But it was a Sunday that never came. Each time he took out the photographs of his ex-wife, or whenever he was just about to open the photo drawer, or was searching around for the albums, the phone would ring: something work-related, something to do with the museum, or friendships, whatever. All phone calls that clamped him to the earpiece for a long time and that put his attention on other matters, more urgent but not necessarily so interesting. In the end, on one of these afternoons when he was reaching out for the photos, the phone rang and it was his exwife, with whom he hadn’t spoken in years; she was ringing to let him know she was going to the U.S., for good, “to join a kind of commune,” she said, “based underground in an old radioactive waste plant, or something like that,” and that she was giving up custody of the children, she was handing them over to him forever. He burned the photos in the fireplace, all of them, and as he watched them burn was prompted to think that, yes, now body and mind were together, now they truly were indistinguishable.