When I had lightened a little, he said, “I came here to tell you how sorry I am about—”

“Your condolences can’t help me,” I said.

My head was bowed. I couldn’t look at him.

I was ashamed. I don’t know why, but I was ashamed.

I couldn’t say anything either. I was struggling to hold back my sobs, and I knew that if I opened my mouth, the sob would come out first.

Again, he said nothing for a while.

He had brought a book with him. He took it out of his bag.

“I owed you a book,” he said. “I didn’t want to give it to you under circumstances like these. But as you can see, opportunities are far fewer than we imagine. I thought I shouldn’t postpone my debt to you any longer. Please accept this book from me.”

The beautiful cover caught my attention.

It was Alain de Botton’s The Art as Therapy. It was full of beautiful photographs.

My hunger to read and discover new things was among the last remnants of my old life that still survived in me, faint but alive.

The book distracted me. I think, for a few moments, it even brought back a little of the old smile that had left my face some time before.

I was busy turning the pages when I looked up and caught his eyes on me.

He was startled, and for the first time in our recent encounters, I saw a flicker of the old awkwardness in his eyes.

He quickly looked away.

His appearance was, as always, as classic as possible. He was wearing navy chinos and a plain dark-green sweater that made the light brown of his eyes stand out even more behind his glasses.

I couldn’t remember ever noticing the color of his eyes before.

Had they always been brown?

He also had the laptop bag he always carried.

“I imagine this book can make you feel a little better for a few moments,” he said. “It’s the only thing I could think to do in a situation like this.”

“I hope so,” I said. “But either way, thank you again for your kindness.”

What had happened had taken me completely by surprise, but I said nothing.

After he left, I wondered how he had known he could find me here.

To my surprise, the book made me feel much better.

It was wonderful.

Every sentence was like a drop of water falling onto the parched earth inside me and disappearing into it.

What fascinated me most was that, if this book had been his choice, it seemed completely at odds with the man I had known seven or eight years earlier.

The man I had known understood statistical graphs and precise calculations. He had no particular relationship with art.

And one thing I was certain of was that he would never have chosen and given me a book without researching it first.

He was the opposite of me. He never did anything without examining it thoroughly.