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nodded at the regulars—it was too late for the silk-clad boutique lady, and the bespectacled Barnard student, but the latte-drinking actor who once starred in a sitcom about fat men was there, as was the black man with the deformed hand—then I stopped across Broadway to tithe Nate, our local panhandler who, over the years, had transformed himself from “down on his luck” to “Vietnam Vet” to “victim of Agent Orange” to “homeless man with AIDS (not homosexual).”
    Can I offer you some change? I asked as I gave him his claw.
    No, thanks, he said, I’m fine the way I am.
    Our favorite joke.
    I brought my breakfast to Straus Park, known in our Den of Propinquity as Slice of Park, because it’s shaped like a piece of pie. Slice of Park commemorates Isidore and Ida Straus, who had a summer home nearby. Isidore immigrated to the U.S. in the 1850s and began his career in Macy’s china department, eventually buying the store with his brother. He and his wife perished with the Titanic , but still, not bad for a new life!
    The park had itself recently been revived. We’d watched out our window, bemoaning the Port-a-Potties, the loud equipment, the seemingly endless labor. But it was worth it, because, with minimal West Side fanfare, the park finally reopened. The rotting benches were gone, the statue of Memory was restored, her fountain no longer dry.
    I sat often in Slice of Park when the weather was clement, feeling sun-blessed. From my bench I could see Joe’s, People of the Book, the Dollar Store, the Love Drugstore. A few blocks away, beyond my sightline: larger parks, Cohn’s Cones, the China Doll. Just north: Abdul’s Papad Palace, the Eight Bar. Ten blocks south: Symphony Space, the express train. All my cultural, entertainment, transportation, snacking, and discount-shopping needs met within half a mile. I called it my Comfort Zone.
    On this morning, I beamed out at the world—at the women checking themselves out in the drugstore window, the nannies pushing strollers, lapdogs bouncing in straw bags against matronly hips, alte kockers gesticulating in the Broadway island. The red-headed boy pushing a scooter as his brother reached desperately for it from his father’s arms. At taxis, buses, kamikaze bike messengers, all honking, screeching, and converging right here , as if Slice of Park were the center of the universe—which to me it was.
    New York was more than the places I loved, the people I cared about: it was the web that held us together, that made us all possible. It was the history of this park, of places that were no more—the Pomander Bookshop, the Ideal Restaurant, the Olympia Deli, the summer home of Isidore Straus—it was Memory! It was Iranian pastry chefs and Victims of Agent Orange, it was Old and New World ladies and men. I felt vast love for all who dared to make a life for themselves here.
    It was in this exalted mood that I gave notice.
    But you have a future in prosthetic legs! Mr. Ferguson said.

7
    ODOROUS OBJECT

    Once home, I thought I should dignify my New Life with a ritual—a sacrifice of some kind, a naked dance in the woods. The best I could come up with was to brew some Philosopher’s Tea. The original PT, procured by Ahmad in Azerbaijan, was long gone, but I continued to refill the box with English breakfast. If the philosopher’s stone could transmute base metal into gold, so too could PT transmute my oh-so-base thoughts into words; all that was inchoate would be graced with form. Hallelujah!
    I drank it whenever I translated, which meant it had been a while. On the box, a reminder of the professional standard to which I aspired: High-quality tea recalling odor and smack lemon. Store at a dry place away from odorous object .
    I brought my tea to the loveseat in the study. I didn’t know when Romei would send his book, but I could prepare for that moment by rereading some of his work.
    When I left grad school, I’d wedged my copies of his books under wobbly tables