THE NEXT WEEK’S MOVIE was, I don’t know, Frozen Dust or something like that. It was a love story, but a falling-out-of-love story rather than a falling-in-love story. Its tone was chilly and bleak. So was the weather. . . .

AFTER THE NEXT WEEK’S FILM, the name of which I can’t even recall, I hurried the girls through the park, past the Nevsky mansion, toward home. “You’re in quite a rush this week,” said Margot. . . .

MARGOT AND MARTHA got most of the secrets out of me in the first week. On the way home from Love and War in Dusty Rome, playing the parts of the circus acrobats Angela and Angelina, they took turns riding piggyback on my shoulders and interrogating me. . . .

THUS I BECAME a sketch doctor. . . .

     He began pulling sketches from the pile and laying them out for me to examine. These were sketches of one of the girls; to be honest, I wasn’t sure which. If they had been the work of a single artist, they would have chronicled a worsening obsession with elephantiasis. . . .

     “At the next class I put Margot on the stand, seated on a low stool. I aimed a light at her right knee and told them to draw it. From the work in front of you, you can see how things have progressed. There are now classes four nights a week, and a waiting list. [. . .]”

“I ENJOY MY WORK as I never did before,” said Andy. “I don’t mean the painting, though I still do it—it’s a living. And I don’t mean the teaching—that’s just a means to an end. I mean my study of the archetypal images that control our view of the world. . . .

     “Now answer this if you can: What shape is a watermelon?” Almost without thinking, I moved my hands into position to hold a nonexistent watermelon. “Well—” I said. “I mean exactly what shape is a watermelon?” said Andy. . . .

     The top sheet was blank. I turned it aside. I began flipping through the others. On the sheets were figure studies in pencil and charcoal. The drawings seemed to be the work of several hands, but only two models seemed to be represented: Margot and Martha. I saw them there, even though they were distorted in a fascinating variety of ways. 

“I WANT TO TALK TO YOU, PETER,” said Andy, one morning, about a month later. “Come into the studio.” “Okay,” I said, failing to apply any of the practical lessons of literature. I followed him into the studio. He shut the door behind me. He locked it. I began to sweat.