The Thirteenth Tale-第1章

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　　，



THE　LETTER

，小，说，网
it　was　november。　although　it　was　not　yet　late；　the　sky　was　dark　when　i　turned　into　laundress　passage。　father　had　finished　for　the　day；　switched　off　the　shop　lights　and　closed　the　shutters；　but　so　i　would　not　e　home　to　darkness　he　had　left　on　the　light　over　the　stairs　to　the　flat。　through　the　glass　in　the　door　it　cast　a　foolscap　rectangle　of　paleness　onto　the　wet　pavement；　and　it　was　while　i　was　standing　in　that　rectangle；　about　to　turn　my　key　in　the　door；　that　i　first　saw　the　letter。　another　white　rectangle；　it　was　on　the　fifth　step　from　the　bottom；　where　i　couldn’t　miss　it。

i　closed　the　door　and　put　the　shop　key　in　its　usual　place　behind　bailey’s　advanced　principles　of　geometry。　poor　bailey。　no　one　has　wanted　his　fat　gray　book　for　thirty　years。　sometimes　i　wonder　what　he　makes　of　his　role　as　guardian　of　the　bookshop　keys。　i　don’t　suppose　it’s　the　destiny　he　had　in　mind　for　the　masterwork　that　he　spent　two　decades　writing。

a　letter。　for　me。　that　was　something　of　an　event。　the　crisp…cornered　envelope；　puffed　up　with　its　thickly　folded　contents；　was　addressed　in　a　hand　that　must　have　given　the　postman　a　certain　amount　of　trouble。　although　the　style　of　the　writing　was　old…fashioned；　with　its　heavily　embellished　capitals　and　curly　flourishes；　my　first　impression　was　that　it　had　been　written　by　a　child。　the　letters　seemed　untrained。　their　uneven　strokes　either　faded　into　nothing　or　were　heavily　etched　into　the　paper。　there　was　no　sense　of　flow　in　the　letters　that　spelled　out　my　name。　each　had　been　undertaken　separately—m　a　r　g　a　r　e　t　l　e　a—as　a　new　and　daunting　enterprise。　but　i　knew　no　children。　that　is　when　i　thought；　it　is　the　hand　of　an　invalid。

it　gave　me　a　queer　feeling。　yesterday　or　the　day　before；　while　i　had　been　going　about　my　business；　quietly　and　in　private；　some　unknown　person—

some　stranger—had　gone　to　the　trouble　of　marking　my　name　onto　this　envelope。　who　was　it　who　had　had　his　mind’s　eye　on　me　while　i　hadn’t　suspected　a　thing？

still　in　my　coat　and　hat；　i　sank　onto　the　stair　to　read　the　letter。　（i　never　read　without　making　sure　i　am　in　a　secure　position。　i　have　been　like　this　ever　since　the　age　of　seven　when；　sitting　on　a　high　wall　and　reading　the　water　babies；　i　was　so　seduced　by　the　descriptions　of　underwater　life　that　i　unconsciously　relaxed　my　muscles。　instead　of　being　field　buoyant　by　the　water　that　so　vividly　surrounded　me　in　my　mind；　i　plummeted　to　the　ground　and　knocked　myself　out。　i　can　still　feel　the　；car　under　my　fringe　now。　reading　can　be　dangerous。）

