The Collected Stories

thought that I would like to meet you. Isn’t that strange?”
    “Yes, strange.”
    “I want to tell you that there is a romantic story connected with this house. A millionaire built it for his mistress. Then Sea Gate was still a place for the rich and American aristocrats. After his death, his mistress remained here until she died. The furnishings are hers—even the library. She seemed not to have left any will, and the bank sold everything intact. For years it remained unoccupied.”
    “Was she beautiful?”
    “Come, I will show you her portrait.”
    Esther picked up the candlestick. We had to pass through a number of dark rooms to get from the kitchen to the parlor. I stumbled on the thresholds and bumped into rocking chairs. I tripped over a bulge in a rug. Esther took me by the wrist. I felt the warmth of her hand. She asked me, “Are you cold?”
    “No. A little.”
    In the flickering light of the candle, we stood and gazed at the portrait of the mistress. Her hair was arranged in a high pompadour; her low-cut dress exposed her long neck and the upper part of her breasts. Her eyes seemed alive in the semidarkness. Esther said, “Everything passes. I still find pressed flowers and leaves in her books, but there’s nothing left of her.”
    “I’m sure her spirit roams these rooms at night.”
    The candlestick in Esther’s hand trembled and the walls, the pictures, and the furniture shook like stage props in a theater. “Don’t say that. I will be afraid to sleep!”
    We looked at each other like two mind readers. I remember what I thought then: A situation that a novelist would have to build up slowly, gradually, through a number of chapters, over months or perhaps years, fate has arranged in minutes, in a few strokes. Everything was ready—the characters, the circumstances, the motivations. Well, but in a true drama one can never foresee what will happen the next instant.
    The rain had stopped and we were back in the kitchen, drinking tea. I thought it was late, but when I looked at my wristwatch it showed twenty-five past eight. Esther glanced at her watch, too. We sat there for a while, silent. I could see that she was pondering something that required an immediate decision, and I knew what it was. I could almost hear a voice in her mind—perhaps it was the genius of the female species—saying, “It shouldn’t come to him so easily. What does a man think when he’s able to get a woman so quickly?”
    Esther nodded. “The rain has stopped.”
    “Yes.”
    “Listen to me,” she said. “You can have the best room in this house, and we will not haggle about money. I will be honored and happy to have you here. But it’s too early for you to move in. I intended to spend the night here, but now I am going to lock up the house and go home to my children.”
    “Why don’t you want to stay over? Because of me?” I asked, ashamed of my own words.
    Esther looked at me questioningly. “Let it be so.”
    Then she said something that, according to the rules of female diplomacy, she should not have said: “Everything must ripen.”
    “Very well.”
    “Where will you sleep now that you’ve given up your room?”
    “I will manage somehow.”
    “When do you intend to move in?”
    “As quickly as possible.”
    “Will May 15th be too long for you to wait?”
    “No, not too long.”
    “In that case, everything is decided.”
    And she looked at me with an expression of resentment. Perhaps she expected me to implore her and try to persuade her. But imploring and persuading have never been a part of my male strategy. In the few hours I spent with Esther I had become somewhat surer of myself. I figured that she was about ten years my senior. I had girded myself with the patience necessary to one prepared to give up civilization and its vanities.
    Neither of us had removed our coats—it was too cold—so we didn’t have to put them on. I took my suitcase, Esther her overnight bag. She blew out the candle. She said, “If you hadn’t mentioned her spirit, I might have stayed.”
    “I’m sure that her spirit is a good one.”
    “Even good spirits sometimes cause mischief.”
    We left the house and Esther locked the door. The sky was now clear—light as from an invisible moon. Stars twinkled. The revolving beam from a nearby tower fell on one side of Esther’s face. I didn’t know why, but I imagined that it was the first night of Passover. I became aware that the house stood apart from