She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked dreamily out at him, leaving calls to pile up. Her uncle was a colonel general in the army; otherwise she wouldn't have lasted the several months it took for the Ministry to muster the courage to transfer her back to her hometown.

She was pretty, a cheery sort, and I was sorry to see her go. No one sat on the bricks after that.

I counted the bricks whenever a Ministry directive got under Pak's skin. He would read the offending paper a few times, call me into his office, and then start writing furiously on his blackboard. Usually he would mutter only a word or two that I could catch-"idiotic" was common-but on occasion he would launch into a full-blown lecture.

It took me a while to realize I wasn't meant to respond. I only needed to stand at the window and tally one brick with each click of the chalk.

Pak would finish his lecture and say, "What do you think?" I would reply, "Incredible, all there."

Pak liked the window, view or no view. He said it let in extra light on overcast days. In autumn, across from the brick pile, two tall gingko trees turned a brilliant gold for several weeks before the wind and cold November rains took away the leaves. Pak seemed happiest in early October. He would restlessly look out his window to spot the earliest touch of color on the trees. Finally, he'd call me to his office, and when I poked my head in, he would point to the window, a faraway look of quiet pleasure in his eyes. Now we were in the grip of summer, too soon for golden leaves.

"What's got you so upset?" I asked. "A dead battery kept me from taking a picture. Tell me, who the hell cares? Those two acted like it was a national crisis, like MacArthur had landed again."