Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. People hounded him about the disappearances mercilessly for weeks after the concert, first the police, then the Becks, then people from school. ‘But you,’ she said in the friendliest way imaginable, ‘are a person tout à fait sympathique, I think. “Yes,” he said, “I shall come.
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