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the prolific composer.On weekends, the squeaking-gate atonalities of her preadolescent violin students had Arthur rushing for earplugs.
    Arthur watched the sun die over the Rideau Canal and the lake it fed, a wash of purple and pink. This was the day’s highlight.
    He went in, slumped onto a hard sofa, fiddled with a book. He wasn’t used to reading the classics without a roaring fire of alder and fir. Instead, apartment 10B featured that most abhorrent of modern fixtures, an ersatz fireplace, flames flickering around imitation logs. He missed his old club chair that over the years had ungrudgingly accommodated itself to his former rangy shape. The joyous chores of bringing bounty from the land had burned the calories, and when he’d donned his robes for the occasional trial he’d been as fit as Spartacus, ready to take on the Roman legions.
    Perhaps, he thought wishfully, some crisis had newly occurred at Blunder Bay that would demand his return. For instance, Stoney and McCoy jailed for packing Purple Passion into the Berlin-bound sculpture.
    He was hesitant to call Zack and Savannah during evenings, he always seemed to be interrupting something: dinner, a quarrel, a meeting. They were forever holding meetings. Savannah picked up.
    “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
    “Not at all,” she said, good natured, used to his fussy intrusions. “A few friends are over from Vancouver. Coastal Forest Coalition.”
    He could hear loud conversation, sounding of more than a few friends. “Nothing to report, I take it?”
    “No, everything’s going wonderfully. How’s Margaret?”
    A little paranoid, he wanted to say. The klutz in the black coat had finished a wine, then wandered away without another look at them. “Splendid. Tireless in the struggle. Animals are well? The garden?”
    “We’re eating from it. Everything is lovely, Arthur, we’re so glad to be here.”
    Arthur found himself more depressed than ever. From the flat next door, a stagy roar: “I will never retire! I will never give way!”Ibsen, Arthur suspected. The male partner of the Handel scholar was studying theatre, and could often be heard emoting through the thin walls.

    Dear Hank, Mom, Katie, Cassie, Jessie
,
    Well, I finally got a chance to put my feet up. Those dogs are tired! We just got back from touring the old market of Samarkand. Some people in our group dropped out, went back to the bus. All terribly ancient, the Silk Route, it goes back to the second century BC, silk, perfumes, spices and incense and gems. Pretty bleak here, though, in Uzbekistan. Tomorrow Tashkent. Almaty in Kazakhstan after that. (Don’t worry, Exotic Asia Tours doesn’t stop in Afghanistan!) I hope you girls are doing your homework and not keeping your grandma from her nap with your screaming guitars. Love you, Dr. Hank. Love you, kids. You’d do really well here, Mom, your Russian is so good, here it’s like everyone’s second language. Maxine and I get by. Back in a week
.
    Love, Jill XOXO

4

    C lara Gracey told her driver to pump up the heat. Winter had come in late November with a frigid blast from somewhere north of Baffin Bay. But her prayer for a traffic-snarling snowfall hadn’t been answered, so she lacked a credible excuse for skipping tonight’s bash for the Bhashies.
    The visitors, eight large, ruddy-faced males, had arrived yesterday on an old Ilyushin 62, trooping off in identical bear coats and bear hats. They were ready for the weather, unlike Clara, who hadn’t brought a sweater or jacket, just this flimsy coat. In the political life, fashion rules, style over comfort and warmth.
    “I am on bended knees
begging
you to come, Clara,” Finnerty had said, smiling, avuncular. “This is their big farewell reception. You’re my first minister, they’ll take it as an insult. And what’ll it look like to the press?”
    “There won’t be press. This is invitation only.”
    “They’ll be outside, counting heads.”
    Cabinet solidarity must