Prevention

Indeed, the teens of Bedford Glen were contaminated with culture. Or at least some of them. But which ones?

Parents fretted. What if my child is contaminated?

The Bedford Glen Times ran an article -- Culture: The Telltale Signs:

"We never thought it would happen to our little Sally", said Ms. Barbara Zinkerdorf, as she sat on her $5,000 Ligne Roset designer sofa in the third parlor of her McMansion on Peachy Tree Way in Bedford Glen. "We gave her everything. She has her own McBedroom in our McMansion, and her very own Ligne Roset designer sofa. And we gave her an SUV, even though she's too young to drive. She used to just sit in it, in the driveway.

"But then, I noticed one day that she wasn't sitting in her SUV, she was sitting at her desk. And she wasn't texting, she was reading a book, by Astin or Austen or something. That's when I knew we had a problem on our hands."

Ms. Zinkerdorf is not alone. Across America, parents have learned to their horror that their teen is contaminated by culture. And they are shocked to learn that there is no cure; that their teens may be lost to them forever.

"There is no cure for culture" says Dr. Barry Whipplestein, of the Diversity Center at Enormous State University. "The best we can do is manage the problem, and try to comfort parents and relatives. We're working on it, of course, but research may take years. Meanwhile, every day thousands more teens are infected".

How can you tell if your child is infected? According to Dr. Whipplestein, there are five telltale signs:

(1) Your teen loses interest in normal activity, like sexting or playing Xbox 24/7, and takes up cultural activities like playing the piano or writing poetry.

(2) Instead of relentless promiscuity, your teen couples up with a significant other or, even worse, forbears from sexual activity altogether.

(3) Your teen stops attending diversity awareness seminars at school, and skips out to attend plays or concerts.

(4) After school, your teen declines to "hang out at the mall", but instead studies history and literature or learns a foreign language.

(5) Your teen professes an unusual interest in the Mendelssohn-Bartholdy siblings, Felix and Fanny.

If you see one or more of these signs, says Dr. Whipplestein, call your health and diversity professional immediately. "Sometimes, when a teen has just a level one infection we can turn it around, but at stage three..." he shakes his head.

Health and diversity professionals say that prevention is the only way to stop cultural contamination. Here are some positive steps they recommend to keep your teen safe:

(1) Cleanse your house thoroughly. Remove any books, music and artwork. Perhaps you were thinking "just a little bit won't hurt". But professionals warn: there is no safe culture.

(2) Check your own habits. Are you in the habit of sneaking an occasional read, or playing Beethoven's Opus Twenty-Seven Number One at the piano. Remember! As a parent, your actions speak louder than words.

(3) Keep your teens busy; idle hands are the devil's workshop. Push your teens into promiscuous sex, so their little minds won't wander off to the final bars of Gustav Mahler's Symphony Number Seven.

(4) Have a frank talk with your teen about culture. Explain the risks.

(5) Learn to say no. You are the parent. It's tough sometimes to set limits on how much poetry your child can read, but it's your responsibility.

(6) Show your child how to use iPod condoms, which are guaranteed to block all cultural content from your teen's iPod.

When all else fails, there are support groups for parents. Contact your local health and diversity professional for more information.

The parents of Bedford Glen found all of this to be terribly unsettling. What they did not know was -- it was about to get worse.

Lockdown

Citizens who tuned in to News Center Five Action News at Six, or logged in to news on the Web were shocked to see images of Bedford Glen High School in full lockdown, surrounded by black SUVs and hovering helicopters. Star reporter Paula Perky covered the action live:

Paula Perky: Paula Perky here for News Center Five Action News. Shocking scenes here at Bedford Glen High. Right now, if we zoom the camera in over my shoulder (camera zooms) you can see students lined up waiting to be searched. If we pan over to my right (camera pans) you can see a group of students who police want to question. Earlier today.. if we can roll the video...we saw a number of students placed into custody by the police...(video rolls...shot of students in handcuffs and black hoods being dragged to police vans). School officials had little to say:

(Perky's Voice): Superintendent Cheeseman, can you tell us what's going on?

Superintendent Cheeseman: I have little to say.

Paula Perky: We asked several students for reaction:

(Perky's Voice): How do you feel about what's happening here?

Girl: Um..it's, like...ohmigod, I'm on camera!

Boy: Um....

Girl: Is something happening?

Boy: Well, um, they like searched us and...stuff, and it, like sucks.

Paula Perky: The voices of today's teens. Back to you, Chet.

Chet Stark, Anchorman: Great reporting, Paula. Any idea what the police are looking for?

Paula Perky: We have an unconfirmed report that it has something to do with something on iPods, but we're still trying to chase that down.

Chet Stark: Okay, Paula. In other news, City Hall reports that Bedford Glen now has more McMansions per capita than any other city in America...

Back at the Diversity War Room, Federal Diversity Police had taken charge. Outside, a black helicopter hovered briefly and landed; a tough-looking woman in a business suit climbed out of the helicopter and strode quickly towards the building, bent over against the propwash. Men in black saluted as she passed. She stepped into the building, and was escorted into the War Room by Federal agents.

The War Room was in a state of bedlam: phones ringing, men in suits running hither and thither, men in black shouting orders, TV monitors blaring. All fell silent, however, when the woman stepped into the room. She cleared her throat.

"I'm Husky!", she declared. "Donna Husky! Diversity! I'm in charge here! Status reports!"

Several men in black leapt forward, waving dossiers.

"Stand down!", barked Husky, glaring at the men. "If I wanted all of them at once I would've asked for them all at once, now wouldn't I? Crime Scene?"

"Secure!", responded one of the men.

"Forensics?"

"Working!"

"Interrogation?"

There was no response.

"Interrogation?"

Still no response.

"Where the fuck is my Interrogation report? You maggots have two seconds to produce my Interrogation report or I will tear your heads off and wipe the floor with your worthless bodies! Now move it!"

A door in the back of the War Room opened and a gorgeous redhead dressed in a strapless black dress sashayed into the room, holding a dossier. She walked slowly towards Donna Husky, hips swinging, and handed her the dossier.

"Your Interrogation Report, Ms. Husky" said the redhead. Husky glared at her. The redhead turned and exited, slowly.

Husky glanced at it briefly. Suddenly a secure telephone rang. One of the men in black answered, spoke briefly, then held the phone out for Husky. "It's for you, sir. The President".

Husky took the phone. "Husky!" She listened quietly, nodding. "Yes, Sir!" She handed the phone back to the man in black. "OK, pack it up! We're pulling out! Where's Cheeseman?"

Mr. Cheeseman protested. "What do you mean, pulling out? What about our teens?"

Husky looked mildly sympathetic. "Orders. There's nothing more we can do here. Your teens are contaminated with culture".

State of Emergency

The Bedford Glen School Board met for an emergency closed session in the Diversity War Room. Mr. Cheeseman presided. Thirteen members of the Board attended -- a mix of men and women, white, black, asian, hispanic, elderly and disabled. One of the women is a lesbian, but we won't say which one.

OK, it's the big muscular one in the butch haircut dressed head to toe in a black leather "Dykes on Bikes" outfit.

Mr. Cheeseman addressed the assembled panel. "This morning", he began, ominously, "one of our Assistant Principals found this iPod in the possession of a diversity perp". He held the iPod at arms length and walked around the well of the room so all members of the Board could see it.

"Now I'm going to play some of what we found, but I need to warn you -- this is shocking stuff." He placed the iPod in a Bose SoundDock and hit "play".

Members of the Board strained to listen. They heard a piano play, then the mellifluous baritone of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau singing "Im wonderschonen Monet Mai..." from Robert Schumann's Dichterliebe...

The room erupted.

Miss Dykes on Bykes cringed. "Turn it off! Turn it off!"

A large black woman put her hands over her ears.

A distinguished gentleman in a wheelchair just stared.

"Carumba!", said the Latino man, breaking his pencil in twain.

An asian man stood erect, bowed curtly and left the room.

A middle-aged white man in a suit and tie muttered "My daughter better not be involved in this".

Another man demanded: "Where did you get this?"

A woman in a business suit shook her fist. "Shocking!", she shouted.

Mr. Cheeseman stopped the playback and held up his hand for order. "Okay, okay. I understand. This is disturbing stuff, I know. I'd hate to think what would happen if my own kids were into this". He paused, and seemed to reflect a little before continuing. "But we have this under control".

Several members of the Board interrupted. "What?" "How?"

Mr. Cheeseman held up his hand again for quiet. "The girl who owned the iPod is in Diversity right now, and we're deprogramming her. We have the best people working on this, and when they're done with her she will love Lady Gaga like any normal teen. As to the people who are spreading this, well, let me just tell you they'd best not show their faces in Bedford Glen."

The door to the War Room opened, and a man in black entered. Wordlessly, he approached Mr. Cheeseman with a note. Mr. Cheeseman unfolded the note, read it, folded it back and nodded to the man, who exited. While this took place, members of the Board talked amoung themselves nervously.

Once again, Mr. Cheeseman stepped forward and called for order. "Uh, people, I have some new information here, and, um, we found another one".

KulturPunks

Yes, KulturPunks. The same KulturPunks that terrorized the town of Bedford Glen.

The KulturPunks first surfaced in Bedford Glen when Howard Putzman, Assistant Principal and Disciplinarian, removed Kimberly Wilson's iPod from her backpack, plugged in the earbuds, and listened to the first song. Kimberly was in the holding cell on a diversity rap -- she was overheard saying "that's so gay" during the third screening of Brokeback Mountain in English class -- and Mr. Putzman wanted to check out the smart and sassy tunes today's teens download from their favorite websites.

What he heard profoundly shocked him.

Mr. Putzman ran next door and interrupted Charlie Wigglesworth, the Principal, who was fondling Missy Hartman. "You've got to listen to this!" he shouted, holding out the offending iPod and ear buds.

"Hey, what about me?" yelled Missy.

"Shut up!", barked Mr. Wigglesworth. "And disappear".

Mr. Wigglesworth inserted the ear buds, listened for a few seconds, then ripped them out. He was visibly shaken. "You keep an eye on Kimberly. I'll get this right over to the Superintendent." He ran out of the building, leapt in his car and drove off, tires squealing.

Mr. Putzman returned to the holding pen, where Kimberly was handcuffed to a table. He sat down across the table from Kimberly and stared at her coldly. "We've got you on the diversity rap. If you cooperate with us, we can make that go away. Tell us where you got what I heard on your iPod and you can be back in class in time for diversity training."

Kimberly looked unsettled. "You listened to my iPod...?"

Mr. Putzman nodded. "Pretty heavy stuff. I don't think your parents would want to find out you're listening to stuff like that."

