walls, the I950s Formica-topped table stacked with books, the turquoise leather benches, the kidney-
shaped resin coffee table—all of his Midcentury Modern pieces, shabby and mismatched, were
waiting for him.
Verlaine’s art books filled an entire wall. There were oversize coffee-table Phaidon Press
editions, squat paperbacks of art criticism, and glossy folios containing prints of his favorite
modernists—Kandinsky, Sonia Delaunay, Picasso, Braque. He owned more books than actually fit
into such a small apartment, and yet he refused to sell them. He’d come to the conclusion years ago
that a studio apartment was not ideal for someone with a hoarding instinct.
Standing at his fifth-floor window, he removed the silk Hermès tie he’d been using as a bandage,
slowly working the fabric away from the scabbing flesh. His tie was ruined. Folding it, he placed it
on the sill. Outside, a slice of morning sky hovered in the distance, lifting above rows of buildings as
if propped on stilts. The snow hung upon tree branches, slouched down the slopes of drainage pipes,
and tapered into daggers of ice. Water towers on rooftops dotted the tableau. Although he didn’t own
an inch of property, he felt that this view belonged to him. Looking intently at his corner of the city
could absorb his entire attention. This morning, however, he simply wanted to clear his head and
think about what he would do next.
Coffee, he realized, would be a good start. Walking to the galley kitchen, he turned on his espresso
machine, packed fine-ground beans into the portafilter, and—after steaming some milk—made
himself a cappuccino in an antique Fiestaware mug, one of the few he hadn’t broken. As Verlaine
took a sip of coffee, the flash of his answering machine caught his eye—there were messages. He
pressed a button and listened. People had been calling all night and hanging up. Verlaine counted ten
instances of someone simply listening on the line, as if waiting for him to answer. Finally a message
played in which the caller spoke. It was Evangeline’s voice. He recognized it in an instant.
“If you took the midnight train, you should have been back by now. I cannot help but wonder
where you are and whether you are safe. Call me as soon as you can.”
Verlaine went to the closet, where he dug out an old leather duffel bag. He unzipped it and threw in
a clean pair of Hugo Boss jeans, a pair of Calvin Klein boxers, a Brown University sweatshirt—his
alma mater—and two pairs of socks. He dug a pair of Converse All-Stars from the bottom of the
closet, put on a pair of clean socks, and put them on. There was no time for him to think about what
else he might need. He would rent a car and drive back to Milton immediately, taking the same route
he’d followed yesterday afternoon, driving over the Tappan Zee Bridge and navigating the small
roads along the river. If he hurried, he could be there before lunch.
Suddenly the telephone rang, a noise so sharp and startling that he lost his grip on the coffee cup. It
fell against the window ledge with a solid crack, a splatter of coffee and milk spilling over the floor.
Eager to speak with Evangeline, he left the cup where it landed and grabbed the phone.
“Evangeline?” he said.
“Mr. Verlaine.” The voice was soft, feminine, and it addressed Verlaine with an unusual intimacy.
The woman’s accent—Italian or French, he couldn’t tell exactly which—combined with a slight
hoarseness, gave him the impression that she was middle-aged, perhaps older, although this was pure
speculation.
“Yes, speaking,” he replied, disappointed. He glanced at the broken cup, aware that he had
diminished his collection yet again. “What can I do for you?”
“Many things, I hope,” the woman said.
For a fraction of a second, Verlaine thought the caller might be a tele-marketer. But his number was
unlisted, and he didn’t usually get unwanted calls. Besides, it was clear that this voice was not the
kind to be selling magazine subscriptions.
“That’s a rather tall order,” Verlaine said, taking the caller’s strange phone manner in stride. “Why
don’t you start by telling me who you are?”
“May I ask you a question first?” the woman said.
“You might as well.” Verlaine was beginning to get irritated with the calm, insistent, almost
hypnotic sound of the woman’s voice, a voice quite different from Evangeline’s.
“Do you believe in angels?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you believe that angels exist among us?”
“Listen, if this is some kind of evangelical group,” Verlaine said, bending before the window and