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feet up and then parallel with his chest like a gymnast, ‘tell him “ I’m just another black man caught up in the mix, tryna make a dollah outta fifteen cents! ” ’
    â€˜Right. Will do.’
    The doorbell rang. Howard took a step down, kissed the back of his son’s head, ducked under one of his arms and went to the door. A familiar, grinning face was there on the other side, turned ashen in the cold. Howard raised a finger in greeting. This was a Haitian fellow called Pierre, one of the many from that difficult island who now found occupation in New England, discreetly compensating for Howard’s unwillingness to drive a car.
    â€˜Oi – where’s Zoor?’ Howard called back to Levi from the threshold.
    Levi shrugged. ‘Eyeano,’ he said, that strange squelch of vowels his most frequent response to any question. ‘Swimming?’
    â€˜In this weather? Christ .’
    â€˜It’s indoors . Obviously.’
    â€˜Just tell her goodbye, all right? Back on Wednesday. No, Thursday.’
    â€˜Sure, Dad. Be safe, yo.’
    In the car, on the radio, men were screaming at each other in a French that was not, as far as Howard could tell, actually French.
    â€˜The airport, please,’ said Howard, over this.
    â€˜OK, yes. We have to go slow, though. Streets pretty bad.’
    â€˜OK, not too slow, though.’
    â€˜Terminal?’
    The accent was so pronounced Howard thought he heard the name of Zola’s novel.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜You know the terminal?’
    â€˜Oh . . . No, I don’t . . . I’ll find out – it’s here somewhere – don’t worry . . . you drive – I’ll find it.’
    â€˜Always flying,’ said Pierre rather wistfully, and laughed, looking at Howard via the rear view. Howard was struck by the great width of his nose, straddling the two sides of his amiable face.
    â€˜Always off somewhere, yes,’ said Howard genially, but it did not seem to him that he travelled so very much, though when he did it was more and further than he wished. He thought of his own father again – compared to him, Howard was Phileas Fogg. Travel had seemed the key to the kingdom, back then. One dreamed of a life that would enable travel. Howard looked through his window at a lamp-post buried to its waist in snow supporting two chained-up, frozen bikes, identifiable only by the tips of their handlebars. He imagined waking up this morning and digging his bike out of the snow and riding to a proper job, the kind Belseys had had for generations, and found he couldn’t imagine it. This interested Howard, for a moment: the idea that he could no longer gauge the luxuries of his own life.

    Upon returning to the house and before entering her own study, Kiki took her opportunity to look into Howard’s. It was half dark, with curtains drawn. He’d left the computer on. Just as she was turning to leave, she heard it waking up, making that heaving,electronic wave-machine sound they produce every ten minutes or so when untouched, as if they’re needy, and now sending something unhealthy into the air to admonish us for leaving them. She went over and touched a key – the screen returned. His in-box, with one e-mail waiting. Correctly presuming it was from Jerome (Howard e-mailed his teaching assistant, Smith J. Miller, Jerome, Erskine Jegede and a selection of newspapers and journals; nobody else), Kiki refreshed the window.
    To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: 21 November
Subject: PLEASE READ THIS
    Dad – mistake. Shouldn’t have said anything. Completely over – if it ever began. Please please please don’t tell anybody, just forget about it. I’ve made a total fool of myself! I just want to curl up and die.
    Jerome
    Kiki let out a moan of anxiety, then swore, and turned around twice, clenching her fingers