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“Milk, onions, bread and tea.” He preserved the note, and from that moment on took great pains to lock his office door during even his briefest absences. Several weeks later a similar note appeared. Again it resembled a grocery list and was written in a hand that was not his own. His alarm increased. Whoever was attempting to communicate with him in this veiled and threatening fashion possessed a key to his office. Straightaway he requested that the university change the lock on his door. They granted him his wish and changed the lock. More notes, all of a similar nature, found their way into his office: “Tea, garlic, bread, lemons.” He asked that the lock be changed again.
    I waited for Suitcase Man to tell me more, but he got up from his chair. He was blushing. I could not tell if the colour suffusing his cheeks expressed shame or restrained anger. It seemed to me clear that the university had concluded that Suitcase Man was the very person they needed to keep out of Suitcase Man’s office.
    He stood in front of me, speaking in great haste and so softly that I could not understand a single word. Then he bowed politely, picked up his suitcase and walked briskly out of the library.

INCIDENT REPORT 64
    At 8:25 PM , five minutes before closing, I made a quick tour of the children’s area to be sure no patrons remained. On the puppet stage in the story room, a sheet of paper caught my eye. Its message was in a handwriting with which I was becoming familiar. It encouraged somebody’s daughter to weep.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Weep, weep, child, weep, let your tears flow, flow on my heart. Weep, weep, weep, let your tears flow on my heart. Weep, weep, weep, let your tears flow on my heart, weep on my heart, weep on my heart, ah, on my heart, ah! Let your tears flow, my daughter, my daughter, on my heart.
    I folded the note and slipped it into my desk drawer, though perhaps it was not directed to me. No mention was made of freckled hands.
    We, the staff of the Allan Gardens Library, closed up the building for the night. We turned out the lights, set the alarm and left by the back door. A few staff walked to the streetcar stop, others drove home, and I climbed on my bicycle and rode. As I glidedslowly through the warm dark of the summer side streets, I started to cry, not only for my father but for Suitcase Man as well. The air felt soft. Then not far off a man began whistling. It wasn’t a song I knew. I stopped pedaling. In the middle of his tune the whistler changed directions, embroidering something new.

INCIDENT REPORT 65
    â€œYou are reading my book on Rothko?”
    â€œI can’t read it. It’s in Slovenian. I’m looking at the pictures.”
    â€œMore ginger tea?”
    â€œIt says, ‘Janko’ in the front, and also ‘Lizaveta.’”
    â€œThe book was a present. It was given to both of us.”
    â€œShe was the woman you lived with in Ljubljana? The one with the cat that climbed up into trees and couldn’t get down again?”
    â€œYes. But not just trees, rooftops also.”
    â€œLizaveta.”
    â€œThe first time I saw a painting by Rothko I did not see just one. The room was full of them. I fell in love with Rothko’s work.”
    â€œDid Lizaveta have dark hair, a small, sharp nose, a heart-shaped face and skin like cream?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s how I imagine her.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHer name and her cat.”
    â€œThe first time I saw a Rothko I was living in Paris.”
    â€œI didn’t know you’d lived in Paris.”
    â€œI lived there only a short time. One day I wanted to see paintings by Chagall. I didn’t care which ones, so long as they showed how he used proportion and colour. But the gallery in the Centre Pompidou was closed for repairs. They sent me to the Musée d’Art Moderne at the Palais de Tokyo. People were waiting outside in the rain. They