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uniformly guttural and heavy. Her accent was airy, balletic; I still couldn’t pinpoint it. Her English shalls and shan’ts seemed less an affectation than the product of upbringing, and I wondered if she had been raised with British tutors or studied abroad. If so, that would imply a wealthy background. Before I made too many assumptions, though—
    “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but I still don’t know your name.”
    She laughed. “How extraordinary. I apologize again. My brain must be frozen. I am Alma Spielmann.”
    “Nice to meet you, Ms. Spielmann.”
    “And the same to you again, Mr. Geist. You must forgive my abruptness on the telephone. I regret that this is a bad habit of mine. I remember when even a brief call cost a fortune. When I was your age—ach. I don’t want to be one of those old ladies whose stories begin, ‘When I was your age.”’
    I smiled. “What would you like to talk about?”
    “Oh, there are many places to begin. Yes? No subject is out of bounds to the philosopher.”
    “Don’t feel obliged to talk philosophy on my account.”
    “I feel nothing of the sort,” she said. “That was the reason I asked you here. I have known a number of philosophers over the years. You might say that I was a bit of a philosopher myself. But they are nowadays quite difficult to come by. Before you, I had calls from two filmmakers, three writers, a linguist, and someone studying forestry. All from Harvard, like you, although you are the first I have troubled to invite. I suppose that is my punishment for advertising in the student newspaper. I mistakenly believed that this would attract a more sophisticated element.”
    “What was the problem?”
    “They were all dreadfully stupid.”
    “That’s too bad,” I said.
    “For them, yes, it is too bad. It is a terrible thing to be stupid, don’t you think?”
    “... yes.”
    “You seem to disagree.”
    “I don’t disagree.”
    “But you don’t agree.”
    I shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s my place—”
    “Bah. Please, Mr. Geist. I haven’t asked you here so you could parrot my opinions back to me.”
    “Well,” I said, “some people would consider consciousness a kind of curse.”
    “And do you?”
    “Me? No. Not most of the time.”
    “Some of the time, then.”
    “I think we all have moments when we’d like to be able to shut off our minds.”
    “That is what wine is for,” she said. “Is that what you would like to do, Mr. Geist? Shut off your mind?”
    A lump of self-pity rose into my throat, and I almost started blubbering about Yasmina, about my rudderless career, about the fact that I was here singing for my supper. I shrugged again. “You know. Angst.”
    I’d been right in thinking her eyes green; but they changed, or seemed to change, when she smiled. “Very well, then. I don’t mind that you are unhappy. It shall make you more interesting to talk to. That was the other problem with your predecessors. They all sounded so improbably cheery.”
    I laughed. “I’m sure they thought they were doing the right thing.”
    “Yes. This is the American way, after all. But the Viennese do not believe in happy endings.”
    “I was wondering.”
    “About?”
    “Your accent. I thought it might be Swiss.”
    She looked offended. “Mr. Geist.”
    I apologized—in German.
    “Your own accent is good. Clean. I must ask where you learned to speak.”
    “I lived in Berlin for six months.”
    “Well. I shan’t hold that against you, either.”
    “I’ve never been to Vienna,” I said.
    “Oh, you must go,” she said. “It is the only real city in the world.” She smiled. “Now. Let us discuss whether it is better to be happy or to be intelligent.”
     
     
    IT HAD BEEN a long time since I’d had a conversation anything like the one I had with Alma that afternoon. We did not proceed methodically. Nor did we aim to produce a conclusion. To the contrary: ours was a sublimely haphazard cascade of ideas,