When Haydn gave way to Vivaldi, Abel set his empty mug aside and leaned back in his chair with his pink hands folded over his ample abdomen. Only his midsection was fat; his hands and arms were lean, and there was not much spare flesh on his face. But he had a Santa Claus belly and upper thighs that bulged in his blue gabardine trousers, attributes quite consistent with his boundless enthusiasm for rich desserts.

According to him, he had never been fat until after the war. "When I was in the camps," he had told me once, "I thought constantly of meat and potatoes. I dreamed of fat sausages and great barons of beef. Crown roasts of pork. Kids roasted whole on a spit. Meanwhile I grew gaunt and my skin shrank on my bones like leather left to dry in the sun. When the American forces liberated the camps they weighed us. God knows why. Most fat men claim to be large-boned. Doubtless some of them are. I have small bones, Bernard. I tipped the scales, as they say, at ninety-two pounds.

"I left Dachau clinging to one certainty. I was going to eat and grow fat. And then I discovered, to my considerable astonishment, that I had no interest in the meat and potatoes I had grown up on. That SS rifle butts had relieved me of my own teeth was only a partial explanation, for I had for meat itself a positive aversion-I could not eat a sausage without feeling I was biting into a plump Teutonic finger. And yet I had an appetite, a bottomless one, but it was a most selective and specific appetite. I wanted sugar. I craved sweetness. Is there anything half so satisfying as knowing precisely what one wishes and being able to obtain it? If I could afford it, Bernard, I would engage a live-in pastry cook and keep him occupied around the clock."

He'd had a piece of Linzer torte with his coffee and had offered us a choice of half a dozen decadently rich pastries, all of which we'd passed for the time being while we tended to our drinks.

"Ah, Bernard," he said now. "And the lovely Carolyn. It is so very good to see you both. But the night is growing old, isn't it? You have brought me something, Bernard?"

My attaché case was close at hand. I opened it and drew out a compact volume of Spinoza's Ethics, an English edition printed in London in 1707 and bound in blue calf. I passed it to Abel and he turned it over and over in his hands, stroking the smooth old leather with his long and slender fingers, studying the title page at some length, flipping through the pages.

He said, "Regard this, if you will. 'It is the part of the wise man to feed himself with moderate pleasant food and drink, and to take pleasure with perfumes, with the beauty of living plants, dress, music, sport and theaters, and other places of this sort which man may use without any injury to his fellows.' If Baruch Spinoza were in this room I'd cut him a generous piece of Linzer torte, and I don't doubt he'd relish it." He returned to the title page. "This is quite nice," he allowed. "1707. I have an early edition in Latin, printed in Amsterdam. The first edition was when, 1675?"

"1677."

"My own copy is dated 1683, I believe. The only copy I own in English is the Everyman's Library edition with the Boyle translation." He moistened a finger, turned some more pages. "Quite nice. A little water damage, a few pages foxed, but quite nice for all that." He read to himself for a moment, then closed the book with a snap. "I might find a spot for this on my shelves," he said carelessly. "Your price, Bernard?"

"It's a gift."

"For me?"

"If you can find a spot for it. On your shelves."

He colored. "But I expected no such thing! And here am I, mean-spirited enough to point out water damage and the odd foxed page as if to lay the groundwork for some hard bargaining. Your generosity shames me, Bernard. It's a splendid little volume, the binding's really quite gorgeous, and I'm thrilled to have it. You're quite certain you don't want any money for it?"

I shook my head. "It came into the store with a load of fine bindings, decorator specials with nothing substantial between the covers. You wouldn't believe what people have seen fit to wrap in leather down through the years. And I can sell anything with a decent binding. Interior decorators buy them by the yard. I was sorting this lot and I spotted the Spinoza and thought of you."

"You are kind and thoughtful," he said, "and I thank you." He drew a breath, let it out, turned to place the book on the table beside his empty mug. "But Spinoza alone did not bring you out at this hour. You have brought me something else, have you not?"

"Three things, actually."

"And they will not be gifts."

"Not quite."

I took a small velvet bag from the attaché case, handed it to him. He weighed it in his hand, then spilled its contents into his palm. A pair of teardrop earrings, emeralds, quite simple and elegant. Abel drew a jeweler's loupe from his breast pocket and fixed it in his eye. While he was squinting through it at the stones, Carolyn crossed to the sideboard where the liquor and pastries were laid out. She freshened her drink. She was back in her chair and her glass was a third empty by the time Abel was through examining the emerald earrings.

"Good color," he said. "Slight flaws. Not garbage, Bernard, but nothing extraordinary, either. Did you have a figure in mind?"

"I never have a figure in mind."

"You should keep these. Carolyn should wear them. Model them for us, liebchen."

"I don't have pierced ears."

"You should. Every woman should have pierced lobes, and emerald teardrops to wear in them. Bernard, I wouldn't care to pay more than a thousand for these. I think that's high. I'm basing that figure on a retail estimate of five thousand, and the true price might be closer to four. I will pay a thousand, Bernard. No more than that."

"Then a thousand is the price."

"Done," he said, and returned the earrings to their velvet bag and placed the bag on top of Spinoza's Ethics. "You have something else?"

I nodded and took a second velvet bag from the attaché case. It was blue-the one with the earrings had been the color of the doorman's uniform-and it was larger, and equipped with a drawstring. Abel undrew the string and took out a woman's wristwatch with a rectangular case, a round dial, and a gold mesh band. I don't know that he needed the loupe, but he fixed it in his eye all the same and took a close look.

"Piaget," he said. "What time do you have, Bernard?"

"Twelve oh seven."

"Mr. Piaget agrees with you to the minute." I wasn't surprised; I'd wound and set the watch when I took it from the safe. "You'll excuse me for a moment? I just want to look at a recent catalog. And won't you help yourselves to some of those pastries? I have eclairs, I have Sacher torte, I have Schwarzwälder kuchen. Have something sweet, both of you. I'll be with you in a moment."

I broke down and took an eclair. Carolyn selected a wedge of seven-layer cake with enough chocolate between the layers to make an entire high school class break out. I filled two mugs with coffee and two small snifters with tawny Armagnac that was older than we were. Abel came back, visibly pleased to see us eating, and announced that the retail price of the watch was $4,950. That was a little higher than I'd thought.

"I can pay fifteen hundred," he said. "Because I can turn it over so quickly and easily. Satisfactory?"

"Satisfactory."

"That's twenty-five hundred so far. You said three items, Bernard? The first two are nice merchandise, but I hope they don't represent too great an investment of time and effort on your part. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to keep them? Ears can be pierced readily enough, and painlessly, I'm told. And wouldn't the watch grace your wrist, Carolyn?"

"I'd have to keep taking it off every time I washed a dog."