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After a silence I told him to go, fall in love, take a wife, have children, and if in some years' time he wanted to come back I would be pleased to see him. His eyes spoke bewilderment. I said, "In time, you will change too, Michel. Please. Go. With my blessing." I left the gardenia in my hair until nightfall. Then, lest I crush it in my sleep, I put it into the woven canopy above my bed.
When Ezra died I went to his funeral, one of the few I ever attended. There I met his father, Archimenides, a meek man stooped with great age. The next day, Archimenides settled himself on the courtyard seat opposite and I was curious to know the purpose of his coming. He began in a quavering voice. "My son was a student here." I nodded. "How much do you think I can learn?" he asked. "That is up to you," I said. "A great deal, I should think." By this time I deemed anything possible. Archimenides chuckled. "We must begin immediately, yes? Quick, before I am gone." He snapped his fingers with surprising vigor. "If you wish to begin now, you shall. Let us make arrangements and have our first session," I replied. "Ah, my dear, can our arrangements be for one session only?" He held up a brown finger. I led him to the anteroom and explained the procedure. Then I went into the changing room. I covered myself with a brown veil and crouched, planning to blend the image of a grave with that of a seed sprouting from the ground. Archimenides shuffled in but I heard other steps, the familiar steps of Ezra. Was I not at Ezra's funeral?