Kimberly exploded, lunging at Mr. Putzman as far as the handcuffs would allow. "Fuck you, Putzman! And fuck my parents! I ain't telling you nuthin'!" she spat out the words, closing with an actual loogie that sailed over Mr. Putzman's right shoulder and splatted against the wall of the holding pen.

Mr. Putzman rolled his eyes, shrugged and gestured to one of the beefy diversity cops. The door burst open and two men in black suits grabbed Kimberly by the shoulders, gave her a knockout shot, dragged her toward the door, paused, unlocked the handcuffs by which she was attached to the table, resumed dragging her to the door and loaded her into a black SUV with blackened windows and roared off.

Meanwhile, Mr. Wigglesworth had interrupted the Superintendent in the middle of an important diversity task force meeting. "This better be important", muttered Superintendent Cheeseman, as he stepped out of the meeting room.

"It is, sir" said Mr. Wigglesworth. "Listen!" He held out the iPod and offered the earbuds.

Mr. Cheeseman listened for a few moments, then turned white as a sheet and blurted: "Holy Moose Droppings!" He turned to his secretary, Miss Fiddlesticks, a comely blonde who recently came out as a masochist and has owned up to the fact that she likes to be spanked. "Call the School Board into emergency session!" He turned back to Mr. Wigglesworth. "Where is the little bitch?" he demanded.

"Diversity has her in Security", said Mr. Wigglesworth.

"I'll handle this", said Mr. Cheeseman. "You go back to your school and wait for instructions. And remember, this happened on your watch."

Mr. Cheeseman strode down a long corridor, through several doors and past a Diversity checkpoint manned by tough men in black. He descended a flight of stairs, punched a security code into a panel on the wall, passed a retinal check, then strode to the end of another long hallway and entered the door at the far end. The sign on the door read: Interrogation.

Inside, Kimberly was spread-eagled naked, her wrists and ankles handcuffed to the table. She seemed to be drugged. Mr. Cheeseman spoke to one of the men in black, who seemed to be in charge. "Anything?" The man shook his head. "Get the truth serum."

Mr. Cheeseman walked to the head of the table, leaned down and spoke softly in Kimberly's ear. "We can call this a misunderstanding, you know. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Kimberly nodded. Mr. Cheeseman put his ear near her lips. She struggled to lift her head, and whispered: "fuhhhhhck.......you...." She fell back to the table.

Mr. Cheeseman nodded. A bespectacled man in a white lab coat approached Kimberly with a hypodermic needle; she struggled against her manacles, but the man injected the truth serum into her right arm. Mr. Cheeseman waited a few minutes, then asked again: "Where did you get the stuff on your iPod?"

Kimberly was in a haze. "I...bought...it...from...iTunes..."

The Discovery

Megan Cupcake, in the sauna, nude. Bibi Ericson, in the sauna, nude. Megan Cupcake and Bibi Ericson, in a passionate sweaty embrace. Roderick woke up.

"Whoa", he thought.

He dressed quickly, ran downstairs, inhaled a plate of scrapple and applesauce, and departed for the boathouse. Hot Saturday in July, a busy day, Mr. Armstrong will need help.

Meanwhile, in her room, Megan finished some entries to her secret detailed journal. She turned to her novel, Lust and Lustiness, which she is writing in a style best described as a fusion of Jane Austen and the bodice-rippers sold at Zeppelin Drugs.

The next morning, Miss Emma Chillingworth stood in the grand foyer of Tamworth Hall, her gown slightly disshevelled from events of the previous evening. She opined: "There are two things in life that matter, an income and sex. And if I must choose between one and the other, I choose sex."

Wordlessly, Mr. Bromley swept Emma from her feet, carried her up the grand staircase, past the large portrait of the ancient Earl of Tamworth and down the hall to Miss Chillingworth's boudoir, where he threw her on the massive four-poster bed. With a single tug, he pulled her gown to her ankles, revealing that she wore nothing underneath other than the long string of pearls Mr. Podsworth purchased in Putteringham and gave to Emma as a token of his esteem.

Mr. Bromley saw the pearls, and was thunderstruck. "I must withdraw! You are betrothed to Mr. Podsworth!". At that moment, he realized they could not marry. She had attended Cambridge, while he was an Oxford man.

Emma grasped Mr. Bromley's shoulder. "I shall marry Mr. Podsworth for his income", she gasped, "but you I shall have. Now ravish me."

Megan paused. God, she thought. I love to write.

Seated at her customary table in the Cafe Venice, Amanda opened her laptop, logged in to Cries and Whispers, and blogged:

Was it a hate crime, or merely rotten fish?

Did a certain blonde newbie and her armed competitor kiss and make up?

Amanda knows all.

Actually, Amanda knows very little, but is very good at fabricating stories. She has a promising career in journalism.

A little later that morning, Mrs. Gabrieli showed Molly a letter:

Dear Mrs. Gabrieli:

Your student, Miss Molly Bloom, attended a lesson with Maestro Chickarina Wednesday last. The Maestro wishes me to inform you that Miss Bloom's performance was adequate.

Sincerely,

Peter Pufter
Personal Secretary to Adolph Chickarina.

"Adequate?" said Molly, angrily, "I played the Diabelli perfectly. And with his hand up my skirt."

"Don't worry about it, dear", said Mrs. Gabrieli, soothingly. "Everyone knows he's a jerk. That letter assures you will get in to Old Ivy. As to the other matter, the women at Conservatory called him 'Mr. Handy'".

Molly didn't really hear Mrs' Gabrieli's response, as she was already doing her scales.

At the same moment, Natasha and Henry lay naked in her bed, where she had successfully lured him the night before; her diaphragm remained in its case in the medicine cabinet. Henry lay with his head on Natasha's stomach, tracking his fingers along her left thigh.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the little mark on the inner part of her thigh.

"It's nothing", said Natasha, instinctively covering the spot with her hand.

Henry pushed her hand aside and looked closely. "It's a tattoo!", he said, reading: "K.."

"Oh no", thought Natasha. She felt her world collapsing.

Henry was stunned. "You ran with the KulturPunks!"

If this were a movie, you would now hear an ominous "da-da-duhhhh". But since it is not a movie, the reader will have to imagine the music, and visualize the scene: Henry, shocked, pacing the room; and Natasha, sobbing, head in hands, her life ruined.

Insatiable

Bibi did not see the package on the front step, because she went straight to her back yard, shed her clothing and climbed into the hot tub. This was fortunate, because at precisely eight o'clock in the evening the package exploded.

Well, not exactly. It would be more accurate to say that something inside the package exploded, releasing a truly disgusting odor and sending little bits of glop in all directions.

Roderick was sitting on his porch with Grandpa, when he heard a phud and smelled something really gross. At first, he thought Grandpa had farted -- on most evenings after dinner, Grandpa likes to let loose a few good ones -- but soon he realized that this smell was far worse than Grandpa's Greatest Fart Ever. (For the record, that was two years ago, at the Annual Charity Dinner in Beauneville Hall, after a dinner of liver and onions washed down with two bottles of stout. Grandpa let one loose during the Keynote Speech, and cleared the hall. The Speaker cut short his remarks, to much applause).

No, this smell was far worse than a Grandpa Fart. Roderick ran to the Ericson's, where he met Megan Cupcake, who had rushed over from her house. A small crowd gathered, including Amanda Dennis, who furiously scribbled notes. Bibi, who had heard the explosion and smelled the smell, leapt from the hot tub and ran to the front yard without pausing to don her clothing; dripping wet in the stark bucko, her skin was rosy pink from the hot tub.

"Is it a stink bomb?" whispered someone in the crowd.

"A hate crime!" someone muttered. Amanda could hardly contain herself. A story!

Mr. Ericson stepped out on the porch, gingerly avoiding the little balls of glop that littered the porch. He saw the mess around the carton, looked at the crowd and laughed out loud, then stepped inside and yelled something up the stairs in Swedish.

Someone offered Bibi a blanket, which she wrapped around herself -- more out of cold than modesty. Roderick approached her and introduced her to Megan. Amanda scribbled another note.

"Was it a bomb?" asked Roderick.

Bibi laughed. "A bomb? No! Ees ze surstromming, ze...how you say...ze sour feesh! From ze grandmama! You like ze surstromming, ya?"

Roderick did not know whether or not he liked surstromming. He was thinking that if it had anything to do with Bibi vizout ze clothes it would be OK, but on the other hand, he would prefer to avoid ze sour fish.

Bibi continued. "In Sveden, ve like ze herring zat is...how you say in Eenglish...peekled! Ze herring eet ees vermented in ze can, and sometimes eet explode from ze gas!". Roderick made a mental note to look up surstromming in Wikipedia, the repository of all knowledge, and also to remember that Swedes are kind of odd.

Turning to Megan, Bibi asked: "You like ze sauna, ya?"

Megan looked at Roderick. "I don't know...". Roderick nodded to reassure Megan. He thought to himself that the opportunity to spend time with Bibi and Megan vizout ze clothes was not to be missed.

They went downstairs to the sauna. Bibi shed her blanket, Megan -- bubbly, buxom and uncomplicated -- shed her clothes, and Roderick did the same. They entered the sweltering heat of the sauna; Bibi and Megan sat on the bench on one side, and Roderick sat on the other side. He hadn't seen Megan in the alltogether before this, and he was impressed, to say the least.

Meanwhile, Molly banged away on the Bloom's Bosendorfer. She played through the Diabelli, using the Maestro's tempi, and it worked. Midway through the twenty-fifth variation, she thought of his hand on her upper thigh.

Across town, in a dark spot near the Mill Pond, a brief encounter took place in the back seat of a two-tone 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. The teens of Beauneville are not sexually active, except for Mary Bloom, who is insatiable. And her partners.

A Parcel for the Ericsons

Roderick and Molly spent the rest of the afternoon in Lake City. They went to the Art Musuem, and wandered the large galleries, which were peaceful and uncrowded. Roderick thought the paintings were pretty, and wondered what each was worth. He's heard that investing in art is a good thing to do, and would like to buy something to hang next to Natasha's nudes of Molly.

Molly gazed reverently at a modern color field painting for a long time. You might think she is an avid fan of modern art. In fact, she was in a reverie, and if you looked closely at her hands, you would see her fingers moving as if on an imaginary keyboard.

At Union Station, they caught the noon train for Stapleton. After a longish ride, they arrived in Stapleton; Mr. Bloom met them at the station and drove them home in time for dinner. Molly invited Roderick to stay, and he gladly accepted.

Per usual, they dined in the dining room: Mr. and Mrs. Bloom at the North and South ends of the table, respectively; Roderick and Molly on the West side; Mary, Margaret and Catherine on the East side. Mrs. Bloom served Tofu Surprise (with ground beef substituted for the tofu). Roderick likes Mrs. Bloom; he thinks she's nice, and very interesting. Cooking, on the other hand, is not her strong suit, and while she excels at making Tofu Surprise (and derivatives thereof), her range beyond that is limited.

