The Thirteenth Tale-第4章

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lives—dead　ones—are　just　a　hobby　of　mine。　my　real　work　is　in　the　bookshop。　my　job　is　not　to　sell　the　books—my　father　does　that—but　to　look　after　them。　every　so　often　i　take　out　a　volume　and　read　a　page　or　two。　after　all；　reading　is　looking　after　in　a　manner　of　speaking。　though　they’re　not　old　enough　to　be　valuable　for　their　age　alone；　nor　important　enough　to　be　sought　after　by　collectors；　my　charges　are　dear　to　me；　even　if；　as　often　as　not；　they　are　as　dull　on　the　inside　as　on　the　outside。　no　matter　how　banal　the　contents；　there　is　always　something　that　touches　me。　for　someone　now　dead　once　thought　these　words　significant　enough　to　write　them　down。

people　disappear　when　they　die。　their　voice；　their　laughter；　the　warmth　of　their　breath。　their　flesh。　eventually　their　bones。　all　living　memory　of　them　ceases。　this　is　both　dreadful　and　natural。　yet　for　some　there　is　an　exception　to　this　annihilation。　for　in　the　books　they　write　they　continue　to　exist。　we　can　rediscover　them。　their　humor；　their　tone　of　voice；　their　moods。　through　the　written　word　they　can　anger　you　or　make　you　happy。　they　can　fort　you。　they　can　perplex　you。　they　can　alter　you。　all　this；　even　though　they　are　dead。　like　flies　in　amber；　like　corpses　frozen　in　ice；　that　which　according　to　the　laws　of　nature　should　pass　away　is；　by　the　miracle　of　ink　on　paper；　preserved。　it　is　a　kind　of　magic。

as　one　tends　the　graves　of　the　dead；　so　i　tend　the　books。　i　clean　them；　do　minor　repairs；　keep　them　in　good　order。　and　every　day　i　open　a　volume　or　two；　read　a　few　lines　or　pages；　allow　the　voices　of　the　forgotten　dead　to　resonate　inside　my　head。　do　they　sense　it；　these　dead　writers；　when　their　books　are　read？　does　a　pinprick　of　light　appear　in　their　darkness？　is　their　soul　stirred　by　the　feather　touch　of　another　mind　reading　theirs？　i　do　hope　so。　for　it　must　be　very　lonely　being　dead。

although　i　have　touched　here　on　my　very　private　preoccupations；　i　can　see　nonetheless　that　i　have　been　putting　off　the　essential。　i　am　not　given　to　acts　of　self…revelation；　it　rather　looks　as　though　in　forcing　myself　to　overe　my　habitual　reticence；　i　have　written　anything　and　everything　in　order　to　avoid　writing　the　one　thing　that　matters。

and　yet　i　will　write　it。　“silence　is　not　a　natural　environment　for　stories；”　miss　winter　told　me　once。　“they　need　words。　without　them　they　grow　pale；　sicken　and　die。　and　then　they　haunt　you。”　quite　right；　too。　so　here　is　my　story。

i　was　ten　when　i　discovered　the　secret　my　mother　was　keeping。　the　reason　it　matters　is　that　it　wasn’t　her　secret　to　keep。　it　was　mine。

my　parents　were　out　that　evening。　they　didn’t　go　out　often；　and　when　they　did；　i　was　sent　next　door　to　sit　in　mrs。　robb’s　kitchen。　the　next…door　house　was　exactly　like　ours　but　reversed；　and　the　backward…less　of　it　all　made　me　feel　seasick；　so　when　parents’　evening　out　rolled　around；　i　argued　once　again　that　i　was　old　enough　and　sensible　enough　to　be　left　at　home　without　a　babysitter。　i　had　no　great　hope　of　success；　yet　this　time　my　father　agreed。　mother　allowed　herself　to　be　persuaded　with　only　the　proviso　that　mrs。　robb　would　look　in　at　half　past　eight。

