy reruns.”
    â€œThe Vampire Slayer ? Good grief.”
    â€œIt’s not hepatitis, it’s postmodern.”
    â€œPostmodernism is over, Miranda. Before anyone figured out what it was. ”
    â€œYou watch Survivor. ”
    â€œFor the organized spontaneity.”
    â€œHave you ever watched Buffy? ”
    â€œNot without feeling guilty.”
    â€œFor what, Morgan? Sex and death, short skirts?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t understand.”
    They bantered for a while, then Morgan signed off and returned to his book, letting Miranda get back for the closing credits of the best show on television; she admired the moral complexity.
    It is a lot easier to be right than good, in a world where irony is how things actually are.
    Morgan was reading wine books. He was trying to find information on Philip Carter’s Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Even Hugh Johnson didn’t list it.
    The label was puzzling. Like the better French wines, it stated in small print, Mis en bouteille au château , and there was a pen-and-ink sketch of a generic chateau. The agent exclusif was Baudrillard et fils, Avignon, but the chateau was not actually named. The odd spelling on the label, ChâteauNeuf, one word, capital C capital N, was peculiar, but led nowhere. The vintage was signified on a separate neck label, 1996.
    It was not one of those frou-frou bottles, with the glass melted into a languorous shape, covered with fake dust as if it had been mouldering deep in the cellars for an age, like some of the more urgently marketed Châteauneuf-du-Pape found in upscale wine stores throughout Canada and the States. It was a fine wine, presented in a bottle as sleek and muscular as the wine it contained.
    The grapes were unidentifiable. The wine was a blend of the pliant and the austere, sun-rich from the stony