Roderick wondered how long it would take Mr. Bloom to ask awkward questions. No time at all, it turned out.

"So", said Mr. Bloom between bites of Tofu Surprise, "is my daughter still a virgin?"

"Um...". Roderick pretended to be chewing.

"You can ask me, Daddy", said Molly, brightly.

"OK. Are you still a virgin?"

"None of your damn business!" said Molly, and everyone at the table roared with laughter, except Margaret, the quiet one, and Catherine, who didn't understand.

"What's a virgin?", she asked.

Margaret whispered in her ear. It didn't help. Catherine looked puzzled.

"I'm still a virgin" said Mary, with a toss of her head.

"Really?" said Mr. Bloom, with a quizzical look.

"Yes", said Mary. "I am".

Mr. Bloom leaned forward conspiratorially. "So...what are you waiting for?" and everyone laughed again, including Mary, who really isn't a virgin -- not even close -- but prefers to keep that aspect of her life under wraps.

Catherine was still clueless about the subject matter, and miffed at being out of the loop. "Well", she said, attempting to change the subject, "I had a nice day". Unfortunately, everyone else had left the table by then, so nobody heard the wonderful news about her day except Mr. Fuzzums, Catherine's brown bear, who accompanies her almost everywhere. Catherine, on realizing that everyone had departed, sighed, gave Mr. Fuzzums a hug, and took her dish into the kitchen.

Roderick and Molly sat on the porch lounger enjoying the evening and each others' presence.

Meanwhile, a parcel delivery van stopped in front of the Ericson's house on Elm Street. The driver stepped out, walked quickly up the sidewalk, and left a carton on the front steps.

At the same time, Natasha walked over to Henry Witherspoon's easel in the studio on Main Street. Would Henry perhaps like to go for a walk down by Mill Pond? Henry would.

Katie Zeppelin tended the cash register at the drugstore. She wondered if Roderick would stop in and buy something.

On Elm Street, Bibi walked home past Megan Cupcake's house. From her bedroom on the second floor, Megan watched her pass. Retrieving her bag from the closet floor, she sat down at her desk, withdrew her Glock from the bag, and carefully cleaned it.

The Lesson

Mr. Chickarina lives in a tall new apartment building at 400 Lakeside Drive, Lake City. Roderick and Molly arrived at the door of his suite at eight forty-five, and knocked.

A small, balding man with glasses opened the door and, though he was much shorter than Roderick and Molly, looked down at them.

"Yehhhhs?"

"I'm Molly Bloom, and...this is my friend Roderick, and... I'm here for a lesson...are you Mr. Chickarina?"

The man looked at them with disdain for failing to recognize that he was not Mr. Chickarina. "I am Mr. Pufter, Mr. Chickarina's personal secretary. When Mr. Chickarina instructs you to arrive at nine, he means nine, and only nine, and neither before nine, nor after nine. You may enter, but you will wait."

Molly and Roderick entered.

Roderick queried: "Personal secretary? Does that mean you're really Mr. Chickarina's gay "friend"?"

Mr. Pufter paused, and frowned. "Mr. Chickarina prefers younger fowl. I generally cruise the leather bars, or just pay for it. You will sit down here."

Roderick and Molly obeyed, sat in the antiquish chairs, and inspected the marble floor.

At precisely nine, Mr. Pufter returned, and pointed to Molly. "You will come with me." Molly and Roderick both stood up. Mr. Pufter glared at Roderick. "Your young man friend" -- he said that with a mix of interest and contempt -- "will remain seated here."

Molly followed Mr. Pufter down a long hallway whose walls were covered floor to ceiling with framed photographs of Adolph Chickarina performing, Adolph Chickarina smiling for his fans, Adolph Chickarina with famous celebrities, a cocktail napkin with a red smudge signed by Adolph Chickarina, and so forth. Mr. Pufter saw Molly eyeballing the pictures, and gushed: "Mr. Chickarina's life...and work".

They entered a large room with a spectacular view of the lake through floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows. On the far side of the room, there was a full-size concert grand positioned so that the pianist can see the view through the window. Molly paused for a moment, mesmerized by the view, then moved over to inspect the piano.

Mr. Pufter addressed her. "The Maestro will arrive at his pleasure. You will not touch the piano until he instructs you. You will not touch any of the other items in this room. You may stand here." He pointed to a spot on the floor, waited for Molly to obey, and then disappeared.

Molly looked around. It was a beautiful day outside, and she could see for what seemed like a million miles out into the lake. There was a steamship headed towards Lake City.

The room was quiet, except for the slow ticking of an ornate clock. Molly could see herself in a large gilt-framed Baroque mirror. She adjusted her blouse, unbuttoned the second button from the top, buttoned it again. Braless, she double-checked to make sure her nipples did not show through the cotton blouse. They didn't.

She adjusted her skirt. The underwear, which she never wears, was itchy.

Tick...tick...tick...

A large man with longish silver hair and a profoundly wrinkled face entered the room. There were bags under his eyes the size of grapefruit. He wore a deep purple bathrobe; his furry white chest hair spilled over the lapel.

He held a tall glass with clear liquid in his gnarled left hand. With his right, he gestured impatiently towards the piano. "Play", he muttered, and slumped exhaustedly on the sofa across from the piano.

Molly sat down on the piano bench, squished her buttocks into the soft leather and carefully adjusted the height. She checked her hemline. Just above the knee. Good.

She brought her hands to her lap, paused, closed her eyes and visualized the Diabelli. The Tema is the simplest of tunes, a gentle waltz that begins with a dee-diddle-dit, dot-dit, dot-dit beeta-beeta bum!

Molly placed her hands on the keyboard, and began to play. Dee-diddle..

"Noooooooooooooooo!" screamed Mr. Chickarina. Molly nearly fell off the bench. She stopped playing and looked at him, wide-eyed.

Mr. Chickarina stood ominously and glowered at Molly. "Do you theenk Behtofen ees stoopid?", he demanded.

"What?". Molly fingered her hemline.

"Do..you..theenk..Behtofen..ees..stoopid?"

"No", she whimpered.

"Den why dunt you play what's preented?"

"What?"

"What's preented! Preented!". He held a copy of the music, thrust it at Molly and pointed at the first measure. "Behtofen write dynamic ees 'piano', you play 'mezzo-piano', you theenk Behtofen too stoopid to write 'piano' when he actually mean 'mezzo-piano'!"

"No, sir, I don't think Beethoven was stupid".

Mr. Chickarina seemed to calm down. "So you play again, like nice girl, only play what's preented".

Molly felt her heart racing. She paused, brought her hands to her lap, closed her eyes and visualized the opening. After a moment she placed her hands on the keyboard, and began to play. Dee-diddle...

"No!" roared Mr. Chickarina. Molly stopped and turned, quickly, frightened. The maestro loomed over her, threateningly.

"Vivace! Vivace! Vivace!" he screamed through ugly yellow teeth. A fleck of spittle flew out of his mouth and landed square on the F key above middle C. "You theenk Behtofen ees stoopid! You think Behtofen so stoopid he write 'vivace' when he mean 'prestissimo'! You Americans play piano like racehorse, always want to feenish first! Behtofen not stoopid! Behtofen mean 'vivace', he write 'vivace, now you play 'vivace'!".

Molly felt she might cry.

Mr. Chickarina seemed to mellow again. He sat down next to Molly on the piano bench. "Do not be afraid, my child", he leered, and placed his hand on hers. "I like to eat meat, but not...human meat." He displayed his ugly yellow partially toothless smile, and patted her hand.

Molly withdrew her hand, paused, closed her eyes, visualized the opening, placed her hands on the keyboard, and played: dee-diddle-dit, dot-dit, dot-dit beeta-beeta bum! And so forth, through the Tema. This time, Mr. Chickarina remained silent; Molly felt him moving and breathing slightly to the music, as if he were playing along.

At the first variation, Mr. Chickarina waved with his left hand, as if he were conducting the music. Molly followed his tempo, which was slightly slower than she had learned. It seemed to work.

She proceeded through the second, third and fourth variations; through the breathtaking fifth variation; and the virtuoso sixth and seventh, which she played flawlessly. Mr. Chickarina is right, she thought. A slower tempo makes the trills easy to execute. On she played, through the whirlwind tenth variation.

As she opened the quieter eleventh variation, Mr. Chickarina put his hand on her knee. It tickled a little, but Molly ignored it, and played on.

By the time she reached the slow and sphynxlike twentieth variation, Mr. Chickarina's hand had reached the fleshy part of her middle thigh, underneath her skirt.

The diabolical twenty-forth variation came and went. Molly played it perfectly, and continued.

Finally, she reached the Fuga, and none too soon. At this point, Molly was glad she had remembered to wear underwear, because Mr. Chickarina's left pinky was dangerously close to a very sensitive place. She concentrated on Beethoven's triple fugue building to the dramatic fortissimo subject in the left hand, the dramatic sweeping arpeggios, and then...the quiet minuet that closes the work.

Molly played the final chord, paused, released the damper and stood up, removing Mr. Chickarina's hand from her upper thigh. He waved his hand.

Mr. Pufter returned from thin air and motioned Molly to follow him out of the room. "The maestro will send his critique to your teacher", he said as he led Molly down the hallway. "You and your young friend will now leave." They did so, and the door slammed behind them.

It was still morning; they walked down to the lakefront and stopped at a hot dog and pickle stand for breakfast. Roderick had two hot dogs, and Molly had four; she was famished. They sat by the lakeside. Roderick excitedly told Molly about investing in blue chip stocks with high dividend yields. She held his hand.

Opus Two Number One

In the morning, Roderick and Molly packed quickly for the trip to Lake City. Roderick folded a clean white button-down shirt and put it in his knapsack, together with clean underwear and socks. With the addition of an interesting book -- Dividend Investing, by Hy Yield -- he was set for the long train ride.

Molly threw a clean white skirt and blue blouse into her over-the-shoulder bag, added a few toiletries, zipped the bag and headed for the stairway. At the door, she paused, and thought -- underwear. Retracing her steps, she opened the top drawer of her dresser and retrieved a lonely and unused pair of underpants (with the opening bars of Beethoven's Opus Two Number One embroidered around the waistline), a present from Mrs. Gabrieli last Christmas. She opened her bag, threw in the garment, closed it up again and ran downstairs.

Mr. Bloom drove them to the train station in Stapleton. As the train arrived, Mr. Bloom pulled Roderick aside, and whispered: "Be gentle with my daughter, Roderick, she's still a virgin".

Roderick nodded politely and clambered up the steps to the waiting parlor car.