i　opened　the　letter　and　pulled　out　a　sheaf　of　half　a　dozen　pages；　all　written　in　the　same　laborious　script。　thanks　to　my　work；　i　am　experienced　in　the　reading　of　difficult　manuscripts。　there　is　no　great　secret　to　it。　patience　and　practice　are　all　that　is　required。　that　and　the　willingness　to　cultivate　an　inner　eye。　when　you　read　a　manuscript　that　has　been　damaged　by　water；　fire；　light　or　just　the　passing　of　the　years；　your　eye　needs　to　study　not　just　the　shape　of　the　letters　but　other　marks　of　production。　the　speed　of　the　pen。　the　pressure　of　the　hand　on　the　page。　breaks　and　releases　in　the　flow。　you　must　relax。　think　of　nothing。　until　you　awake　into　a　dream　where　you　are　at　once　a　pen　flying　over　vellum　and　the　vellum　itself　with　the　touch　of　ink　tickling　your　surface。　then　you　can　read　it。　the　intention　of　the　writer；　his　thoughts；　his　hesitations；　his　longings　and　his　meaning。　you　can　read　as　clearly　as　if　you　were　the　very　candlelight　illuminating　the　page　as　the　pen　speeds　over　it。

not　that　this　letter　was　anything　like　as　challenging　as　some。　it　began　with　a　curt　“miss　lea”；　thereafter　the　hieroglyphs　resolved　themselves　quickly　into　characters；　then　words；　then　sentences。

this　is　what　i　read：

i　once　did　an　interview　for　the　banbury　herald。　i　must　look　it　out　one　of　these　days；　for　the　biography。　strange　chap　they　sent　me。　a　boy；　really。　as　tall　as　a　man；　but　with　the　puppy　fat　of　youth。　awkward　in　his　new　suit。　the　suit　was　brown　and　ugly　and　meant　for　a　much　older　man。　the　collar；　the　cut；　the　fabric；　all　wrong。　it　was　the　kind　of　thing　a　mother　might　buy　for　a　boy　leaving　school　for　his　first　job；　imagining　that　her　child　will　somehow　grow　into　it。　but　boys　do　not　leave　their　boyhood　behind　when　they　leave　off　their　school　uniform。

there　was　something　in　his　manner。　an　intensity。　the　moment　i　set　eyes　on　him；　i　thought；　“aha；　what’s　he　after？”

i’ve　nothing　against　people　who　love　truth。　apart　from　the　fact　that　they　make　dull　panions。　just　so　long　as　they　don’t　start　on　about　storytelling　and　honesty；　the　way　some　of　them　do。　naturally　that　annoys　me。　but　provided　they　leave　me　alone；　i　won’t　hurt　them。

my　gripe　is　not　with　lovers　of　the　truth　but　with　truth　herself。　what　succor；　what　consolation　is　there　in　truth；　pared　to　a　story？　what　good　is　truth；　at　midnight；　in　the　dark；　when　the　wind　is　roaring　like　a　bear　in　the　chimney？　when　the　lightning　strikes　shadows　on　the　bedroom　wall　and　the　rain　taps　at　the　window　with　its　long　fingernails？　no。　when　fear　and　cold　make　a　statue　of　you　in　your　bed；　don’t　expect　hard…boned　and　fleshless　truth　to　e　running　to　your　aid。　what　you　need　are　the　plump　forts　of　a　story。　the　soothing；　rocking　safety　of　a　lie。

some　writers　don’t　like　interviews　of　course。　they　get　cross　about　it。　“same　old　questions；　”　they　plain。　well；　what　do　they　expect？　reporters　are　hacks。　we　writers　are　the　real　thing。　just　because　they　always　ask　the　same　questions；　it　doesn’t　mean　we　have　to　give　them　the　same　old　answers；　does　it？　i　mean；　making　things　up；　it’s　what　we　do　for　a　living。　so　i　give　dozens　of　interviews　a　year。　hundreds　over　the　course　of　a　lifetime。　for　i　have　never　believed　that　genius　needs　to　be　locked　away　out　of　sight　to　thrive。　my　genius　is　not　so　frail　a　thing　that　it　cowers　from　the　dirty　fingers　of　the　newspapermen。

