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held their umbrellas over their heads and formed a long line from the steps of the Musée all the way along the sidewalk and around the corner. I had to wait with them. They’d come to see a special Rothko exhibit.
    â€œI knew very little about Rothko and thought I did not care about his work. When at last I got inside, I asked a guard if they had any Chagalls. “But of course, sir,” she answered. “We all have great sorrows.”
    â€œBecause of my terrible pronunciation she’d understood “chagrins” not Chagalls—“Avez vous des chagrins?”
    â€œI told her that I agreed, about everyone having many sorrows. We laughed together, and then I went on my way. I passed quickly through several rooms until I came to the one small Chagall that was on display. There was only the one, and it disappointed me. I wandered into the Rothko exhibit.
    â€œThe exhibit was a retrospective—room after room of his work. His paintings covered every wall, they erased the walls. His colours opened themselveswide, more open than windows. Nobody was moving. Yet everyone was travelling. They were going inside his colours. There were no lines to say, this part is closed and separate. But layer upon layer, and from between the layers light was escaping. Light leaked around the edges. No line declared, ‘Look in that direction over there! That way is the horizon.’ Everyone was travelling though nobody moved.”
    â€œDo you still love Rothko?”
    â€œNot the way I did, that day I came out of the rain and his paintings surrounded me and felt more real than my hands. That will not happen again. It does not need to happen again.”
    â€œHow long did you stay in love with Rothko’s work?”
    â€œFive years. Maybe six. More ginger tea? Shall I make some more?”
    â€œWhy more real than your hands? Why not more real than your legs or your feet?”
    â€œI don’t paint with my feet and I’ve never lost a toe.”
    â€œYou’ve started worrying about your hands.”
    â€œI haven’t.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re anxious. I’ve told you too much about Rigoletto. He’s unsettling.”
    â€œI’m not worrying. Are you?”
    â€œHe may be Suitcase Man.”
    Grocery lists slipped into books—I told this to Janko, who sat up alert. I reminded him of the opera score left on the photocopier, though perhaps by someone else.
    â€œAt work you’ve told Irene, yes?”
    â€œYes, Irene. And of course Nila finds out everything.”
    â€œI’m glad you’ve told Irene. Such things must not be kept secret.”
    â€œShould I be frightened?”
    â€œI don’t know. Are you?”
    â€œI would love more ginger tea.”
    Janko placed his hand on my arm.

INCIDENT REPORT 68
    The time was 11:00 AM , and the library quiet. I’d arrived at that place in “The Juniper Tree,” by the Brothers Grimm, where the stepmother offers her young stepson an apple, then cuts off his head. She uses as her knife the sharp-edged lid of the trunk into which the boy leans to select the piece of fruit she’s promised him. Next, she sits the boy’s body in a chair by the door, and balances his head on his neck, tying a red kerchief around his wound.
    When the boy’s young sister returns home and sees her brother sitting with an apple in his lap, she asks for one also. The stepmother instructs the young girl to go ask her brother for his apple.
    â€œIf he won’t give it to you, slap his cheek.”
    The girl does as she’s told. When her brother does not answer, she slaps his cheek, causing his head to fall off and roll on the ground. Overcome with horror, she runs to her stepmother.
    â€œSee what you’ve done? You’ve killed him,” chastises the stepmother. “But I’ll protect you,” she reassures. “Nobody needs to