He had zero interest in Emmie when she was a baby—if you handed him an infant, he'd hold its body as far away from himself as possible, failing to support the head—but as soon as she could really speak, he was smitten. She would sit on his knee on Governor Street and he would tell her long stories in German that must have been utterly incomprehensible to her, and yet she was rapt, her green eyes staring into his. And he would read to her endlessly; she would fall asleep and he'd go on reading, as if following her into her dreams. When she was old enough, they would have these long sessions over the phone—he'd be in his office or traveling and she'd be in bed with my iPhone on speaker; we could hear him from the hall. It was like a radio play. 'Emmie, before we return to the adventures of this redhead young woman, I will play for you a passage of music by a man named Debussy that I believe will resonate with our text.' And then she would slowly read The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking to this cultural giant who was following along; he'd make little exclamations or comments here and there, help her sound out words; somehow his presence, the quality of his attention, would fill the house. They loved each other. Emmie used to sleep with one of his scarves; I'd be startled by the very faint smell when I'd come in to check on her: traces of the eau de toilette and sandalwood aftershave I remembered from when he used to kiss me good night, which he did for a year or two after my mom died. For the last thirty-five years, we only shook hands.