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really
buzzed
—as if to announce that the apartment’s occupant had gotten an important question dead wrong. But since no question had been posed, the noise was always unexpected, and sometimes startling—especially when, as now, Duran was watching television.
    So when Nico buzzed, he jumped—and just as quickly, acted to compose himself. Took a deep breath, and blew it out. Then he pushed a button on the TV’s remote and watched the image in front of him implode in a swirl of sparks. (The sparks were what was left of Oprah, who’d been leaning forward to refine a question.)
    Closing the door to the bedroom, Duran walked toward the intercom, knowing it was Nico, but knowing also that formalities had to be observed. He spoke into the metal grid.
    “Yes?”
    The reply came back an instant later, light and musical. “It’s Nico—Nico, Nico, Nico!”
    He could tell by her voice that she hadn’t been taking her lithium. She was so full of herself, you could hear it in her tone. “You’re right on time,” Duran told her. “Come on up.”
    While he waited for her, he found himself wondering what Oprah had been about to ask when the intercom buzzed. The image of her face remained in his mind—lips pursed, head inclined, brow slightly furrowed. Eyes narrowed. The Look. The one she adopted when she was about to ask a really prying question. It was a look that combined mischief with apology, inviting the person before her to enter into a kind of conspiracy.
These questions—your answers—our pact. If I dare to ask, will you dare to answer?
It was a brilliant look, much better than Barbara Walters’s po-faced ooze of sympathetic understanding, or Diane Sawyer’s wincing compassion.
    He waited for Nico beside the door, imagining the change in air pressure when he heard the elevator doors open with a swoosh on the sixth floor. And then he heard her footsteps on the tiles in the hall, a soft
click-click-click
that grew louder and louder until, suddenly, there was nothing. And then the doorbell rang, a single note, clear and round, as if from a xylophone. It reminded him of the public address system in department stores like Macy’s and Saks.
    Not that he went to department stores—or not often, anyway.
    Duran opened the door at the sound of the bell and, as he did, Nico stepped back, a little surprised by the absence of any delay.
    “Nico!”
    “Oooh!” she exclaimed. “God, Doc, you made me jump!” Then she smiled. Relaxed. And came in.
    “You’re looking great,” Duran told her, closing the door behind them. “Tanned and healthy. Though I guess ‘pale and healthy’ is the new paradigm.” He paused for a moment, and looked her up and down, trying not to be sexist about it—an impossible task, under the circumstances (the “circumstances” being high heels and a pink tube skirt about the size of a handkerchief.) “Where have you been?”
    She shrugged. “Just the beach.”
    “No kidding. Which one?”
    She shook her head. “One of the beaches. I forget what they call it.”
    Together, they walked through the living room to his office. “Is that new?” she asked. Paused and pointed.
    Duran followed her eyes to a bloodred Kirman that lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I just got it.”
    “You’ve been
shopping?”
    Duran smiled ruefully, and shook his head. “It’s from a catalog.”
    “I thought so. You know, you ought to get out more, Doc. You’re pale as a ghost.”
    Duran shrugged. “I don’t have time. And, anyway, it’s like I said—a new paradigm.”
    The “office” was a lot like the living room, but with recessed lighting and windows hung with heavy drapes. Neutral colors dominated—the walls a buttery cream, the furniture slipcovered in beige linen. Watercolor landscapes hung from the walls in tortoiseshell frames.
    And so did Duran’s credentials. Like the oversized furniture and kilim-covered pillows on the couch, his bona