Darja called from Baden-Baden this evening. Her mother, Zdenka, died earlier today. Seventy-six. Cancer. She had suffered horribly. And she had suffered for nearly a year. Darja took care of her all this time, minus the last two weeks, when Zdenka could not get out of bed any longer. Darja wanted to share this with my mother and me. Today. She also wanted to tell me how much she appreciated receiving a copy of my Residua, which I sent to her sometime in February, but she simply could not write or call because of her mother’s condition. That is how she is, she explained. When in pain, she shuts herself in. She wanted to know how I was doing. I told her I was increasingly focusing on art rather than my professional work. And I told her about my troubles—my blundering marriage and my mother’s still-undiagnosed illness. She was sad to hear all this. When I asked her about her marriage, she first laughed, but then she told me it was all right. It was wonderful to hear Darja’s voice, which is still melodious, vibrant, full. Youthful, too. She cried and laughed easily, openly. She switched from joy to grief and back to joy like a little girl. Unabashed of her shifting emotions, she let herself go with me. Yes, the first love never dies.