We could hear everything through the door. “Are they here, Peter?” a woman asked.
There are—Lidewij, there are two adolescent apparitions outside the door.”
“Apparitions?” she asked with a pleasant Dutch lilt. Van Houten answered in a rush.
“Phantasms specters ghouls visitants post- terrestrials apparitions, Lidewij.
How can someone pursuing a postgraduate degree in American literature display such abominable English-language skills?”
“Peter, those are not post-terrestrials. They are Augustus and Hazel, the young fans with whom you have been corresponding.”
“They are—what? They—I thought they were in America!”
“Yes, but you invited them here, you will remember.”
“Do you know why I left America, Lidewij? So that I would never again have to encounter Americans.”
“But you are an American.”
“Incurably so, it seems. But as to these Americans, you must tell them to leave at once,
that there has been a terrible mistake, that the blessed Van Houten was making a rhetorical offer to meet,
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