Zoe liked him, and kissed his cheek. He seemed very solid to her, very protective, as he steered her to the nearest bar and ordered a glass of white wine for her.

"You remembered, Harry," she said.

"Of course I remembered," he said, smiling. "Of all Maddie's friends, I like you the best. I wish you'd see more of her. Maybe you can calm her down."

"No one can calm Maddie down."

"That's true," he said happily. "She's something, isn't she? Isn't she something?"

He moved away to greet more guests. Zoe put her back against the bar, looked around. A typical Maddie stand-up party: crushed, smoky. A hi-fi was blasting from somewhere. People were shrieking. She smiled, smiled, smiled. No one spoke to her.

She had never seen so many beautiful men. Some were elegant in three-piece Italian suits, gold a glitter at cuffs and wrists. Some were raffish, with embroidered Greek shirts opened low, medallions swinging against furred chests. Some, many, she supposed, were homosexuals. It didn't matter; they were all beautiful.

White, flashing teeth. Wicked eyes. Jaws bearded or shaved blue. Twirled mustaches. Hair slicked, dry-blown, coiffed, or deliberately tangled. Wet mouths in motion. Hands waving: long, slender fingers. Sprung hips. Sculpted legs and, here and there, jeans tight enough to show a bulge.

She thought of their fuzzed thighs. The satiny buttocks. Coil of tendon, rope of muscle. Most of all, their strength. Physical strength. The power there.

That was what had astounded her about Kenneth. He was not a stalwart man, but when he first gripped her on their wedding night, she had cried out in shock and surprise. The force! It frightened her.

And that-that thing. That reddish, purplish, knobbed thing poking out, trembling in the air. A club. It was a club, nodding at her.

She looked dazedly around the crowded room and saw the clubs, straining.

"Zoe!" Maddie screamed. "Baby! Why aren't you mingling? You've got to mingle!"

A bouncy ragamuffin of a woman with a snarl of long black hair liberally laced with gray. Silver wires didn't bother her. She couldn't be slowed by age or chastened by experience. She plunged vigorously through life, kicking up her heels.

Her face was a palette of makeup: black eyebrows like carets, shadowed eyes with fake lashes as thick as feather dusters. A whitened face with a bold, crimsoned mouth. Sharp teeth, feral teeth.

Her plump, unbound body capered; everything jounced, bobbed, swung. Diamonds sparkled at throat, ears, wrists, fingers. Her smart frock of black crepe was stained with a spilled drink. She smoked a thin cigar.

"He's around here somewhere," she shouted, grasping Zoe's arm. "David something. How are you, kiddo? He's wearing some kind of a cheesy velvet suit, but on him it looks good. My God, you're pale. David something. A mustache from here to there, and he smells of pot. You've got to take care of yourself, sweetie. Now get out there and mingle. You can't miss him. David something. Oh God, he's gorgeous. A young Clark Gable. If I see him, I'll grab him and find you. They say he's hung like Man-o'-War."

Then she was gone, diving into the mob. Zoe turned her back to the party, pressed against the bar, asked for another glass of white wine. She would sip it slowly, then slip away. No one would miss her.

This city had a rude vigor she could not countenance. It swirled her, and she felt adrift. Things were always at high tide, rising and rubbing. Noise, dirt, violence. The scream of sex everywhere. She could not endure the rawness.

A shoulder touched her; she pulled away, and looked at him.

"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling timidly. "Someone bumped me."

"That's all right," she said.

He looked at what she was drinking.

"White wine?" he asked.

She nodded.

He asked the bartender for a glass of white wine.

"Quite a party," he said to Zoe.

She nodded again. "Noisy," she said.

"Isn't it. And crowded and stuffy. My name is Ernest Mittle. I work in Mr. Kurnitz's office."

"Zoe Kohler," she said, so softly that he didn't hear and asked her to repeat it. "Zoe Kohler. I'm a friend of Maddie Kurnitz."

They shook hands. His clasp was tender, his smile fragile.

"I've never been here before," he offered. "Have you?"

"A few times."

"I guess it's a beautiful apartment-without the people."

"I don't know," she confessed. "I've only been here for parties. It's always been crowded."

She thought desperately of something more to say. She had been taught to ask men questions about themselves: their work, ambitions, hobbies-whatever. Get them talking about themselves, and they would think you interesting and clever. That's what her mother had told her-several times.

But the best she could do was: "Where are you from?"

"Wisconsin," he said. "A small town. Trempealeau. I'm sure you've never heard of it."

She didn't want to tell him; she wanted him to think her a Manhattan sophisticate. But then her smile flickered, and she said:

"Yes, I've heard of it. I'm from Winona."

He turned to her with the delighted astonishment of a small boy.

"Winona!" he cried. "Neighbor!"

They moved a little closer: explorers caught in a dance of savages.

"Listen," he said excitedly, "are you here with anyone?"

"Oh no. No."

"Could we go someplace and have a drink together? Some quieter place? You're the first person I've met in New York who even heard of Trempealeau. I'd really like to talk to you."

"All right," she said.

No one noticed them leave.

In the lobby, he stopped her with a light hand on her arm, then jerked it away convulsively.

"Uh," he said, "I was wondering… Could we have dinner together? I know a little Italian place not far from here. If we're going to have a glass of wine, we might as well…"

His wispy voice trailed off. She stared at him a moment.

He was no David something in a velvet suit, smelling of pot. He was Ernest Mittle, a dusty young man who would always be an outlander in the metropolis.

There he stood, stooped, eager, as anxious to please as a cocker spaniel. The cheap tweed overcoat was too tight in the shoulders and strained at its buttons. About his neck was a plaid wool muffler.

He was hatless, but carried a pair of clumpy, fleece-lined gloves.

He seemed inoffensive and washed-out to Zoe Kohler. Faded eyebrows, blond lashes, eyes of milky blue. His complexion was fair, his haircut an atrocity that left his pink ears naked, isolated by clipper and razor.

But still… His smile was warm and hopeful. His small teeth were even and white. He was as tall as she, and if he straightened up, he would have been taller. But he seemed to crouch inside himself, hiding.

She was ever so careful. He appeared harmless, not pushy in the New York manner, but she knew as well as anyone the dangers that awaited the lone woman in the cruel city. Mugging. Burglary. Rape. Violent death. It was in the newspapers every day. And on TV in color. The chalked outline. The congealing blood.

"Well… all right," she said finally. "Thank you. But I have to get home early. By nine at the latest. Uh, I'm expecting a phone call."

"Fine," he said happily. "Let's go. It's not far; we can walk it in a few minutes."

She knew the restaurant. She had been there twice before, by herself. Each time she had been seated at the same small table near the door to the restrooms. The food was good, but the service had been execrable, although she had left generous tips.

This time, with a man, she was escorted by a smiling maitre d' to a comfortable corner table. A waiter came bustling to assist in removing her coat. A table candle in a ruby globe was lighted. Glasses of white wine were brought, menus proffered.

They both ordered veal piccata, spaghetti, and salad. They each had two more glasses of wine with their food. Service was prompt and flawless. They agreed the dinner was a success.