Slowly, the train started to leave the station. Molly, seated by the window on the right side of the car, waved to Mr. Bloom, who returned the wave. Roderick threw his backpack on the rack above their seats, together with Molly's over-the-shoulder bag, and sat next to her.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. As the countryside rolled by, Roderick read avidly about investing in stocks for safety, dividend growth and income. It was intriguing stuff. He was fascinated by discounted cash flow models, and impressed to learn that dividend investing is an excellent strategy for tax-advantaged accounts, such as retirement plans. He made a little note to himself to chat with Grandpa.

Molly listened to her iPod. She had downloaded the complete Beethoven piano music recorded by Mr. Chickarina, and was listening to his interpretation of the Diabelli Variations. She paused, and removed the earbuds, as if she wanted to chat.

Roderick noticed, and put his book aside. "So are you?" he asked.

Molly looked at him quizzicly. "Am I what?".

"Still a virgin".

Molly nodded, then frowned slightly and cocked her head. "At least I think so.."

"It's something you would remember".

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right".

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

Molly looked at Roderick. "And you?".

Roderick nodded. "Yep".

Molly noodged him. "What about you and Miss Cupcake?", she teased.

"Oh, no", said Roderick. "We just have fun".

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

Roderick noodged Molly. "Are you saving it?"

Molly shrugged. "Not really", she said, and snuggled up against him in the seat.

After a long ride, the train arrived at Union Station in Lake City. Roderick grabbed their bags, and they debarked to the platform. Walking quickly up the stairs and through the hustling, bustling concourse, they exited the station and into a waiting taxicab.

Roderick checked a piece of paper Mr. Bloom gave him earlier that day. "The Fourier Hotel, please", he said to the driver, who nodded and sped away from the cabstand and into traffic.

Molly leaned over towards Roderick and whispered: "The Fourier Hotel used to be a dive, but it's completely transformed!".

Roderick chuckled. One of the many things he likes about Molly is that she likes geeky math jokes.

They pressed their noses to the windows of the taxicab.

It was late afternoon, and they were stuck in traffic. Roderick looked at Molly. "It's my first time in Lake City", he said.

"Mine, too", said Molly.

"So...I guess we're Lake City virgins!", and the two of them laughed out loud.

At the Fourier Hotel, the desk clerk was an unpleasant little man. Molly tried the Fourier Transform joke on him, but he didn't get it.

Their room was pleasant, with one large bed. They left their bags and went down to the lakefront to grab some hot dogs and pickles for dinner. Lake City hot dogs are the creme de la creme of hotdogdom, the filet mignon of the frankfurter world. Roderick had two. Molly had three. The girl has quite an appetite.

Back at the Fourier, they undressed quickly and curled up together in bed. Molly fell asleep immediately, and dreamed of the twenty-fourth variation of the Diabelli. In her dreams, she played it perfectly.

The Invitation

Amanda logged in to Cries and Whispers, and wrote:

Batten the hatches, girls, and hold on to your boyfriends!

What dark-haired, azure-eyed hurricane is in heat and on the prowl?

And what blonde-braided newbie best watch her back, because her competition is strapped and loaded?

Then, per usual, she ended the post with her characteristic signature:

Amanda knows all.

Meanwhile, Megan Cupcake opened her secret detailed journal and wrote secret things about her very casual tete-a-tete with Roderick the previous evening. The author cannot disclose the details of what she wrote -- they are, after all, secret -- but her entry was very detailed, and it made her smile.

At the same time, Molly excitedly showed the letter she had received to Mrs. Gabrieli. It read:

Dear Miss Bloom:

The maestro has agreed to grant you a lesson. You will arrive at his suite in Lake City promptly at 9:00 a.m. sharp on Wednesday next.

Sincerely

Peter Pufter
Personal Secretary to Maestro Adolph Chickarina

"Wonderful!" said Mrs. Gabrieli, beaming. Adolph Chickarina is a famous pianist who has concertized all over the world. He is particularly noted for his recordings of the Diabelli Variations; his new recording is the most downloaded Beethoven recording by a pianist whose name sounds like a fusion of the Reichsfuhrer and a kind of Italian Wedding Soup.

Molly threw her arms around Mrs. Gabrieli and gave her an enormous hug. "It wouldn't have happened without you! You'll come with me, won't you?"

Mrs. Gabrieli frowned. "I'd love to, dear, but Hugo isn't feeling well and I need to take care of him". Hugo is Mrs. Gabrieli's schnauser. "You'll do just fine without me, dear. But wear a skirt -- Maestro Chickarina likes young girls with skirts -- and take a friend, because he likes to get friendly with his hands, if you know what I mean".

Molly didn't know what Mrs. Gabrieli meant, but she thought it was a good idea to take a friend. Of course, she would ask Roderick. She ran to his house to tell him the good news.

Dickie Wickett was just leaving Roderick's house when Molly arrived. Roderick is working with Dickie and the Science Team on a project -- Dickie read in Popular Mechanics that you can make awesome water baloons with condoms; Dickie dropped by to let Roderick know that the team decided he should buy the condoms. Roderick readily agreed. He thought the project sounded like fun.

Anyway, as Molly walked up the short path to Roderick's porch, Dickie descended the porch stairs. Dickie secretly loves Molly; he greeted her effusively. Molly waved shyly; Molly thinks Dickie is smart, but insane.

Roderick welcomed Molly. With Dickie gone, Molly was animated; she told Roderick all about the trip to Lake City, the lesson with the maestro, blah blah blah, and would Roderick please please please come with her?

Of course, Roderick agreed to come along. Roderick would never decline a request from Molly, and Molly would never request something that Roderick would decline.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Roderick answered, to find Bibi on the doorstep, holding her folding massage table. Roderick invited her inside.

Roderick, Molly and Bibi all greeted one another and chatted about stuff. Then, Bibi turned to Molly and asked: "You like ze massage, ya?"

Molly hesitated. "I don't know..."

Roderick interjected. "Try it, I think you'll like it".

Molly agreed. Bibi set up her massage table in the living room. Molly started to climb onto the table, but Bibi stopped her. "Ze massage, eet eez better vizout ze clothings, ya?".

"OK", said Molly, and in the bat of an eyelash her two garments lay on the floor, and she stretched out on the massage table, chin resting on her forearms.

Bibi massaged. Molly melted. Roderick read Popular Mechanics.

Cries and Whispers

Natasha figured that if she wanted to lure Henry into fathering her child, she would need to be a little less weird.

The first thing to go was the saris. She piled them all into a heap in the back yard -- including the purple one she bought last summer in Rawalpishni -- and was about to douse them in gasoline, when she thought: fabric art. She threw them all into a bag and set them aside for a future project.

Next, the other clothes. Baggy sweatshirts were definitely out. Natasha rummaged around in her dresser and found a rakish black armless shirt that showed off her ample cleavage. She pulled on a pair of short cutoff jeans, and checked herself in the mirror.

She wrinkled her nose. "Fat", she thought, but then dismissed the thought. Henry won't mind, she figured. Men like their women ripe.

Meanwhile, Amanda Dennis sat in the Cafe Venice and sipped her spearmint bubble tea. Amanda is tall, taller than Molly and most of the boys in Beauneville Latin. Like Molly, she has blonde hair and wears it long; unlike Molly, she is large in the hips -- not so large to be considered fat, but large enough that you suspect she does not spend a lot of time on the beach in a thong.

Amanda is the self-appointed social chronicler of Beauneville Latin's junior class through her blog, Cries and Whispers. She is not a gossip; there is nothing malicious or spiteful about her interest. She simply makes it her business to know about the social goings on among her classmates: who is dating whom, who and who are a number, and what happened last Saturday night behind the juice bar at the Stapleton Bowl-a-Drome. Where connections, social networks and hoo-hah are concerned, Amanda knows all.

She sat up and craned her neck. Outside the cafe, and across the street, she saw Roderick walking with that gorgeous new girl from Sweden with the braids. They paused, and chatted briefly, then Roderick headed off toward the boathouse. Amanda noticed that the new girl watched him walk away. Interesting.

Bibi crossed the street, opened the door to the Cafe, stepped inside and stood there, looking a little lost. Amanda seized the opportunity and pounced.

"Hi, you're new in town, aren't you? I'm Amanda."

Bibi beamed. "Ya, ya, I am Bibi!". She stared at the menu. "In Sveden, ve trink ze hot lingonberry tea, ya?"

Amanda whispered something to the barista, who produced a steaming hot cup of lingonberry tea. Actually, it was regular tea with a little red food coloring in it, but who's to know? Bibi gratefully accepted the cup and sat with Amanda.

"So I see you've met Roderick".

Bibi sipped her tea. "Ya, ya, he ees ferry nice, ya. He likes ze massage, ze sauna, ze hot tub... but ze Americans, zey like ze clothings too much, ya?" Bibi burst out laughing at this thought. Amanda laughed, too, and scribbled a few notes in her notepad.

Bibi leaned forward. "I zlept over at Roderick's and ze next day I go down to keetchen to get ze breakvast, ya? And ze Smeeths, zey look at me like hey, zey do not zee naked girl zo much! Not like Sveden!" Bibi could hardly contain herself.

Suddenly, Amanda looked up. Outside, and across the street, she saw Natasha walking on Main Street and...she wasn't wearing a sari. "Excuse me", she said to Bibi, dashed out the door of the cafe and across the street.

"Hi, Natasha", said Amanda, hugging Natasha with faux warmth.

"Hi", said Natasha, suspiciously. She didn't feel as if her peers at Beaunevile Latin had welcomed her with open arms. Of course, the unusual dress, strange interests and propensity to spend most of her waking hours in the studio didn't help. And then there was the small matter of personal hygiene which, to be honest, is not Natasha's strong suit. Roderick doesn't mind, actually -- he kind of likes a girl with genuine body odor -- but others are less tolerant.

Amanda, for one, has a sharp nose. She can tell, for example, purely with her olfactory organ, which girls are currently in their fertile time of the month and which are, well, not.

"Love your shirt", said Amanda, pinching the fabric slightly near Natasha's right shoulder. "Is this from the Gap?"

"Oh, this", said Natasha, looking down at her shirt. "I don't remember. It was in my dresser this morning, that's all".

Amanda looked Natasha up and down -- long black hair, azure eyes, prominent cleavage, bronze skin showing between shirt bottom and pants top, exposed legs -- and thought: "This girl is on the prowl".

Bibi joined them, and greeted Natasha. "My bruzzer, he like ze peecture you draw vizout ze clothings, ya? He says you make look zo beeg heez...how you zay een Eenglish...heez manly theeng?" She whispered something to Amanda, who whispered something back. They both burst out in hysterical laughing.

Natasha smiled. "Well, I'm off to Zeppelin's". Bibi burst out laughing at the word "Zeppelin". Amanda smiled, but didn't get what was funny.

