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wouldn’t be difficult to find out what she needed to know. Really, among the three of them, they knew everything. Or everything that would go into a biography. Adam knew about Jules’s childhood and the past, and Caroline knew about the rest. And who better to write it than she? Some graduate student from Kansas who had never known Jules and never set foot in Uruguay? No wonder he wants to pick our brains, she thought. We mustn’t let some stranger do it. I must write him at once and say no.
    â€œI shall write him at once and say no,” said Arden.
    â€œYes,” said Caroline.
    They turned into the drive and saw Portia, walking home from school, a ways ahead of them. She was trailing her cardigan in the dusty road and hopping along, singing. Some of her piping notes were carried back to the two women.
    Arden called out her name.
    Portia stopped hopping and singing and turned around. The two women caught her up. Arden leaned down and kissed her.
    â€œWhere have you been?” asked Portia.
    â€œHaving lunch with Uncle Adam and Pete,” said Arden. “How was school? Pick up your sweater, darling. Don’t drag it. Here, give it to me.”
    â€œWhat were you singing?” asked Caroline.
    â€œDid you hear me?” asked Portia.
    â€œYes,” said Caroline. “It sounded lovely.”
    â€œIt was just a song,” said Portia. “Well, not a song, really. I was making it up. Oh, before I forget. I’ve got to bring some yarn to school tomorrow. Sister Domina is teaching us knitting.”

    â€œKnitting?”
    â€œYes. It’s either knitting or decoupage. But Sister Julian’s doing the decoupage, so everyone chose knitting. So then we had to count off because there weren’t enough needles and I was an even, and evens are knitting. Ana Luz and Paloma are knitting too. Marta is decoupage, but she’s going to pretend the varnish makes her sick and get switched. Ana Luz showed her how to be sick.”
    â€œYou must teach me to knit,” said Caroline. “I would like to knit a nice, warm gray sweater to wear when it rains.” She drew her arms around herself as if she were chilly. “I used to have the loveliest gray sweater. It was my sister’s. I wore it when I painted, which was stupid of course, but I felt good in it. It must have been full of turpentine because one day I dropped my cigarette on it and it went up in flames. Luckily I got it off before it burned me. That’s when I stopped smoking. Although it’s really drinking I should have stopped. I only dropped the cigarette because I was drunk, you see. But there is only so much we can give up.”
    â€œWe’re knitting scarves, I think,” said Portia. “Not sweaters.”

CHAPTER FOUR

    The dog was standing on top of the picnic table, which meant it was time for dinner. The dog communicated in odd ways. When she wanted to go outside she tipped over a wastebasket. The dog was looking toward the kitchen, as if she knew Omar was at the window. I should bring her inside and feed her, Omar thought, but first I must call Deirdre. I must call Deirdre. It was the thing he had been avoiding doing all afternoon. He must call Deirdre before he fed the dog. He picked up the telephone that hung on the wall and dialed her number. She answered in her usual slightly breathless way.
    â€œIt’s me,” said Omar. “Listen, I’ve got to talk to you.”
    â€œI hate that expression: talk to you. Why can’t it be with? Why can’t you talk with me? Am I to say nothing?”
    â€œI want to talk with you,” said Omar. “It’s important. I want to see you. Can we get together?”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œNow. Soon.”
    â€œI was going to go to Lucy Greene-Kessler’s lecture about the simian aspects of Mrs. Dalloway .”

    â€œThe what aspects?”
    â€œSimian, I think. But I could be wrong.”
    â€œThere are no