That deliberate oscillation of hers between the obvious and the opaque struck me in a particularly painful way once -- the only time -- when things went badly at one of our appointments with the gynecologist. It was November and yet the city gave off heat as if summer had never ended. Lila felt sick on the way, and we sat in a café for a few minutes, then went, slightly alarmed, to the doctor. Lila explained to her in self-mocking tones that the now large thing she had inside was kicking her, pushing her, stifling her, disturbing her, weakening her. The gynecologist listened, amused, calmed her, said: You'll have a son like you, very lively, very imaginative. All good, then, very good. But before leaving I insisted with the doctor:

"You're sure everything's all right?"

"Very sure."

"What's the matter with me?" Lila protested.

"Nothing that has to do with your pregnancy."

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