February 8, 2011

Dear Cyndy,

Thank you for your letter. "I'm sorry about ..." is a pathetic phrase which is incapable of penetraring even to the vicinity of the realities of life and death. The transience of memory is perhaps the greatest of the blessings of old age. My observation: not only our grasp of "facts" is evanescent, but so are the feelings of the old man and the old woman. The emptiness occasioned by loss is no exception.  The classical sterotype: the merry widow. Margaret and I consider being without a dog a fountain of freedom; but my parents had much need of canine companions. I'm very sympathetic with Ned. If you need a dog, why wait, the sooner you act, the sooner past and present will become inextricably confounded.

The Nantucket comedy is evolving in dizzying directions.  The hearing last week was a hearing at which I was not heard, not being asked to speak, because what I had written spoke for itself and could not readily be answered.  Mr. George Pucci, their new lawyer, was eager to get to business right away.  On Friday he e-mailed me to the effect that he had "a good conversation" with the Building Inspector Bernie Bartlett, yielding ideas that he wished to discuss with me in a telephone conference we scheduled for Monday morning.  I've been there before. Forty years ago, when I was suing the Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary, their lawyers wanted to bamboozle me with exchanges "off the record." I wouldn't. "Nothing is off the record"  was the mantra with which I avoided all manner of traps.  With the same purpose, I sent to Mr. Pucci a letter, which I'll forward to you. I had no written reply, but it was a terse, tense and somewhat annoyed Mr.  Pucci who telephoned at 10:30 a.m. yesterday morning. No bamboozling, nothing but a very brief message: Tell Mr. Gordon to pick up the plumbing permit and to schedule an inspection.  It's o.k. for you to be there. At first Mr. Gordon thought it would be better if I didn't come. He's out to get me, I said, and if I'm there you won't be in the middle. Maybe, Mr. Gordon said, you should have the Nantucket lawyer there. The Inspector is a wild Italian.  Liable to fly off in all directions. At this point the courageous Mr. Gordon seemed a bit fearful. How soon can you come? As soon as tomorrow, I said, anytime.  Telephone me when you have the appointment.  That was in late morning.  I haven't heard from Mr. Gordon again.  Probably he'll call in a day or two. But it's also possible that the Inspector will continue procrastinating. Time will tell.  

This morning I sent Mr. Pucci another e-mail. It speaks for itself.  Ill keep you informed of what happens.

Stay well and give my best to Ned.

Jochen