My father came on a Sunday without warning. This was not unusual. Gerald Voss had spent his entire adult life operating without regard for the schedules of the people around him with a habit of the chronically optimistic, the kind of man who assumed that his arrival was always welcome because the alternative required a selfvawareness he had never developed. He arrived at ten-thirty in the morning with his coat slightly damp from the rain and his expression arranged in the particular configuration that meant he had something he wanted to discuss. I had been in my wing working on client correspondence.
Damian had been in his office. Mrs. Park, who had no way of knowing the particular dynamics of Gerald Voss in a beautiful room with good scotch, had done the hospitable and efficient thing a
