Ice Cap by Chris Knopf Page A

word? She didn’t try to hide it, at least from me. This is going to sound really strange, but I think one of the reasons she liked me was I never pressed her on anything. That’s why we didn’t talk that much. When the most obvious thing about her is off the table—that most of her mind is off on some other planet—there’s not much left to discuss. I don’t think I’m making any sense. Sorry.”
    Quite the contrary, I thought. I bet he had it nailed perfectly. That was Franco’s secret with women. He had the one quality we all crave over every other. He could sense the subterranean frequencies, the subtle undercurrents of mood and state of mind. In a word, he was sensitive.
    Then another swarm of unwanted feelings about Harry surged into my mind. Harry had a similar gift. He’d learned from the tumultuous and infinitely variable nature of our early relationship how to calibrate the exact amount of air I needed between us at any given time, and had somehow accepted that I was the one who set the shift in parameters, however capricious and unpredictable.
    This made Harry a man of inestimable tolerance and generosity. But was that the same as Franco’s sensitivity? And if not, so what?
    â€œI get what you’re saying, Franco,” I told him. “I really do.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œWho knows what’s going on with Zina, and you likely did her a kindness that some may condemn, but that doesn’t make it less kind.”
    â€œSo you don’t think I’m just a depraved, philandering monster?”
    â€œI don’t. I think you’re a good man who’d be well advised to restrict his romantic entanglements to single women going forward.”
    Something approximating a lift in spirits showed on his face.
    â€œGoing forward,” he said. “There’s a nice thought.”
    *   *   *
    When I was back outside, the sky had managed to transition all the way from deep, limitless blue to surly gray, and the wind had died down, yet it felt colder in a way that defied respite. I shuddered, literally, and climbed stiff-limbed into the Volvo and made my forlorn way back down from Riverhead to the hoped-for refuge of my littered and congested yet warm and brightly lit office.
    *   *   *
    I’d barely begun to feel the soothing effects of my office when the phone rang. It was Mr. Sato from the restaurant below. He said there was a fellow from the newspapers who claimed he’d scheduled a meeting with me. Should he make the man comfortable or have Naoki-san, his three-hundred-pound sous-chef, escort him to the door?
    â€œShit, I forgot about him,” I said. “Apologize for me and tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.”
    â€œI’ll tell him fifteen minutes. You don’t want to look too eager. Besides, it’ll tempt him to have a little more tuna tataki.”
    Any advice for me to show some restraint was usually apropos. I used the time well, getting back out of my recently donned bathrobe and figuring out how to dress for the press. I decided lawyerly. The guy’s from the city; he’ll be used to gray suits and conservative heels, silk blouse—light blue, buttoned to the throat. This took all the allotted fifteen minutes and then some, so by the time Mr. Sato guided me to the bar, Angstrom had already had two platefuls of sashimi and robota-grilled tsukune—duck and scallops wrapped in bacon.
    I extended my hand and waited for him to drop his chopsticks and mop up his face with a white napkin.
    He almost looked flustered, as if I’d caught him doing something untoward like stealing from the dessert tray or peeking at a girlie magazine.
    â€œMs. Swaitkowski,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Roger Angstrom.”
    â€œYou can call me Jackie, especially since you can’t pronounce Swaitkowski.”
    â€œThanks for the correction. Do you want