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means in English.”
    Gephardt’s eyes blazed. To punish Harriet, he said to Donna, his secretary, who was taking notes, “Book Harriet’s flight for first thing next week. And help her with the cultural visa. And coordinate her trip with Hans Drucker. You have his number in Zurich, correct?”
    “Yes,” Donna said. “Yes, I do.”
    Gephardt added, “We have a bright young face here today, our neophyte staff member, Jack Holmes, who comes directly to us from Ann Arbor, Michigan, and who knows something about art.”
    “Send him mumble mumble,” Harriet mumbled with a sick smile. Her hands were trembling when she lit up this time.
    “What was that suggestion, Harriet?”
    “I just said, Karl, that you could send young Jack here to Stalingrad.”
    “Of course now you are the one who’s joking. Since only your expert eye can verify these vagrant colors.”
    Gephardt was obviously proud of his English and still offended by Harriet’s objection to “toddling.”
    “Are you sure this piece can bear the weight of being a cover story?” Harriet asked skeptically.
    Gephardt looked at her for three full beats, then smiled broadly as his glasses fell to his chest. “Very sure.”
    “In the mumble.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that in the old days, we couldn’t afford this sort of extravagant boondoggle. I hope we don’t break the bank.”
    “I was hired, Harriet, to promote the highest possible quality no matter what it costs.”
    Jack was picking up that Gephardt had only come out of retirement two years ago to head up the Northern Review . The conflict, it seemed, was partly old guard versus new guard, but also partly distinguished New England intellectual review versus flashy, lavish picture magazine for a mass readership. But of course, for Gephardt it was mostly a question of everyone submitting to his superior taste and judgment and expertise.
    “Phew! That was heavy, wasn’t it?” a Southern guy from the art department whispered to Jack. “Wanna have some coffee?” When Jack glanced toward Harriet, the guy said, “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be out of here in about ten and gone for the rest of the day.”
    Jack smiled and said, “Well, in that case.”
    They went down to a coffee shop on the subway level of their building, a place that smelled of burned bagels and old bacon and bad coffee. After they’d ordered, Jack said, “What was all that?”
    “Sugar, you’ve just seen the most recent installment of our daytime soap, As the Turd Whirls . I thought today’s episode was pretty damn gripping. Old Gephardt really threw Missy Harriet a sidewinder. She’s usually quick on her feet with the put-downs and nasty chuckles and superior airs, but today she didn’t know what hit her. Maybe now Our Lady of the Thousand Obstructions will draw in her fangs just an itty-bit.”
    “Do you have names for everyone? I wonder what your name for me will be.”
    “My Next Husband, that’s what I will call you.” He said the “you” as if it had an umlaut over it. He was a sort of stage Southerner, Jack figured. He leered at Jack and licked his cherry red lips. His face was plain, but his small blue eyes never stopped boring through Jack. He had a ski jump nose and nearly invisible eyebrows much blonder than his straight, lusterless hair, cut military-short, a look that threw his permanently red ears into relief. His body was thin and flexible, his waist tiny, and his chest not much stouter. His shirt was bright red, as red as his lips, and a size too small for him. He wore black suspenders that fastened to his trouser tops with shiny gold clasps—they looked as if they were from a Paul Smith tuxedo set, whereas all his other clothes could have dressed a large doll from F. A. O. Schwarz.
    “What’s your name?” Jack asked. “Your real name.”
    “Herschel.” He pronounced it on two crisp descending notes as if to say, “Welcome.”
    When Jack looked puzzled, he said,