The Collected Stories

relative—the genes of our ancestors reached out directly to both of us. The notion that it might be incest for us to be together flashed through my mind—one of those uninvited ideas that emerge, God knows from where, and shock with their ridiculous irrelevance.
    “That sounds like paradise, but unfortunately it cannot be,” I said.
    “Why not? You probably have someone else. Yes, I understand. But is there any reason you can’t have a maid? I’ll be everything to you—a maid and a cook as well. Your apartment is neglected. You probably eat in cafeterias. I do nothing in my own house because I have no interest in it, but my mother made me take a course in housekeeping. I would work for you and you wouldn’t have to pay me anything. My parents are both filthy rich and I’m their only daughter. I’m not interested in your money …”
    Before I could answer her, I heard a sharp ring at the door. At the same time the telephone rang. I grabbed the receiver, told whoever was calling that there was someone at the door, and ran to open it. I saw a man who could have been no one but Oliver Leslie de Sollar—tall, lean, with a long face and neck, a ruff of faded blond hair around a bald skull, wearing a checked suit, a stiff collar, and a narrow tie with a still narrower knot of the type that reminded me of the Warsaw dandies. I nodded and returned to the telephone. I was sure that it was Elizabeth’s mother calling, but a rough masculine voice spoke my name and demanded acknowledgement that it was really I. Then the caller said slowly and with the tone of an official, “My name is Howard William Moonlight and I represent Mrs. Harvey Lemkin, the mother of Mrs. Elizabeth de Sollar. I am sure that you know whom—”
    I interrupted him to shout, “Mr. de Sollar is here! He’ll talk to you!”
    I dashed to the door, where my visitor still stood erectly, politely, waiting to be invited inside. I cried out, “Mr. de Sollar, it’s not two hours since your wife came to visit me and hell is loose here! I’ve already received threatening calls from you, from your mother-in-law, and now from a lawyer. Your wife has managed to have an epileptic fit and only God knows what else. I’m sorry to say this, but I’m not interested in your wife, your mother-in-law, her lawyer, or in the whole crazy affair. Do me a favor and take her home. If not, I will …”
    I was left momentarily speechless. I was about to say that I would call the police, but the words didn’t come out. I glanced at the telephone and saw to my amazement that Elizabeth was mumbling into the mouthpiece with her eyes fixed on me and my visitor. He said in a thin voice that didn’t match his stature, “I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding. I’m not the person who called you. My name is Dr. Jeffrey Lifshitz. I’m an assistant professor of literature at the University of California and a great admirer of your writing. I have a friend in this building who also happens to be a devoted reader of yours, and when I visited him today we got to talking about you and he told me that you are his neighbor. I wanted to phone you, but I couldn’t find your name in the directory and I thought I’d ring your doorbell. Forgive me for disturbing you.”
    “You haven’t disturbed me. I’m pleased to have you as a reader, but there has been a considerable commotion going on in my house. Will you be staying in the city for long?”
    “I’ll be here the whole week.”
    “Would it be convenient for you to come to see me tomorrow?”
    “Certainly.”
    “Let us say tomorrow at 11 a.m.?”
    “It will be a pleasure and an honor. Again, excuse me for dropping in on you in such a—”
    I assured Professor Lifshitz that I would be happy to meet with him, and he left.
    Elizabeth had put down the receiver. She stood by the telephone as if waiting for me to come to her. I stopped a few paces away and said, “I’m sorry. You’re a great woman, I understand your plight, but I can’t get into a battle with your husband, your mother, and now with a lawyer, too. What did he want? Why did he call?”
    “Oh, they’re all mad. But I heard what you told your guest you mistook for my husband, and I swear I’ll trouble you no more. What happened today proves to me that only one way remains for me to set myself free. I just want to point out that your diagnosis was incorrect. I’m not an epileptic.”
    “Then what is it?”
    “The doctors themselves don’t