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and a fake green Goyard bag, featherweight look-alike Rolexes and Panerais, spangle-laden bras, bikinis made of strands of edible plastic candy pearls. The tab for an afternoon’s shopping for their sexy faux-luxe-brand dresses, bags, underwear, and rhinestone trappings has never topped eighty dollars.
    Don’t ask me where the idea of sex dolls came from. I am a nonkinky, heavily bourgeois kind of person. I had no interest in Barbie stuff when I was a kid. My best guess is that the dolls represent something deeply Freudian that is best left undisturbed. Or maybe it’s more prosaic, maybe using the girls simply evolved from a bunch of weird, deformed children’s dolls I photographed over and over in a dusty window in Rome when I was a visiting artist at the American Academy three years ago.
    I-95 is a terrifically boring stretch of road and while I drive, my mind keeps slipping back to yesterday, when I finally had to tell Carmina that I was leaving the city to go down south to sell the cottage and that the MF had chopped my financial life into mincemeat.
    We were standing in my kitchen after she’d just unfolded the ironing board.
    â€œI can’t have you here so often,” I heard myself saying. “I just don’t have the money. That guy took all my savings.”
    I burst into tears for the second time since December 11 and just kept hugging her sturdy shoulders as tightly as I could. She started crying, too.
    â€œWhat will you do? Do you have enough money?” I asked, not even waiting for her to answer.
    â€œI will pay you as much as I can,” I said, having no idea where I’d earn my next dollar but knowing with certainty that somehow Carmina had to be part of my new frugal life. “Don’t worry, I will still pay you—I’ll find a way. Can you come for just a half day a week, or two mornings for a couple of hours?”
    â€œDon’t worry, Alexandra,” she said through the tears, “I know about that guy from the newspapers and also TV. Everything will be all right. Really. You work very hard, you’ll be okay. I’ll be okay, too. Really.”
    â€œLet’s sit down and have some coffee,” I said and proceeded to heat up the espresso maker. Carmina had just finished a cup but she can drink endless amounts of dark brew.
    I was relieved when she told me she had a new boyfriend who treated her well and she felt safe. She’s a very bravewoman and nothing gets her down. She’s a role model of optimism and spunk and hard work. But I know her family is depending on her back in Bolivia.
    â€œI’ll make money,” I said. “I’m even thinking I can write another book. And the art market has to revive someday. And I will never let you go. Unless you want me to.”
    â€œI would come even if you don’t pay me, “she responded instantly. At those words I started crying again and even now, as I write this, tears come to my eyes. Carmina is blood-close and always will be. And I will find a way to pay her. There’s no choice about this. Carmina will be employed by me as long as she is willing or until I call it a day. Learning what parts of my BMF (Before MF) life are indispensable is a process I now deal with daily, sometimes hourly.
    I wish the radio or the old-fashioned cassette player in my car still functioned, because as I drive this silent, interminable highway, my mind begins to race with the same old scary thoughts. How am I going to survive? Was I greedy? No, I don’t think so. Nine to ten percent interest was not disproportionate at that point in time. Maybe others wanted to strike it rich with the MF. I didn’t. I just wanted financial stability, financial security, and the calming feeling that came from having my money in a safe place. I had lost money with other financial advisers, but the MF’s fund, I was told, would yield a steady interest—not too high, not too