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isn’t that much going on, so I can recall it clearly. Now things start to get more complicated.
    Alistair hasn’t closed the front door behind Beni, and through it rushes a slim, sandy, freckled man, probably somewhere in his late forties, wearing the North American uniform of khaki pants teamed with a striped, button-down collared shirt tucked into them and sneakers. He’s sweating and red in the face.
    The man looks panic stricken as he bleats in a reedy voice, “Oh Alistair, I’m so sorry to be late. I just couldn’t get the elevator, so I had to run downstairs, and then I realized I’d forgotten Tamsin’s gift, so I had to go all the way back up again, and now here I am.”
    He’s a schoolboy apologizing to a headmaster for a misdemeanor.
    Alistair looks at his expensive wristwatch for two long seconds, then says quite seriously, “Tut, tut, Chuck. Five minutes late. And you’re the one who lives the closest—just two floors above us! Let’s hope you’re not catching the terrible Nicoise disease of arriving late for everything!”
    The man looks even more horrified, but finally cracks a smile of relief when Alistair himself smiles and throws open his arms to him.
    Unusual relationship here, I’d say.
    â€œCome in, come in, Chuck—come and meet Cait Morgan. Cait—this is the world famous novelist C.T. Damcott—Chuck to his friends. You must have heard of him. They just did a film version of one of his spy books, didn’t they, Chuck? Rolling in it now, aren’t you old boy!”
    Chuck holds his hand out to me, smiling with embarrassment, his already reddened cheeks blushing. Not the kissing type. Good. Shaking his hand is like grabbing a bunch of wet cabbage. Yuk. His hand collapses in mine. Weak.
    Before I can say anything to him, a knock at the half-closed door brings the simultaneous arrival of two older people. At first I believe they are a couple. Alistair’s introductions make it clear they are not.
    â€œAh,” he says, kissing and welcoming first the woman, then the man, “welcome, welcome. I’ll bring champagne while we all say hello.” He moves to get glasses and the bottle, which is now all but empty. “You know Beni, of course,” he says to the new arrivals, and I can tell they have all met before because of the polite passing of greetings in French, English, and Italian.
    Alistair is handing around glasses with an inch of champagne in them. He continues, “Allow me to introduce you to Professor Cait Morgan, of the University of Vancouver.” He nods toward me as he over-emphasizes the word “professor.” “Cait, this is M. Gerard Fontainbleu, the man who is responsible for our wonderful gardens—he’s been tending them since 1940, if you can believe it.”
    The weather-worn, wrinkled old man, whose eyes are barely visible within folds of sun-leathered skin, nods graciously toward me and raises his glass. “And this is the marvellous, the unique Mme. Madelaine Schiafino, our second-most well-established resident.” He pronounces her name carefully—“Sha-feeno.” I think he has struggled with it in the past. The woman is clearly ancient, and she makes Tamsin look tall. She must have been a handsome woman when she was young, rather than a beautiful one, and she holds herself with grace and elegance, despite a bowed back. She, too, raises her glass toward me. The two newest arrivals then sip in unison.
    They are connected, these two, but not happily. I realize that I don’t know why I think this, but I know that we humans constantly read people and situations based upon a myriad clues, many of which we perceive subliminally. I remind myself that it’s not “instinct,” it’s a psychological process that can be investigated, assessed, and even learned and enhanced. I’m a pretty good “reader” and, as part of my