Otherwise the apartment didn’t have much to make it hers. A pair of plastic milk cartons housed her books, and a bound broadloom remnant, stained and worn, covered about half of a floor that badly needed refinishing. The bed and dresser looked to have come with the apartment, or from a thrift shop. The walls were bare except for a Birds of the World calendar hanging from a nail and, Scotch-taped to the wall above the desk, a National Geographic map of Eastern Europe. It was impossible to make out much in the candlelight, but it would have been hard to miss the small jagged area outlined in red Magic Marker.

“This must be Anatruria,” I said.

She moved to stand beside me. “My country,” she said, her voice heavy with irony. “The center of the universe.”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “This is the center of the universe.”

“ New York?”

“This room.”

“You are so romantic.”

“You are so beautiful.”

“Oh, Bear-naard…”

And there, if you don’t mind, I’m going to be old-fashioned enough to draw a curtain. We embraced and disrobed and went to bed, but you’ll have to imagine the details for yourself. We didn’t do anything you couldn’t see on television, anyway, if you’ve got cable and stay up late enough.

“Bear-naard? Sometimes I smoke after I make love.”

“I can believe it,” I said. “Oh. You mean a cigarette.”

“Yes. Would it bother you?”

“No, of course not.”

“My cigarettes are in the drawer of the night table. Could you reach them for me?”

I passed her a half-full pack of short unfiltered Camels. She put one in her mouth and let me scratch a match and light it for her. She sucked in the smoke as if it were life-sustaining, then pursed her lips and blew it out like Bacall showing Bogart how to whistle.