Meanwhile, at the boathouse, Roderick sat with Megan Cupcake on the edge of the dock, their legs dangling over the water. They chatted. Megan observed, casually, that her parents were away in Stapleton that evening and she had that big old lonely house to herself. Roderick observed, casually, that it was a shame she was by herself, and would she perhaps want some company? Just casual of course. Megan opined, very casually, that perhaps she wouldn't mind a little company and perhaps he would stop by for just a teensy little bit. All very casual of course.

Molly banged away on the Bosendorfer, furiously, inspired by the contents of a letter, which lay open on the dining room table.

Searching for Artemis

The Forum in ruins, Rome ablaze, Mrs. Zemlinsky cowered behind some jars of olive oil. A band of barbarians burst into the closet, stripped her of her toga, dragged her naked to the atrium and threw her to the ground roughly at the feet of their chieftain. He glowered lustily at Mrs. Zemlinsky, who groveled at his feet.

The chieftain pointed his whip at Mrs. Zemlinsky. "You will show us the cheese!"

"No, please!", sobbed Mrs. Zemlinsky. "Not the cheese! I beg you!"

Thwack! "Roman whore! We are Barbarians! You will show us your secret cheese closet, or..."

The first thing Mrs. Zemlinsky noticed when she awoke was the velvet hand-and-ankle cuffs that restrained her to the bed. She lifted her head and looked around the stateroom.

"Guido, you can release me now". Guido, however, was catering to the needs of the American co-ed they picked up in Bari -- her name was Kimberly, or Jennifer, or something. Between her sophomore and junior years at Enormous State University, she traveled to Italy in the Study Abroad! program, seeking Italian culture -- an ample dose of which she was now receiving.

The stateroom door opened, and Mr. Zemlinsky entered dressed as an SS Hauptsturmfuhrer. "Albert, you look ridiculous in that outfit", said Mrs. Zemlinsky. She tugged at her restraints. "Now let me out of these, please, I have to pee. And it's my turn to be in control".

Mr. Zemlinsky approached the bed and looked down at the helpless Mrs. Zemlinsky. With his swagger stick, he traced a line from her neck to her navel. "I think not...", he murmured.

Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Natasha decided to have a baby.

"I'm sixteen", she thought. "And fertile". Natasha stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, naked except for her ankle bracelets. She felt her boobs, one in each hand, and imagined nursing a baby. If you could look over Natasha's shoulder in the mirror, you would most certainly agree - she is fertile and ripe.

Suddenly, it all came together for Natasha, and she understood the meaning and purpose of her existence. Her passion for Angel of the City, for example, and why she enhanced Molly's figure in certain ways. She was searching for Artemis.

Natasha cocked her head to one side. Plus, she thought, maybe Mom and Dad will pay more attention. She thought fondly of her childhood days in Vienna, when Grandpa would take her to the little playground in the Resselpark, near the Karlskirche. "Hup, hup, hup!", Grandpa would say, and send her spinning on the little spinner thing, her jet black hair flying.

Afterwards, Grandpa and Grandma would take her to one of the cafes in the Wipplingerstrasse, or the Hohenstaufengasse, or -- if they were feeling particularly spry -- the Schreyvogelgasse. Little Natasha would press her nose to the glass of the pastry case, azure eyes bug-eyed; but no matter what she saw in the case, she always asked for a cream puff, which Grandpa would always buy. And lovely cream puffs they were, very puffy, and full of creamy cream.

Natasha released her boobs. Questions, many questions. First -- whose baby to have? Roderick, perhaps? He's nice, she thought, but unlikely. Jock? Well, there's the thumpety-thump factor in his favor. But Natasha just finished reading The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo, and she wasn't sure about coupling with someone from a culture that breeds racist misogynist rapist serial killers. Dickie Wickett? The baby would be smart, but no. Henry Witherspoon? Hmmm.

What about the "how"? Natasha considered and rejected the direct approach: wrapping her arms around Henry's neck and whispering in his ear: "I want to have your baby!". No. A more subtle approach would be better: a passionate moment or two, an "accidental" forgetting to use birth control, followed by "I couldn't possibly have an abortion!". Natasha smiled. Yes, she thought, that will work.

She lit a candle before the little statue of Artemis she bought last year in Istanbul.

Meanwhile, Megan Cupcake flirted with Roderick at the boathouse; Roderick returned the flirt. Molly opened a long-awaited letter. Katie Zeppelin, working the register at the drugstore, wondered how she could hook up with Roderick. Jock and Bibi relaxed in the hot tub vizout ze clothings. And Amanda Dennis...well, Amanda's story will have to wait for another chapter.

Thor on Elm Street

Puff, puff, puff.

When he's not working for his father, Jock Ericson likes to run. And when he's not running he likes to work out. Since there are no health clubs in Beauneville, he likes to work out in his back yard, with free weights and such.

When he runs and works out, he does so in his gym shorts only. From her bedroom, Natasha watches with great interest; she finds his Nordic athleticism, ahem, interesting, thumpety-thumpety-thump.

And now, dressed in the white sari she bought in Poona last summer, Natasha stood with her sketch book in her studio, gazing at Jock in the stark bucko. When she asked him to model, he immediately agreed; even better, from Natasha's point of view: he did not request artist's courtesy.

Natasha looked at Jock with her head cocked to one side, held her pencil at arm's length and took some mental measurements. She asked him to stand with his weight on one leg, and then the other; she asked him to hold his arms one way, and then another way; then she paused and looked at him again. Something was not quite right.

Then she realized what was missing. Last summer, on the way back from India, Natasha made a side trip to Venice with Aunt Fluffy and Uncle Moe. On a hot and humid August afternoon, Natasha, Fluffy and Moe left their lodgings in San Marco and walked toward the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, pausing on the way at the Caffe Florian for a pick-me-up. Fluffy ordered a capuccino, Moe ordered an espresso doppio, and Natasha complained about the lack of vegetarian options.

She did like the artwork on the walls of the cafe, however, and felt incredibily inspired to sit within the same four walls once inhabited by Marcel Proust. Natasha once read the first page of Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu, and while she did not understand a word of it (as she neither speaks nor reads French), she is highly confident that it is one of the finest first pages yet written.

They also had snacks at the Florian: Fluffy ordered a cheese souffle, which looked grand when removed from the oven but rather sad by the time it reached the table; Moe ate Steak Tartare (which he later found to be an unfortunate choice); and Natasha continued to whine about the lack of options, but ordered a bratwurst anyway because it didn't really look like it had meat in it and she was hungry.

Fortified with caffeine and food (and inspired by the prominently displayed painting of Enrico Dandolo, forty-first doge of Venice) Natasha, Fluffy and Moe set forth again on foot for the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. They made considerable progress in the stinking heat until they encountered a significant obstacle in the form of the Grand Canal. They paused to consider options. Swimming seemed unattractive to Natasha, as she felt her ankle bracelets might drag her to the bottom. Fluffy disagreed -- Natasha's ankle bracelets aren't that heavy -- but Moe prevailed on the two of them to settle on a compromise, and take the gondola.

The gondola trip was brief and fairly uneventful -- the gondolier managed to avoid the several vaporetti that came dangerously close. While Uncle Moe was having great difficulty digesting the Steak Tartare (the rocking of the boat wasn't helpful), it was a simple matter for him to lean over the side of the gondola and retch to his heart's content. Natasha pulled her sari about her to protect it from collateral damage, and as she gazed at the water it struck her that Uncle Moe was likely neither the first nor the last to puke in the canal.

On arrival at the other side of the Grand Canal, Natasha stepped from the gondola and was immediately transfixed by Marino Marini's Angel of the City; her jaw dropped, and she stood there, mesmerized by bronze. Fluffy impatiently headed to the garden to touch the Brancusis; Fluffy has this thing where she needs to feel and hold the art, which is kind of quaint in a way but is also problematic because she is persona non grata at a number of major museums. Moe remained on the gondola landing; he and the Steak Tartare continued to confide in the Grand Canal.

Now, in the studio, Natasha remembered those electrifying moments in Venice. Inspired by Jock and by Angel of the City, she drew Thor on Elm Street.

Bastille Day

Mr. Smith makes his own sandwich for lunch. It's a matter of pride for him that he never makes the same sandwich twice.

Today is no exception. Rummaging among the breads in the drawer, he considers: white, whole wheat, twelve-grain, light rye, dark rye, flatbread, Italian bread or naan? Dark rye it is. So now the meats: roast beef, smoked turkey, regular turkey, Virginia ham, Black Forest Ham or Beauneville Ham (the Apotheosis of Pig)? Today, a combination: one slice of smoked turkey and one slice of Beauneville Ham. And now the cheese: the reader will please forgive if the author refrains from enumerating the cheeses; suffice to say that the Smiths are fond of cheese, that they keep an ample supply of cheeses, and Mr. Smith chooses Emmenthal.

Some lettuce: mixed greens, romaine, or Bibb? Romaine. Which of ten possible types of pickle? Mr. Smith chooses Bread and Butter. Tomato? Not today. As a rule, Mr. Smith will include pickles or tomatoes in his sandwich, but rarely includes both.

And now the most important part: the condiments. Mr. Smith opened the mustard cabinet and pondered: there were three different brands of Deli style mustard and two different kinds of dijon mustard; there were fruit mustards, stone-ground mustards, honey, herb and hot mustards. There were mustards from various places in Europe: Tewksbury, Norwich, Dijon and Meaux; Dusseldorf, Pinzeldorf and Spree; Belgrade and Zagreb; and also the diabolical Duchy of Luxembourg, where the burghers play tricks on tourists. "Ja", they say, "zis moostard eez mild", then watch the sandwich-eaters run hither and thither, mouths aflame.

Mr. Smith chooses a moustarda di frutta favored by the Dukes of Milan. He doesn't know much about the Dukes of Milan -- presumably, they were dukes who lived in Milan. He likes the Duomo and the Galleria Vittoria Emmanuele Due. There is a bookstore in the Galleria, across from the McDonald's, where he and Mrs. Smith bought some of the black and white prints that hang in the hallway. They went into the McDonald's too, their minds set on Quarter-Pounders, but they could not find them on the menu so they left.

His sandwich now constructed, Mr. Smith ceremonially placed the creation in his lunchbox, poured a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table with the Beauneville Bugle. Mrs. Smith was already seated, reading the copy of Sense and Sensibility Megan gave to Roderick. Roderick sat on the other side, inhaling his daily dose of scrapple and applesauce.

Bibi wandered into the kitchen, nude, her blonde braids brushing her buttocks. "God dag!", she said, brightly. At the kitchen counter, she poured coffee into a bowl, added some milk, contemplated the fruit bowl for a moment, and selected a ripe peach. She padded over to the kitchen table, coffee-milk bowl in one hand, peach in the other, and sat down across from Mrs. Smith.

