Death of an Adept

Possibly to hold her own thoughts at bay, Ximena had set some music playing in the next room before she went off to shower. Adam let the music wash over him without particular awareness, fresh from his own shower and a change of clothes as he settled on the couch in her little sitting room and put his feet up, curling his palms contentedly around a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea.

Her apartment occupied the top floor of a newly renovated town house near San Francisco's Golden Gate Park. The view of the neighborhood, seen from the living room windows, embraced a vivacious fin-de-siecle collection of gables, cupolas, and widow's walks decorated in gingerbread woodwork. On a clear day it was possible - so Adam had been told - to catch a fugitive glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge beyond the dark green feathering of trees that marked the intervening presence of the Presidio. Today, however, both the park and the bridge were shrouded under a silvery haze of the dense fog for which the city was famous.

Relaxed and beginning to feel gently jet-lagged, Adam withdrew his gaze from the neighboring skyline to contemplate the more intimate features of the apartment's interior, sipping distractedly at his tea.

Ximena's rented flat in Edinburgh had been comfortably suited to her needs, especially for a busy ER physician who frankly spent little time there, but it had come already furnished, leaving her little or nothing to say regarding the decor. This place, by contrast, had started off empty, giving her ample scope for indulging a more personalized expression of taste. Adam expected that much of the furniture had been handed down from her parents or bought second-hand during her student days, but most of the appointments seemed to bear what he was beginning to recognize as Ximena's distinctive style. Left to his own devices while she showered, Adam found it instructive as well as pleasant to contemplate the effects of her self-expression.

The room was sparely appointed, in keeping with the clean, sunlit expanse of wide windows and stripped woodwork. The variegated tones of wood, tile, and stonework contrasted elegantly with the thick, cream-colored plushness of the fitted carpet. The sofa upon which Adam was sitting was a luxuriously comfortable design piece executed in brick-red Cordovan leather.

That terra-cotta hue was reflected several times over in the selection of prints by Diego Rivera and Joaquin Torres-Garcia that were scattered across the walls. Among the original objets d'art in the room were a stained-glass depiction of a smiling Madonna done in rich blues and golds, an art naif oil painting of three jaguars, and a lively bronze casting of two dogs dancing that recalled examples of Calima statuary Adam had once seen in an exhibition of pre-Columbian art. He was touched to see a blue glass votive candle he had given her, set beneath the portrait of the Madonna.

The overall effect was one of discriminating eclecticism. That effect was all the more commendable since Alan Lock-hart's progressively worsening condition had left his daughter with little opportunity for shopping - or indeed anything else - in the months since her return.

Despite Ximena's earlier protestations that she would not allow her concerns to intrude on their time together, she had finally updated Adam on her father's condition before sending him off for his shower, huddled miserably in the circle of his arm while she recited the essentials in detached clinical phrasing that left little doubt of her growing sense of helplessness.

Though Lockhart's attending physicians initially had been able to arrange his medication to permit relative comfort and alertness during the daylight hours, steadily mounting levels of pain had eaten into that schedule until now he was left with only two narrow windows of lucidity each day: a few hours early in the morning and a similar period late in the afternoon. By structuring their own activities to take advantage of his periods of alertness, Lockhart's wife and family had managed to achieve a fragile semblance of routine. But there was no hiding the fact that Ximena's father was rapidly approaching the point where conventional medicine could offer him nothing more than a choice between agony and oblivion.

Adam had in mind a third alternative - though whether Ximena's father would be receptive to the idea could only be determined at first hand. Formal introductions were to take place later that afternoon, when Lockhart would be awake and all the other members of Ximena's family would be present.

In the meantime, there had been this precious interlude. Adam finished his tea and set aside his mug with a sigh, cocking an ear toward the bedroom as awareness of a different piece of music drew his attention back to more pleasurable contemplations.