Lao had had the letter for two days, and still didn't know what to do about it. It had cost him two sleepless nights.
In the old days in Nuyork he would have aired his troubles to friends at the Psycho-Artists Club and probably acted on a dozen varying bits of advice at the same time. Here there was no one to whom he could turn.
He glared morosely at the unfinished painting. The canvas gleamed with iridescent whorls and lines, from which the face and form of Grida Mattin were beginning to emerge. In the maze of waxing and waning colors could be distinguished, if one looked closely enough, faint countenances of women and babies with expressions of anxiety, of fear, of hunger for love ... with occasionally a man.
It would have sold well, he thought. Free-lancing had been a promising idea.
He dragged himself downstairs to breakfast. He usually reacted to Grida's singing. It pleased him mildly when he was in an expansive mood, irritated him when his mind was on something else.
This morning he hardly heard it.
"Alina will be here in three weeks," Grida imparted over the toast and coffee.
"Alina?" he asked, without much interest.
"My sister. Haven't I mentioned her to you before?"