She noticed that the Smiths were looking at her. "Ho!" she laughed, charmingly, "in Sveden ve sleep vizout ze clothings, ya?". She bit into the peach.

"Ah", said Mr. Smith, and returned to the Beauneville Bugle. There was a really interesting story about the town budget, and a committee meeting to determine how to use the surplus. Mr. Smith thought he might attend.

"That's nice, dear", said Mrs. Smith, as she continued to read Sense and Sensibility. She's at the part where Mr. Willoughby carries Marianne home after her accident and imagines herself, briefly, as Kate Winslet.

"You like ze Brennball, ya?", Bibi inquires of Roderick. Roderick does not know if he likes ze Brennball, he has never heard of ze Brennball. But if Brennball is played vizout ze clothings, he thinks he could get used to it.

Bibi proceeded to explain the rules of Brennball, a Swedish form of cricket played on an oddly shaped field. Roderick carefully observed a drop of peach juice as it coursed over Bibi's chin and down her neck. He wondered if the drop would go to the left, to the right, or down the middle.

When Bibi finished explaining the ins and outs of Brennball, Roderick invited her to a birthday party he planned for Molly that evening. She happily accepted, ran upstairs to get her clothes and departed for home.

Roderick spent the day getting ready for Molly's party, and at six the guests began to arrive: Dickie Wickett arrived early, of course, followed closely by Megan Cupcake and Amanda Dennis. Katie Zeppelin arrived with Willard Woofington; they aren't a couple, but they do hang out together sometimes. Natasha came dressed in the red sari she bought last summer in Karnataka. Bibi and Jock came together, dressed. Bibi offered Roderick a nice bottle of clear liquid; he thanked her and placed it behind the apple cider on the table in the hallway.

Roger and Henry Witherspoon arrived last, just in time; everyone hid as Roderick answered the door for Molly. "Surprise!" everyone shouted, and Molly blushed red as a beet. "Happy Birthday!".

There was a cake, with sixteen candles, and presents. Natasha gave Molly a painting, a version of Alexandre Cabanel's Birth of Venus, with Molly posing as Venus. Bibi gave Molly a book about massage, and Jock gave her a book about the joy of running. Megan gave her a book about guns.

Roderick smiled shyly as he gave Molly a gift-wrapped package. She opened it carefully, and revealed both volumes of Thayer's Life of Beethoven. Molly hugged Roderick enthusiasticly. "How does it feel to be sixteen?", he asked. "It's nice", she responded.

Everyone had a great time, and stayed quite late. Dickie left, then Megan. Natasha befriended Jock: would he perhaps consider posing? (He would). The Witherspoons, Katie, Amanda and Willard all left at the same time, around midnight. Natasha and Jock fell asleep on the living room floor, but Bibi made it to the guest room.

The guest room occupied, Molly slept with Roderick. The two of them curled up like peas in a pod, very cozy, very friendly, very warm. For the first time, Roderick did not need to wonder how Molly sleeps.

On Wickle's Island

"You show me ze canoe, ya?" Bibi stood on Roderick's front porch, wearing a Swedishy shirt, blue shorts and sandals. Her hair was neatly braided, and she had inserted little tiny wildflowers over her left ear. Roderick wondered where the wildflowers came from; likely from Mrs. Podgrass's rock garden. He didn't think Mrs. Podgrass would like having her wildflowers picked.

Neverthless, he wasn't about to say anything. Roderick was more than pleased to do something with Bibi that morning; it was his day off at the boathouse, and he had a free day. Molly was busy practicing -- she has a recital coming up; Megan was at the shooting range; Natasha was meditating or pouting or something. Roderick's ardor to spend time with Bibi was only slightly dampened by the knowledge that her participation would be vith ze clothes. After all, thought Roderick, she really is an attractive girl even when fully dressed.

They walked together to the boathouse. Roderick pointed out various landmarks around town: Dorabella's Bookstore, the Cafe Venice, Zeppelin Drugs. Bibi blushed, giggled and covered her mouth at the word "Zeppelin". Roderick wasn't sure what that was all about.

Bibi wasn't saying. "What does 'Zeppelin' mean to you?", he asked, but she just giggled and blushed some more.

"Oh..", she said, trying to restrain herself. "You know..um.." and she burst out laughing. Roderick figured that "Zeppelin" sounds like something dirty in Swedish, and made a mental note to look it up in his Swedish-English dictionary at home.

Mr. Armstrong was working alone at the boathouse; Tuesdays are a slow day, even in July. Roderick gets to use a canoe for free when he's not working, and Mr. Armstrong let him take one of the nicest canoes, a sleek red two-seater. They put the canoe in the water; Roderick stepped into the stern and held the canoe fast while Bibi stepped into the stern.

They paddled away from the dock. Bibi wasn't an experienced paddler, so Roderick did all of the paddling from the stern. Skillfully, he steered the canoe toward the middle of Mill Pond.

All of the canoes at the boathouse are made of wood and canvas, and they are all old but in excellent condition. The citizens of Beauneville like to keep things a long time, forever if possible; they'd rather care for things, maintain them or fix them than buy new stuff. Many years ago, more years than anyone can remember, some civic-minded person built the boathouse and bought the canoes; and since the local citizenry figure they cannot count on another "angel" to buy more canoes, they'd best keep them in good repair. And so, they do.

"Ve go there, ja?" Bibi pointed to Wickle's Island. Roderick gladly steered to the secret island, which isn't really secret but it's fun to think of it as such. Anyway, on a slow day on Mill Pond, it might as well be secret because they had the island to themselves.

They debarked at a small cove. Roderick pulled the canoe up on the gravel beach, and they walked inland to a small clearing, where Bibi sat on a convenient stump and rummaged around in her bag. Roderick sat on a nearby stump and wondered why there were stumps on the island, since "stumps" imply "cut down trees", and he was under the impression that forestry operations had ceased years ago. He made a mental note to check his copy of the most recent Yearbook of Forestry Operations in Washington County at home.

"Ve have peeknic, ya?" said Bibi. She offered Roderick a plate of what looked like cured fish, a pancakey thing with red jam and a glass of clear liquid. For a moment, Roderick felt slightly miffed about having leftovers for lunch -- he much prefers a freshly made lunch, like Mrs. Smith makes -- but the fish was tasty, the pancakey thing was good when slathered with red jam, and Bibi was so stunningly gorgeous in her Swedishy shirt and short blue shorts that he smiled and thanked her for the wonderful peeknic.

The clear liquid, though, he wasn't sure about -- he wanted to dump it on the ground, but was concerned it might harm the arctostaphylos uva-ursa that grows wild everywhere on the island. Bibi noticed his hesitation, and took the glass from his hand. "Ve trink ze Aquafit like zis!", she said, tossed down the contents of the glass in a single gulp, put her arm around Roderick and curled up catlike with her head on his lap.

And so they remained for quite some time, uninterrupted except for the occasional bluefly. Towards dusk, the blueflies gather strength, making Wickle's Island quite uninhabitable by anyone sans insect repellant towards dark. In any case, the boathouse closes at sundown, so Roderick paddled quickly across the pond, helped Bibi onto the dock, pulled the canoe from the water and stowed it in the boathouse.

They walked home. By now, it was quite dark outside. Roderick invited Bibi inside, and they scrounged some dinner from the fridge -- Mr. and Mrs. Smith were out at the Red Trolley. After eating, they sat in the living room and chatted about stuff. That night, Bibi slept over in the guest room.

Monday With Bibi

"You like ze sauna, ya?" Roderick did not know if he liked ze sauna, but based on massage and hot tub he figured that Bibi was two for two. Also, he figured that whatever a sauna was, odds were that Bibi would do it vizout ze clothes. It was a chance worth taking.

"Um...sure."

Bibi smiled and led him down to the basement, to a cedar-paneled room lined with hooks. She pointed to the hooks. "For ze clothings, ya?" Roderick nodded. So far, so good.

Roderick undressed quickly. Bibi was already undressed, with a towel wrapped around her waist. She handed him a towel. "To protect ze...how do you say it in English...private parts, ya?" Roderick thought it was a good idea to protect one's private parts, although he was curious from what they might need protection. Also, he was disappointed to see that Bibi was partially covered, though he had to admit that the view above the towel was stunning, and quite sufficient to keep him engaged for the moment.

"Okay", said Bibi, grasping Roderick by the hand. "Ve go inside now." She led him through a cedar door and into a small cedar-paneled room. There were wooden benches all around except in the far corner, where there was a bin filled to the brim with rocks. Hot rocks, as it turns out.

The heat was overwhelming.

Roderick looked at Bibi with an "Okay, now what do we do?" look, but Bibi was already reclining on the bench, eyes closed, her towel spread out on the bench to either side, so she was completely exposed. Getting the general idea, Roderick sat on the bench opposite Bibi and let his towel slip partially to either side, but not quite. He felt like he could get to like this nudity thing, but one step at a time. Also, he kept his eyes open, as the view of Bibi was, to say the least, riveting.

"You help me with English, ya?". Roderick readily agreed. Actually, Bibi's English is excellent, but he figured some personal tutoring couldn't hurt. Daily tutoring, in the sauna, perhaps, followed by hot tub.

They were sweating profusely. Bibi stretched twice, like a dancer, first to the left and then to the right. Roderick thought his head would explode.

"In Sveden, after sauna ve run through ze snow and spank skin vith birch tvigs!", said Bibi. Roderick thought that he would be more than happy to spank Bibi, with or without birch tvigs, at any time, but he wasn't sure about the snow part. He was pretty sure he did not want to be the spankee.

They departed the sauna and dressed, Roderick in his snazzy white Oxford button-down shirt, khaki dockers and loafers; Bibi in an armless green plaid shirt, jeans and sneakers without laces.

Mrs. Ericson invited Roderick to dinner. Mr. Ericson sat at one end of the table, Jock Ericson on the other, Mrs. Ericson on one side, Bibi and Roderick on the other side. Dinner consisted of what looked like cured fish, a pancakey thing with pork and red jam, and a clear liquid that Mr. Ericson poured from a fancy bottle with great ceremony. The fish was..interesting, the pancakey thing tasty when covered with the red jam, and the clear liquid reminded Roderick of the cleaning fluid Mr. Armstrong uses on the canoes when they get really, really dirty.

After dinner, Bibi led Roderick into the living room. "You like massage, ya?"

Roderick like.

Afterwards, they sat on the porch. It was a lovely summer night, rather cool. Bibi curled catlike next to Roderick, undid her braids and rebraided them. Roderick felt completely relaxed.

They sat quietly on the porch and chatted about different things. Bibi wanted to know about life in Beauneville, about Roderick's friends, and about Beauneville Latin. Roderick inquired about life in Sweden.

Around ten o'clock, Bibi offered to demonstrate the composting toilet; Roderick thanked her, and declined.

