NATOL lived in one of the built-in bookshelves in our living room in Chicago. He lived between two Thin Poets and had a few Playwrights as near neighbors -- Aristophanes in Greek, HAMLET in German -- what I think of as my father's Student Prince days, raising a flowing beer stein with fellow students William James and Carl Jung as they toasted the innkeeper's giggly daughters.

I was fascinated by the unsmiling face of Granville Barker which was the frontispiece. He faced away from the viewer but was oh so aware of her awareness of him. Dark brooding gypsy men were my Type -- it took me a long time to discover how dangerous men who don't smile can be. Brrr, lovely danger--I thought in those days--if I thought at all. Gothic of course. Harley GB was right up there with Heathcliff and Laurence Olivier. and Dana Andrews in LAURA.

At the University, first year, we (being my friends Don and Nancy and Bill and I) read ANATOL in a playreading group. There was always a playreading group. Don was Anatol and Bill was Max and Nancy and I were the madels.

It was Christmas Eve and we had a fire in the fireplace and the German wooden nativity manger on the piano was supported by a toothpick leg. We sang a bit and drank wine and there was the usual hoot when my mother came out and cleared her throat -- prelude to announcing Time for everyone to go home. They yelped and chortled. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. A!" Don- Anatol the mom-charmer said.

Bill, who was supposed to be Nancy's boy friend, kissed me in the hallway. "The duty of a friend is to cherish his friend's illusions," was his wisdom as Max. I took the sticky wine glasses to the kitchen, ate the fruitcake crumbs, made sure the fire couldn't spill and for a minute at least vanished through the magic arch that opened into the town of Gothenberg. all in sepia on cream...in search of Anatol or someone remarkably like him.

Many lives later, long after Don had died in Africa.. ANATOL turned up again.....Oh, Don was sent from St. Margaret's, our local Episcopal church, to be a missionary...He turned up three times during my visit home to say goodbye, or I love you, or there's something I've been meaning to tell you....and there he was at the bus terminal.

"Well, damn," said Father Don."Africa's not as dangerous as Chicago." We hugged and laughed and then the bus was gone and me in it, and he was little and sad in his black clerical clothes, standing and waving the handkerchief that contained my tears.