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of looking for another, quieter locale.
    “Don’t go,” the man said. “I will go if I am bothering you. I am so very sorry. This is your bench, and you must stay.”
    “Oh, no,” said Judith. “I’m leaving. I deed the bench to you.”
    The man smiled. He had extraordinarily white teeth. They were the whitest thing around for miles. Judith stood for a moment, hoping he would smile again.
    “It is a beautiful day,” she said. You should leave, she thought. But she knew suddenly that she would not: It was the day. It was the sunlight in the air, the trees full of blossoms and birds. It was all so benevolent. No harm can come of this, Judith thought, not today.
    “May I have a look?” she asked.
    She was rewarded with another smile and the binoculars. She held them to her eyes. She was not sure what she was seeing: It was all out of focus. But she was sure it was beautiful, this mess of sky and leaves and windows glittering in the sun.
    The lobby of the Trump Tower was all marble and mirror, and Heath had to concentrate hard not to walk into any walls. He had a phobia concerning mirrored walls ever since he had walked into one at Bendel’s and broken his nose.
    He maneuvered his way safely across the dim lobby and announced himself at the desk. He was told he was expected and directed to an elevator that rose with NASA-like speed. Amanda Paine was waiting for him in the corridor, smoking a cigarette.
    “Ah, so you got my message,” she said.
    “Yes,” said Heath. “Hello.” He tried to shake her hand but she had extended it for another purpose—to give her cigarette to the elevator attendant.
    “Would you dispose of this for me?” she asked him. He nodded and disappeared behind the closing doors. Amanda turned to Heath. “Anton doesn’t allow smoking in his apartment,” she explained. She looked different to Heath—taller and more imperial. The dress she was wearing seemed to have been pasted to her body in many little scraps, and her hair was piled high on her head in a manner that suggested the casual but upon closer inspection proved quite intricate. Heath followed her down the corridor.
    “I’m sorry we had to change the plan, but at the last minute Anton decided he didn’t want to venture downtown. People who live uptown think downtown is so hopelessly far away, I’ve realized. Do you live downtown?”
    “I live in Brooklyn,” said Heath.
    Amanda laughed, as if this were a joke. “That’s right,” she said. “I had to dial seven-one-eight. Don’t you just hate seven-one-eight? It was much nicer when we were all two-one-two, don’t you think? One big happy family.”
    She opened the door and they entered the apartment. It was smaller than Heath had imagined. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling smoked glass. Heath felt as if he were suddenly wearing sunglasses.
    “Anton’s showering,” said Amanda. “Could I get you a drink?”
    “Maybe just some water,” said Heath.
    “Still or gazeuse?”
    “Whatever,” Heath said.
    Amanda disappeared into a galley-sized kitchen. Heath looked around. He was afraid to get too close to the glass walls for fear of tripping and crashing out. There was no art in the apartment. The floors were pickled wood, and the furniture seemed to be an eclectic mix of Louis XIV and Native American. The walls that weren’t glass were hand-painted with very small mauve- and raspberry-colored freckles.
    Amanda reappeared carrying a large tray, which she set down on an Indian ceremonial knife-sharpening rock that apparently doubled as a coffee table. On the tray was a bottle of champagne, a bottle of Badoit water, three glasses, and a large silver tureen filled with ice, oysters, and violets. Heath assumed the violets were decorative.
    “I should tell you something about Anton before he makes his appearance,” Amanda said, pouring the Badoit water into two glasses. She handed one to Heath. The air around it was alive with spritz.
    “Thank you,” said