Somewhere in the Adriatic

"Punish me, Giorgio!". Mr. Zemlinsky pressed Giorgio against the bulkhead, crushing her lips into his ear and whispering hoarsely: "I'm naughty!".

Mr. Zemlinsky, holding his cell phone, gestured. "Can you take it downstairs, hon? I'm working on a deal."

"C'mon, Giorgio!" Mrs. Zelinsky pulled Giorgio by the drawstring of his loose-fitting sailor pants.

There's no other way to put it. Giorgio is a hunk, and an Italian hunk at that, which means he is an uber-hunk (at least in Mrs. Zemlinsky's mind). Though nominally he is the steward of the Natasha, it's fair to say he was hired more for his hunkiness than his stewardship.

Giorgio thinks Mrs. Zemlinsky is well-preserved for someone just past forty. To paraphrase W. S. Gilbert, she is the remains of a hotty. Giorgio has no shortage of female companionship in Barcelona, Monte Carlo, Capri, or wherever the Natasha calls -- or back home in Stresa, for that matter. But Giorgio know which side his bread is buttered on -- so to speak -- and he knows who wears the pants in the Zemlinsky family. And so, as the great retailer Marshall Field said, "Give the lady what she wants!". Which Giorgio will now do, with vigor.

And with velvet handcuffs.

Mrs. Zemlinsky, to say the least, is desperate. Three months past forty, body parts beginning to sag, she acutely feels the limits of plastic surgery. Never exactly discriminating in her choice of partners -- it's fair to say that there is some doubt about Natasha's paternity -- she now finds that male attention is increasingly scarce, unless she pays for it.

So pay for it she will.

Mr. Zemlinsky, on the other hand, is -- shall we say -- focused. He gives the impression that if a gorgeous sixteen-year-old Swedish masseuse named Bibi wrapped her arms around his neck and begged him to please, please, please teach her the ways of the world, he would explain the ins and outs of private equity and leveraged buyouts, then set her to work doing deals.

Speaking of a sixteen-year old Swedish masseuse named Bibi, meet the new neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Ericson, moved in to the empty Victorian on Elm last month. Their twins, Jock and Bibi, finished school in Stockholm and flew in yesterday.

Mr. Ericson owns a company based in Stockholm that makes "green" composting toilets and hot tubs. Surprisingly, he discovered that composting toilets were slow to catch on in America, so he remarketed the large round wooden hoppers as hot tubs. The President invited Mr. Ericson to America as part of the "Green Jobs" initiative -- encouraging companies that create "green jobs". Mr. Ericson hasn't hired anyone yet, but when he does, they will be green.

Jock and Bibi are twins. Jock likes to run, barechested and sweating. When he's not running, he likes to work out in the gym, sweating and barechested. Jock wants to go to college, then work in his father's business. He is already a skilled installer of composting toilets and hot tubs, so skilled and efficient that Mr. Ericson can sell many toilets and hot tubs without creating jobs (green or otherwise).

Bibi wants to be a masseuse. Excuse me, a "massage therapist".

Since this blog trades shamelessly in stereotypes, Jock and Bibi look exactly as you might expect: Jock is tall, blonde, nordic and athletic; Bibi has long blonde hair, which she invariably wears in braids, blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a gorgeous figure. Jock and Bibi speak English perfectly, except for a slight tendency to pronounce "w" like "v", and to end sentences with the word "ya".

On Sunday, Roderick rang the Ericson's doorbell. Bibi opened the door, somewhat shyly.

"Um, hi", said Roderick. "I heard that you moved in to the neighborhood, and just wanted to say hello".

"Oh!" said Bibi. "Come in! Sorry, our house is a mess. Ve are -- how do you say -- furnishing, ya?"

Roderick stepped inside. There were boxes everywhere, and Scandinavian-sytle furniture scattered hither and thither in the room, as if the movers had just dropped off the Ericson's belongings and abandoned the place. The scene would make sense if the Ericsons had arrived this morning, but since they arrived a month ago Roderick felt that there were two possible explanations: either the Ericsons are creative procrastinators, or they are just pigs. Roderick reserved judgment for the moment.

Bibi gestured to a massage table set up in the middle of the living room. "You like massage, ja?"

Roderick wasn't sure if he liked massage; he'd never had one. Still, he felt attracted to any sort of activity with Bibi, and one that involved her hands on his body seemed exceptionally so. In any case, Roderick is too polite to say no.

He lay shirtless on the table, and Bibi demonstrated her mastery of the arts of effleurage, petrissage and tapotement. Roderick melted into the table.

Afterwards, as Roderick buttoned his shirt, Bibi asked: "You like ze hot tub, ya?"

Roderick didn't know if he liked ze hot tub. But what's not to like. He told Bibi he'd be right back, and ran home and put on his bathing trunks.

On his return, Roderick found the hot tub out in the back yard, with Bibi immersed up to her neck. She beckoned. Roderick started to climb in the tub.

"No, no, no!" Bibi exclaimed. "In Sveden ve alvays do ze hot tub vizout ze clothes!". She stood up, and Roderick observed that she was, indeed vizout ze clothes.

The reader should understand that Roderick is in general not inclined to the open display of his body parts. Unlike Molly -- to cite one example -- Roderick generally prefers to remain dressed when among others.

In this case, however, intrigue trumped modesty. Roderick shed his trunks and climbed into the large wooden tub. It was warm and bubbly.

At this moment, Natasha peered out her bedroom window. She could see the tub in the Ericson's back yard. It looked inviting, but...

Saturday

Saturday is a busy day at the boathouse. Roderick woke up early, fed Knuckles and Laddie, then walked briskly to Mill Pond to open up for the day.

Molly ran home, showered, put on her gi, and walked to the dojo on Main Street.

Natasha slept in.

Megan Cupcake woke, put on her dark green bathrobe, opened her secret detailed journal and began to write.

Dorabella opened her bookstore. There were a few children waiting patiently for story hour.

At the Red Trolley Diner, the elusive guy who runs the joint arrived early, sliced the scrapple, opened jars of applesauce and prepared for the morning rush. Stella grumpily greeted the first few customers.

Mrs. Greenwood, at the Beaune estate, hummed as she dusted in the Great Hall. With a cloth, she wiped fingerprints from the glass coffin holding the stuffed and preserved remains of Auguste Beaune. The reader may recall that the children of Beauneville love to press their cheeks against the glass; they consider this to be a source of great good luck. Of course, the practice is strictly forbidden.

Katie Zeppelin and her father Curtis Zeppelin opened Zeppelin Drugs. Katie is Roderick's age; she is perky and sharp, with short blonde hair and a svelte but curvaceous figure. Roderick doesn't know Katie very well, but he thinks she's smart and good-looking. Katie doesn't know Roderick very well, but she thinks he's nice.

Sarah Flapper parked her stretch SUV in her normal fashion, without regard for the fenders of others. Betsy Flapper, sitting in the front seat, surfed the mobile web on her iPhone.

As expected on a hot sunny day in July, the boathouse was very busy. Roderick and Mr. Armstrong worked feverishly to get canoes for customers and help them embark.

At the dojo, Molly worked with the little ones, the white belts and yellow belts. She showed them several ways to block a punch, and several ways to throw a punch; then, she had then slowly step through a kata.

Natasha woke and went downstairs dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. The housekeeper made muffins -- lovely muffins. Natasha downed several with milk and some ripe cherries.

Megan finished writing in her journal, went downstairs (still dressed in her bathrobe) and ate breakfast. She washed the dishes, then sat at the kitchen table and cleaned her Glock.

Dorabella wriggled her ample bottom into the reading chair, a circle of children before her; she cleared her throat and began to read from the latest in the Michael Caterpillar series. The children were rapt.

Tables at the Red Trolley began to fill. Stella, per usual, was grumpy and rude to everyone. All customers but one ordered the breakfast special, scrapple and applesauce. The outlier was Mr. Pilkington of Winnebago, who isn't a regular, but is just passing through and turned left off the Interstate instead of turning right. Mr. Pilkington ordered the Dar es Salaam Omelette, which the menu describes as "a tasty blend of roasted goat meat, plantain, peanuts and vegetables from Zanzibar, spiced with cloves and wrapped in a four-egg omelette". Unfortunately for Mr. Pilkington, this item is on the menu purely for show. His order was taken and ignored.

Mrs. Greenwood reshelved some books in the library, then shooshed some youth who were tittering a bit too loud as they perused the well-thumbed copy of Erotic Art in Western Civilization.

The drugstore was not very busy. Katie restocked the condoms and incontinence aids, then chatted with Mrs. Wigglesworth, who needed a laxative but wasn't sure which one to select. Katie reviewed the pros and cons of each of the twenty-seven brands in stock, and several on order. Still, Mrs. Wigglesworth hesitated.

In the meat department of Ackerman's Market, Mr. Gutman killed a chicken for Mrs. Flabbergast.

At the Cafe Venice, Sarah Flapper tapped away on her MacBook as a Skinny Vente Soy Latte steamed near her fingertips. Betsy sexted on her iPhone, her double bubble tea untouched.

Somewhere in the Adriatic, aboard the Natasha, Mrs. Zemlinsky sipped her dirty martini.

Friday

On Friday morning, Megan Cupcake awoke, arose, opened her secret detailed journal and began to write about the previous day.

The precise nature of the game played by Roderick and Megan shall remain private. Suffice to say that Roderick found the game to be most intriguing; much better than Monopoly. And Megan, who prefers not to play with Donny Clapper, was more than delighted to play with Roderick, because he is kind.

Lest the reader be of prurient mind, consider that Roderick and Megan are merely sixteen, and they are new to the game.

Well, Roderick is new to the game.

In any case, the state of Megan's virtue was not altered.

After a long and busy day at the boathouse, Roderick was pleased to join his parents and the Blooms at the Red Trolley Diner. And Molly, who spent much of the time banging away on the Bosendorfer, felt the same way. The Blooms and the Smiths sat at their usual table, and ordered the same things they always order, because the Blooms and the Smiths like to keep ertain things constant in their lives.

Henry invited Natasha to the Friday night "bowling party" in Stapleton, an offer which Natasha accepted eagerly. She had not decided whether to pose for Henry, but a bowling party seemed safe.

Surprisingly, Henry actually wanted to bowl. Natasha had never bowled, and encountered considerable difficulty getting the hang of it. Donny Clapper offered to help Natasha, but as he stood behind her and helped her hold the ball, his left hand "accidentally" found her left breast. Natasha was so surprised she dropped the bowling ball, which landed on Donny's sandal-shod foot. He writhed in pain on the foul line.

Roderick and Molly walked home separately from their families. The moon was about a week past full, but shone brightly in the clear sky. Roderick invited Molly inside; they sat on the couch close together and listened to Alfred Brendel's recording of the Diabelli Variations. They fell asleep cuddled together before the twenty-forth variation.

