I loved Alice, but this was rich, and I called my friend Martin as soon as she hung up. “Hoo-ooh. Hoo-ooh,” I chanted for him. “It’s the cosmic wind that holds us all together.” “Don’t winds blow people apart?” “Alice and Dik? Not far enough.” He fell silent, and I understood that I had violated one of Martin’s unstated rules, a code of acceptable discourse that changed with his moods. I spent half of our conversations scrambling to figure out what was currently permissible. “Hoo-ooh,” he finally intoned. “You’re not doing it right,” I said, relieved. “Pay attention. This is Dik’s gift to the universe.” “Dik has a wide heart,” Martin said, quoting Alice. “He brings joy. He restores balance,” I said, riffing. Neither of us could stand Dik, and we worried about his sway over Alice, but he provided first-rate conversational fodder. With savage mimicry, Martin was now recalling Dik’s discussion of the crucial, too-often-neglected role of ritual in daily life.
