Free The Executor by Jesse Kellerman

metaphors, allusions. Neither of us staked out a firm position, remaining content to lob words back and forth, sometimes in support, sometimes to draw contrast. I cited Mill. She quoted Schopenhauer. We argued over whether one could in fact claim to be happy without any grasp of truth. We talked about the concept of eudaimonia, which the Greeks used to describe both the state of being happy and the process of doing virtuous acts, and from there we moved to a debate about virtue ethics, systems of values that emphasize the development of character, as opposed to deontology, which emphasizes universal duties (e.g., “Don’t lie”), or consequentialism, which emphasizes utility, the happiness generated by an act.
    It was the best conversation I’d had in a long time, precisely because it had no goal other than itself. Three facts about her emerged as we spoke: one, she was ferociously witty; two, she seemed to have read every major work of Continental philosophy published prior to the 1960s; and three, she enjoyed playing the provocateur. As such, we engaged not in a race but a dance, the two of us circling each other, every one of our ideas sprouting ten more. At last she drew up.
    “It has been a delightful afternoon, Mr. Geist. For today let us table the debate. Now, I must please ask you to wait.”
    While she was gone, I glanced at the mantel clock, astonished to see that two hours had passed.
    “For your trouble,” she said, handing me a check for one hundred dollars. “I trust that is sufficient.”
    Actually, I didn’t think I deserved anything at all. Something about getting paid for a pleasurable activity feels wrong. Though in no position to argue—it would’ve been impolite, and I needed the money—I did think a bit of feigned reluctance was in order. “It’s too much.”
    “Rubbish. I shall see you tomorrow? The same time?”
    Without hesitation I agreed. She was so enchanting, so European, that I fought the urge to kiss her hand as she let me out.
    “May I ask a question?” I said.
    “Please.”
    “I’m glad to have met you—very glad. I have to ask, though, how you knew you could trust me. I mean, I hope this isn’t something you do often, open your door to strangers.”
    “I find your concern touching, Mr. Geist. You need not worry; I am a good judge of character, even over the telephone.” Her eyes changed. “And naturally, I own a pistol.”
    She winked at me and shut the door.

7
    O nce again I commend you on your punctuality, Mr. Geist.”
    This time my tea was waiting for me, but instead of putting out the entire sugar bowl, she had left a single cube—exactly what I’d used the day before—on the rim of my saucer. We took our same seats, and she folded her hands in her lap.
    “So,” she said. “What shall we talk about today?”
    I reached into my pocket. “I’ve taken the liberty of coming up with a list of topics I thought might interest you.”
    She lowered her reading glasses, skimmed in silence. “I see that you have a spiritual side to you. That must be a severe handicap in an American philosophy department.”
    “It can be.”
    “Perhaps you would care to share with me the focus of your studies. You must write a thesis, yes?”
    “... that’s right.”
    She looked at me over the page. “You are under no obligation to discuss it with me. I merely intended to give you free rein.”
    I don’t like to trumpet my failures—who does?—and had it been anyone else asking, I would have changed the subject. It was, I think, the newness of our acquaintance that disarmed me. “It’s on hold at the moment,” I said.
    “I see.”
    “I’m taking some time to rethink. I mean, I’ll get back to it soon.”
    “Of course ... May I ask what it concerned, formerly?”
    “Everything,” I said, “and therefore nothing.”
    She smiled.
    “It started out all right,” I said. “It’s just that it’s gotten a little overgrown.”
    “How much so?”
    “In its current