in　the　early　years　they　used　to　try　to　catch　me　out。　they　would　do　research；　e　along　with　a　little　piece　of　truth　concealed　in　their　pocket；　draw　it　out　at　an　opportune　moment　and　hope　to　startle　me　into　revealing　more。　i　had　to　be　careful。　inch　them　in　the　direction　i　wanted　them　to　take；　use　my　bait　to　draw　them　gently；　imperceptibly；　toward　a　prettier　story　than　the　one　they　had　their　eye　on。　a　delicate　operation。　their　eyes　would　start　to　shine；　and　their　grasp　on　the　little　chip　of　truth　would　loosen；　until　it　dropped　from　their　hand　and　fell；　disregarded；　by　the　wayside。　it　never　failed。　a　good　story　is　always　more　darling　than　a　broken　piece　of　truth。

afterward；　once　i　became　famous；　the　vida　winter　interview　became　a　sort　of　rite　of　passage　for　journalists。　they　knew　roughly　what　to　expect；　would　have　been　disappointed　to　leave　without　the　story。　a　quick　run　through　the　normal　questions　（where　do　you　get　your　inspiration？　are　your　characters　based　on　real　people？　how　much　of　your　main　character　is　you？）　and　the　shorter　my　answers　the　better　they　liked　it。　（inside　my　head。　no。　none。）　then；　the　bit　they　were　waiting　for；　the　thing　they　had　really　e　for。　a　dreamy；　expectant　look　stole　across　their　faces。　they　were　like　little　children　at　bedtime。　and　you；　miss　winter；　they　said。　tell　me　about　yourself。

and　i　told。　simple　little　stories　really；　not　much　to　them。　just　a　few　strands；　woven　together　in　a　pretty　pattern；　a　memorable　motif　here；　a　couple　of　sequins　there。　mere　scraps　from　the　bottom　of　my　ragbag。　hundreds　more　where　they　came　from。　offcuts　from　novels　and　stories；　plots　that　never　got　finished；　stillborn　characters；　picturesque　locations　i　never　found　a　use　for。　odds　and　ends　that　fell　out　in　the　editing。　then　it’s　just　a　matter　of　neatening　the　edges；　stitching　in　the　ends；　and　it’s　done。　another　brand…new　biography。

they　went　away　happy；　clutching　their　notebooks　in　their　paws　like　children　with　sweets　at　the　end　of　a　birthday　party。　it　would　be　something　to　tell　their　grandchildren。　“one　day　i　met　vida　winter；　and　she　told　me　a　story。”

anyway；　the　boy　from　the　banbury　herald。　he　said；　“miss　winter；　tell　me　the　truth。”　now；　what　kind　of　appeal　is　that？　i’ve　had　people　devise　all　kinds　of　stratagems　to　trick　me　into　telling；　and　i　can　spot　them　a　mile　off；　but　that？　laughable。　i　mean；　whatever　did　he　expect？

a　good　question。　what　did　he　expect？　his　eyes　were　glistening　with　an　intent　fever。　he　watched　me　so　closely。　seeking。　probing。　he　was　after　something　quite　specific；　i　was　sure　of　it。　his　forehead　was　damp　with　perspiration。　perhaps　he　was　sickening　for　something。　tell　me　the　truth；　he　said。

i　felt　a　strange　sensation　inside。　like　the　past　ing　to　life。　the　watery　stirring　of　a　previous　life　turning　in　my　belly；　creating　a　tide　that　rose　in　my　veins　and　sent　cool　wavelets　to　lap　at　my　temples。　the　ghastly　excitement　of　it。　tell　me　the　truth。

i　considered　his　request。　i　turned　it　over　in　my　mind；　weighed　up　the　likely　consequences。　he　disturbed　me；　this　boy；　with　his　pale　face　and　his　burning　eyes。

“all　right；　”　i　said。

an　hour　later　he　was　gone。　a　faint；　absentminded　good…bye　and　no　backward　glance。

i　didn’t　tell　him　the　truth。　how　could　i？　i　told　him　a　story。　an　impoverished；　malnourished　little　thing。　no　sparkle；　no　sequins；　just　a　few　dull　and　f