Lamentations-A short story

It was March when I received the news that Harold had died in one of his caves.

- Nicole Krauss

I hadn't expected him to still be doing fieldwork himself; having watched him make a nest of his laurels, I admit that I saw him as one of those shrewd birds that thieves other’s eggs. The last time we'd met was three years before, in Paris. He'd come from a conference in Lyon and was driving a rented Mini that made a caricature of the stately form he'd acquired in his late years—at any moment, the toy car looked like it would break into pieces, the doors falling off and the bottom dropping out, leaving Harold clutching the steering wheel in open air. He was wearing a woolen overcoat and a fur hat in the Russian style; I believe they call it a