It couldn't have been me. When you were ten, I hadn't even been born.
Am I that old?
Not old, exactly. But a lot older than I am.
All right. If you're not that Sophie, which Sophie are you?
Instead of answering him, the Sophie who was not the girl Mr. Blank kissed when he was ten walks over to the desk, retrieves one of the photographs from the pile, and holds it up in the air. That's me, she says. Me as I was about twenty-five years ago.
Come closer, Mr. Blank says. You're too far away.
Several seconds later, Mr. Blank is holding the picture in his hands. It turns out to be the photograph he lingered over so attentively earlier in the day—the one of the young woman who has just opened the door of what appears to be a New York apartment.
You were much thinner then, he says.
Middle age, Mr. Blank. It tends to do funny things to a girl's figure.
Tell me, Mr. Blank says, tapping the photo with his index finger. What's going on here? Who's the person standing in the hallway, and why do you look like that? Apprehensive, somehow, but at the same time pleased. If not, you wouldn't be smiling.
Sophie crouches down beside Mr. Blank, who is still sitting in the chair, and studies the photo in silence for several moments.
It's my second husband, she says, and I think it's the second time he came to see me. The first time, I was holding my baby in my arms when I opened the door, I remember that distinctly—so this must be the second time.
Why so apprehensive?
Because I wasn't sure how he felt about me.
And the smile?
I'm smiling because I was happy to see him.
Your second husband, you say. And what about the first? Who was he?
A man named Fanshawe.
Fanshawe… Fanshawe…, Mr. Blank mutters to himself. I think we're finally getting somewhere.
With Sophie still crouching beside him, with the black-and-white photograph of her younger self still on his lap, Mr. Blank abruptly begins to waddle forward in the chair, moving as quickly as he can in the direction of the desk. Once he arrives, he tosses the picture of Sophie on top of Anna's portrait, reaches for the small pad, and opens it to the first page. Running his finger down the list of names, he stops when he comes to Fanshawe and then swivels around in the chair to face Sophie, who has climbed to her feet by now and is slowly walking toward him.
Aha, Mr. Blank says, tapping the pad with his finger. I knew it. Fanshawe is implicated in all this, isn't he?
I don't know what you mean, Sophie says, stopping at the foot of the bed and then sitting down in more or less the same spot occupied earlier by James P. Flood. Of course he's implicated. We're all implicated in this, Mr. Blank. I thought you understood that.
Confused by her response, the old man nevertheless struggles to stick to his train of thought. Have you ever heard of someone called Flood? James P. Flood. English fellow. Ex-policeman. Talks with a Cockney accent.
Wouldn't you rather eat your lunch now? Sophie asks. The food is getting cold.
In a minute, Mr. Blank snaps back at her, peeved that she has changed the subject. Just give me a minute. Before we talk about eating, I want you to tell me everything you know about Flood.
I don't know anything. I heard he was around here this morning, but I've never met him.
But your husband… your first husband, I mean… this Fanshawe… He wrote books, didn't he? In one of them, one of them called… damn it… I can't remember the title. Never… Never-something…
Neverland.
That's it. Neverland. He used Flood as one of the characters in that book, and in chapter… chapter thirty I think it was, or maybe it was chapter seven, Flood has a dream.
I don't remember, Mr. Blank.