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the door and stood in the dark room, moving his hand across the desktop to find his cigarettes.
     
     
    Glad to be indoors after a long journey on a chill night, nowhere. Goulash soup and black bread. Glad to be reminded that kitchens are places for long talks, the late hour, the wood stove and musty wine. Brita had shared a thousand odd dialogues with strangers on planes, intense and shallow, whispery with Existenz. Totally fake really. She could not talk seriously in cars. The car was serial travel, a sprocketed motion that shot her attention span to pieces. Even when the car generated a dull flat landscape she found it hard to unravel herself from the stutter reality of the broken white line and the picture in the window and the Kleenex in the box and break into real talk. She talked in kitchens. She was always following people into kitchens when they cooked meals or got ice for drinks and she talked into their faces or their backs, it didn’t matter, making them forget what they were doing.
    Scott sat across the table, lean and bushy-haired, something of a monochrome, with a beach glow in his pale brows. She thought he was happy to have company, a full-tilt voice from the breathless cities, pieces of experience, and he leaned toward her as if she were whispering, telling him rare and private things. But all she did was push out words, eat and talk, working the human burble. And he gazed, he stared at her, examined with uncalculating interest. If women her age were creatures who went mainly unseen and if she was a slightly weathered Scandian in jeans and sweatshirt who crushes cigarettes in dinner plates, then maybe he wondered what arresting things they might possibly have in common. He was in his absurdly early thirties, faintly unsure.
    “I’ll tell you the truth. I have no idea where we are. Not a bloody clue. And I suppose when I leave we do it by night so I don’t see landmarks.”
    “There are no landmarks,” he said. “But we do it after dark, yes.”
    “Now that I’m here it’s hard to talk for very long about anything but him. I feel there’s something at my shoulder and I can’t help thinking I should refer to it now and then. Many people have tried to find him, I’m sure.”
    “Nobody’s gotten this far. There have been media forays that we’ve heard about, intrepid teams with telephoto lenses. And his publisher forwards mail from people who are setting out to find him, who send word of their progress, who think they know where he is, who’ve heard rumors, who simply want to meet him and tell him what his books have meant to them and ask the usual questions, fairly ordinary people actually who just want to look at his face.”
    “Where is he?” she said.
    “Upstairs hiding. But don’t worry. Tomorrow you get your pictures. ”
    “It’s an important shoot for me.”
    “Maybe it will ease the pressure on Bill. Getting some pictures out. He’s felt lately that they’re moving in, getting closer all the time.”
    “All those fairly ordinary people.”
    “Someone sent him a severed finger in the mail. But that was in the sixties.”
    Scott showed her a room off the kitchen where some of Bill’s papers were kept. Seven metal cabinets stood against the walls. He opened a number of drawers and itemized the contents, which included publishing correspondence, contracts and royalty statements, notebooks, old mail from readers—hundreds of sepia-edged envelopes bound in twine. He narrated matter-of-factly. There were old handwritten manuscripts, printer’s typescripts, master galleys. There were reviews of Bill’s novels, interviews with former colleagues and acquaintances. There were stacks of magazines and journals containing articles about Bill’s work and about his disappearance, his concealment, his retirement, his alleged change of identity, his rumored suicide, his return to work, his work-in-progress, his death, his rumored return. Scott read excerpts from some of these pieces. Then