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“I’m afraid so.”

“The way cancer is natural,” I said without thinking.

“Indeed, Norman, the way cancer is natural.” And there was a subtle, acknowledging sympathy in Izzy’s voice.

The Jesuit reluctantly nodded his understanding. “I suppose you are right, Israel. I mean, in the sense we need to remind ourselves that the natural and the good are not always the same thing.”

I wondered if the good priest was referring to his vows of celibacy, but I said nothing.

I walked home rather than accepting a lift from Izzy or calling a cab. I wanted to think, to sort out in my own life the conflict between what is good and what is natural. For me, at the moment, it is more than an abstract conundrum.

The fact is that I have conceived a most powerful amorous longing for Diantha. I trouble these pages with this revelation because, not given to therapeutics, I need to tell someone, even if it is only this mute screen. Imagine my torment. Here is Elsbeth, my beloved wife, visibly shrinking to extinction before my eyes, while I stew myself in concupiscent fantasies for her daughter. I dare not put on paper the details of the scenes with Diantha I have concocted in my fervid imagination, especially after I have had one or two stiff ones and my inner inhibitors have toppled like candlepins.

Though not biologically my child, Diantha is surely my child morally. It doesn’t help that she is something of a flirt and, having lived for some time in Southern California, is altogether careless about modesty. The night before last, as an example, she took a shower in the main bathroom and left the door open. I looked right in, right through the transparent shower door, and saw her, a full-bodied naiad oiled with water. And then myself, in the fogged mirror, amid the steam, a peeping old Priapus in a silken gown in the throes of nympholepsy.

There may be relief on the way. Elsbeth tells me that one Sixpak Shakur, Diantha’s “on-and-off” boyfriend, whatever that means, is arriving next week for a short stay. “Sixy,” as Diantha calls him, is some sort of pop singer.

When I asked Diantha about him, she said, “He’s a rapper, Dad.”

“Of presents or knuckles?” I asked, not knowing in the least what she was talking about.

It filled her with amused amazement to learn I didn’t know who Sixpak Shakur was, and didn’t know or particularly want to know what rap music was. It charmed her when I told her I treasured my ignorance of such things. She gave me a kiss and told me I was like a precious antique.

Still, there are distinct advantages to Diantha’s presence. She keeps Elsbeth company during the day. Apparently they watch a lot of soap operas on the television. I don’t know what they find in these travesties of normal life, travesties in the sense that they show no moments of repose. Not only does everyone have what looks like steroid-induced complexions, but they continually teeter on the verge of some apocalyptic revelation that, when it comes, turns out to be some predictably banal betrayal about love or money.

But they do occupy dear Elsbeth. She says she no longer has the energy to read murder mysteries, most of which, as she blithely admits, are not very plausible, just another form of pulp fiction, fantasies, really, especially when the protagonist drags in details of his or her personal life, which invariably happens.

We are all growing more concerned about the fate of Corny Chard. At the behest of Jocelyn Chard, I have contacted the State Department and requested that they make some inquiries with the local government agencies in the area Corny was last reported seen. We haven’t heard from him in some time. I’ve had calls from the Department Chair, who persists in believing that the museum funded most of the expedition. He keeps reminding me that Corny is scheduled to teach the second half of the semester in a seminar on the origins of beauty among primitive peoples. I realize Corny’s in a place that renders him virtually incommunicado, but surely, with modern communications, such places are becoming exceptional. I