I choose the dark night, full of visions and adventures, bitter destinies, sorrowful sufferings of wild hearts. Siobhan’s Lincoln was gone, and the house was blessedly silent. Even the pall of cigarette smoke had lifted. McIntire lit the burner under the coffee pot and lifted the lid from the cookie jar. Peanut butter, his favorite. Leonie hadn’t made them before. He took a tentative nibble. When his wife attempted something new it was always best to be cautious. He smiled. His own mother couldn’t have done much better. Taking up the pot, a cup, and the cookie jar, he settled himself in the dining room with The Story of Gösta Berling. It was time to begin. McIntire had never taken on such an ambitious translating project before. He’d never done much of any work that fell into the realm of literature. But the small jobs he did for the defense department weren’t enough to keep his hand in or to put much stimulation into life since retirement.