Around ten o-clock, Mr. Smith pulled a comforter over them.

Fun With Megan

Somewhere in the Adriatic, Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky relaxed in the sun on the top deck of the Natasha. The Zemlinskys care deeply about their daughter. They named their yacht after her.

Mrs. Zemlinsky sipped her dirty martini. "I do wish Natasha would sleep around more. What's she saving it for? Marriage?"

The Zemlinskys burst out laughing.

"You're killing me!" guffawed Mr. Zemlinsky, slapping his deck chair. "M-m-m-marriage!"

"Ooh, I'm saving it!" said Mrs. Zemlinsky in a high voice, eliciting peals of laughter from Mr. Zemlinsky.

A moment passed.

Mr. Zemlinsky turned serious. "Maybe you should talk to her about...you know".

Mrs. Zemlinsky screwed up her face. "Me? God, no. That's why we pay Dr. Adler".

Mr. Zemlinsky's cell phone rang -- Singapore calling. "I have to take this", he said.

Meanwhile, Natasha opened her copy of I Ching for Beginners and read:

One takes fifty yarrow stalks, of which only forty-nine are used. These forty-nine are first divided into two heaps (at random), then a stalk from the right-hand heap is inserted between the ring finger and the little finger of the left hand. The left heap is counted through by fours, and the remainder (four or less) is inserted between the ring finger and the middle finger. The same thing is done with the right heap, and the remainder inserted between the forefinger and the middle finger. This constitutes one change.

Now one is holding in one's hand either five or nine stalks in all. The two remaining heaps are put together, and the same process is repeated twice. These second and third times, one obtains either four or eight stalks. The five stalks of the first counting and the four of each of the succeeding countings are regarded as a unit having the numerical value three; the nine stalks of the first counting and the eight of the succeeding countings have the numerical value two.

When three successive changes produce the sum 3+3+3=9, this makes the old yang, i.e., a firm line that moves. The sum 2+2+2=6 makes old yin, a yielding line that moves. Seven is the young yang, and eight the young yin; they are not taken into account as individual lines.

Wha-a-a? thought Natasha. Abandoning the I Ching, she pondered: pose for Henry, yes or no?

For Molly Bloom, posing in the nude is nothing exceptional. Molly is so completely innocent and ephemeral that it seems perfectly natural for her to shed her clothing at a moment's notice. She simply doesn't think twice about it.

Natasha, on the other hand, is quite shy about exposing herself to others. She feels there is something dark, shameful and dirty about her body that she must hide from the gaze of others.

And then there is the secret of her dark and frenzied past she feels must remain hidden.

But then, on the other hand, there is Adonis, Rising. Natasha's heart goes pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat.

Thursday is Roderick's day off from the boathouse. He stopped by to see Megan, who was delighted to see him, and invited him inside.

Megan wore a green t-shirt -- Roderick secretly wished it could get wet -- and greenish shorts. "Come on, I want you to meet my Dad". She led Roderick back through the house to a large darkly paneled room with windows facing the back yard. There was a great fireplace at one end of the room, and a gun rack over the mantel. Mr. Cupcake stood up and greeted Roderick.

"Daddy, this is Roderick. Roderick, this is my Dad".

Mr. Cupcake stood and greeted Roderick warmly. "Greetings, son. So you're the Roderick my little Megan can't stop talking about! Welcome to our home."

Roderick shook hands with Mr. Cupcake. "Pleased to meet you, sir".

Mr. Cupcake didn't let go of Roderick's hand. "You're a gentleman?"

"Um.."

"I mean with my little daughter. You're a gentleman, right?"

Megan rolled her eyes and made a little loop-de-loop gesture with her finger.

"Um.."

Mr. Cupcake held Roderick's hand tighter and pressed his point. "My daughter's virtue is priceless", he said.

Megan coughed a little and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Um.."

"In Slovenia", continued Mr. Cupcake, "we shoot young men who take a daughter's virtue".

"Oh, Daddy", exclaimed Megan, "you're so old country!".

"Okay, okay", said Mr. Cupcake, releasing Roderick's hand and returning to his seat. "Just so we understand each other".

Megan hugged her father. "Don't worry about my virtue, Daddy", she said. "Roderick is a perfect gentleman. We're going up to my room to play a game".

"Okay", said Mr. Cupcake. "Have fun." And with that, he opened his newspaper.

Megan took Roderick's hand and led him up to her room, a large room on the third floor. The room was furnished in an eclectic mix of styles, mostly Arts and Crafts, but with a few pieces that appeared to be Japanese, possibly from the Edo period. There was a large shaggy rug square in the middle of the room, which Roderick thought looked kind of like bearskin. He wondered who shot the bear.

"What game shall we play?" wondered Roderick. He was hoping Megan would not say Monopoly. Roderick isn't really that fond of Monopoly. He prefers chess, or checkers or card games, or games like Clue that take some thinking but not too much.

"Well", said Megan, snuggling up to Roderick, "there's a game I've wanted to play with you since we first met.."

Wednesday

On a hot July day, Grandma trimmed and fussed over the lovely red roses that grow along the picket fence in front of her little Cape Cod house on Larch Street. With great care, she inspected each blossom. Some, she clipped and added to the inventory of cut roses she carried in her straw bag. Others, she left alone. From time to time, she plucked a Japanese beetle from a rose plant and dropped the wiggling insect into a can.

"Hi, can I give you some literature from the Church of Nothing?". It was that nice young man Mr. Ericson, who is quite passionate about Nothing.

Grandma straightened up, wiped her brow and accepted the pamphlet. "Thank you, Mr. Ericson", she said.

Mr. Ericson laughed. "You mean 'thanks for nothing'"!

Grandma laughed politely, put the pamphlet in her pocket, and returned to her roses. Grandma does not attend the Church of Nothing. She thinks it is a bit insubstantial.

Meanwhile, Roderick enjoyed the slow day at the boathouse. He and Mr. Armstrong had cleaned all of the boats yesterday, so there wasn't much to do. They chatted. Mr. Armstrong spoke about white-water rafting, rock climbing, scuba diving and surf kayaking.

Roderick thought about Megan Cupcake in a wet t-shirt.

In the Adriatic, Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky cruised lazily on their yacht Natasha near the Brijuni islands off Croatia.

Megan Cupcake opened her secret detailed journal and wrote secret things.

At the Bosendorfer, Molly began to play her scales. Two hands, an octave apart, four octaves up and down the keyboard. C major, C-Sharp major, D major, E-flat major, through the twelve major keys. Then: A minor, B-flat minor, B minor through the minor keys. Then back to the major keys, only faster. And again, faster. Molly's fingers flew; she bent forward, her nostrils flared.

Natasha stood before her mirror in nothing but ankle bracelets. She gazed carefully at her reflection, and wrinkled her nose. "Fat", she thought.

Knuckles slept.

Laddie tired of waiting for Roderick, and went to find him. Laddie is a smart dog. He knew he would find Roderick at the boathouse.

On the Natasha, Mrs. Zemlinsky called for Giorgio, the steward. Her martini wasn't dirty enough. Secretly, she wanted to do dirty things with Giorgio.

Molly finished her scales and began to play arpeggios through the major and minor keys.

Megan Cupcake finished writing in her secret detailed journal and went to see if she could find Roderick. She arrived at the boathouse at the same moment as Laddie. Laddie bounded over to greet Roderick, who gave him a big dog-hug. Megan did not bound over to greet Roderick, and Roderick did not hug Megan, but she walked over to see him with a shy wave. They played fetch with Laddie, who is happy to oblige such games because he is a kind and well-mannered dog.

Natasha donned the blue silken sari she bought last summer in Mysore. The color of the sari perfectly matched her azure eyes. "Should I pose for Henry?", she wondered out loud. Natasha squatted on the floor and consulted the I Ching.

Molly finished her arpeggios and began to play an etude.

Roderick thought Megan looked particularly bubbly, buxom and fetching today. "She's nice to Laddie", he thought. That was important to him. He wondered if she was packing heat.

Grandma felt tired and thirsty, so she stopped tending her roses and went inside to pour a drink and sit down. Grandpa was sitting in a rocker on the porch, snoozing. Grandma set the can of Japanese beetles on the porch, set her straw bag on the kitchen counter and put her freshly cut roses in a vase with water. Then she poured herself a glass of water, sat in the big comfy chair in the sunroom, and drank the view of her garden, which was ripe with blooms.

She felt something in her pocket, and withdrew it. Oh -- a pamphlet from the Church of Nothing. Grandma frowned. Now, where did that come from? She searched her memory, but could not recall. No matter, she thought.

Tuesday

On Tuesday morning, Natasha donned her red silk sari -- the one she bought last year in Kanchipuram -- and sat cross-legged in the garden to read an English translation of the Arruppittai. Feeling hungry, she ordered tiffin from the Red Trolley Diner, a lovely Ringan Nu Shaak made with local eggplants, and a small dish of sweet Basuti.

Then she flossed.

Returning to the lush green garden, Natasha sat cross-legged on a stone amidst the lilies and bee-balm, her long black hair trailing casually over her red silk sari, and sketched imaginary scenes from the Nakkirar legend.

Roderick, looking out a window from the rear of the third floor, thought Natasha looked beautiful, so beautiful he wanted to run over and hug her.

He refrained.

Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky met with clients in Milan. Mr. Zemlinsky ordered a cassouela of pork, sausage and Savoy cabbage; Mrs. Zemlinsky ordered coteletta alla milanese; and the clients ordered osso buco with risotto milanese. They shared a lovely Pinot Nero from the Oltrepo Pavese, then retired to their rooms at the Town House Galleria.

At the same time, Molly sat down at the Bosendorfer in the Bloom's living room and began to practice: finger exercises, scales, etudes, repertoire. Her long fingers danced across the keyboard. Leaning forward, her nostrils flared.

On Elm Street, Megan Cupcake awoke, ate a small breakfast of succotash and hard-boiled eggs, then dressed in a green sweatshirt, blue jeans and clogs. Sitting at the picnic table in the garden, she carefully cleaned her Glock.

Later that morning, Roderick went to work at the boathouse. Tuesday is a slow day at the pond, so Roderick and Mr. Armstrong painted and repaired some of the canoes.

On the telephone, Mr. Smith reassured Mr. Hazeltine that her investments were safe.

Working at home, in her office on the second floor of the Smith home, Mrs. Smith worked quickly at her computer to finish her latest technical writing project. Mrs. Smith is a free-lance technical writer; she works for software companies who need people to write documentation.

Knuckles slept.

Laddie waited patiently for Roderick to come home.

At the studio, Henry Witherspoon sketched; from time to time, he looked over at the empty easel where Natasha usually works.