they　left　the　house　at　seven　o’clock；　and　i　celebrated　by　pouring　a　lass　of　milk　and　drinking　it　on　the　sofa；　full　of　admiration　at　my　own　grandness。　margaret　lea；　old　enough　to　stay　home　without　a　sitter；　after　the　milk　i　felt　unexpectedly　bored。　what　to　do　with　this　freedom？　set　off　on　a　wander；　marking　the　territory　of　my　new　freedom：　the　dining　room；　the　hall；　the　downstairs　toilet。　everything　was　just　as　it　had　ways　been。　for　no　particular　reason；　i　was　reminded　of　one　of　my　baby　fears；　about　the　wolf　and　the　three　pigs。　i’ll　huff　and　i’ll　puff　and　i’ll　blow　your　house　down！　he　wouldn’t　have　had　any　trouble　blowing　my　parents’　house　down。　the　pale；　airy　rooms　were　too　insubstantial　to　rest；　and　the　furniture；　with　its　brittle　delicacy；　would　collapse　like　a　pile　matchsticks　if　a　wolf　so　much　as　looked　at　it。　yes；　that　wolf　would　have　the　house　down　with　a　mere　whistle；　and　the　three　of　us　would　be　breakfast　in　no　time。　i　began　to　wish　i　was　in　the　shop；　where　i　was　never　afraid。　the　wolf　could　huff　and　puff　all　he　liked；　with　all　those　books　doubling　the　thickness　of　the　walls　father　and　i　would　be　as　safe　as　in　a　fortress。

upstairs　i　peered　into　the　bathroom　mirror。　it　was　for　reassurance；　to　see　what　i　looked　like　as　a　grown…up　girl。　head　tilted　to　the　left；　then　to　the　right；　i　studied　my　reflection　from　all　angles；　willing　myself　to　see　someone　different。　but　it　was　only　me　looking　back　at　myself。

my　own　room　held　no　promise。　i　knew　every　inch　of　it　and　it　knew　me；　we　were　dull　panions　now。　instead；　i　pushed　open　the　door　of　the　guest　room。　the　blank…faced　wardrobe　and　bare　dressing　table　paid　lip　service　to　the　idea　that　you　could　brush　your　hair　and　get　dressed　here；　but　somehow　you　knew　that　behind　their　doors　and　drawer　fronts　they　were　empty。　the　bed；　its　sheets　and　blankets　tightly　tucked　in　and　smoothed　down；　was　uninviting。　the　thin　pillows　looked　as　though　they　had　had　the　life　drained　out　of　them。　it　was　always　called　the　guest　room；　but　we　never　had　guests。　it　was　where　my　mother　slept。

perplexed；　i　backed　out　of　the　room　and　stood　on　the　landing。

this　was　it。　the　rite　of　passage。　staying　home　alone。　i　was　joining　the　ranks　of　the　grown…up　children：　tomorrow　i　would　be　able　to　say；　in　the　playground；　“last　night　i　didn’t　go　to　a　sitter。　i　stayed　home　by　myself。”　the　other　girls　would　be　wide…eyed。　for　so　long　i　had　wanted　this；　and　now　that　it　was　here；　i　didn’t　know　what　to　make　of　it。　i’d　expected　that　i　would　expand　to　fit　the　experience　automatically；　that　i　would　get　my　first　glimpse　of　the　person　i　was　destined　to　be。　i’d　expected　the　world　to　give　up　its　childlike　and　familiar　appearance　to　show　me　its　secret；　adult　side。　instead；　cloaked　in　my　new　independence；　i　felt　younger　than　ever。　was　there　something　wrong　with　me？　would　i　ever　find　out　how　to　grow　up？

i　toyed　with　the　idea　of　going　round　to　mrs。　robb’s。　but　no。　there　was　a　better　place。　i　crawled　under　my　father’s　bed。

the　space　between　the　floor　and　the　bed　frame　had　shrunk　since　i　was　last　there。　hard　against　one　shoulder　was　the　holiday　suitcase；　as　gray　in　daylight　as　it　was　here　in　the　dark。　it　held　all　our　summer　paraphernalia：　sunglasses；　spare　film　for　the　camera；　the　swimming　costume　that　my　mother　never　wore　but　never　threw　away。　on　the　other　side　vas　a　cardboard　box。　my　fingers　fumbled　with　the　corrugated　flaps；　bund　a　way　in；　and　rummaged。　the　tangled　skein　of　christmas…tree　lights。　feathers　covering　the　skirt　of　the　tree　angel。　the　last　time　i　was　under　this　bed　i　had　believed　in　father　christmas。　now　i　didn’t。　was　that　a　kind　of　growing　up？

wriggling　out　from　under　the　bed；　i　dislodged　an　old　biscuit　tin。　“here　it　was；　half　sticking　out　from　under　the　frill　of　the　valance。　i　remembered　the　tin—it　had　been　there　forever。　a　picture　of　scottish　crags　and　firs　on　a　lid　too　tight　to　open。　absently　i　tried　the　lid。　it　gave　way　so　easily　under　my　older；　stronger　fingers　that　i　felt　a　pang　of　shock。　inside　was　father’s　passport　and　various；　differently　sized　pieces　of　paper。　forms；　part　printed；　part　handwritten。　here　and　there　a　signature。

for　me；　to　see　is　to　read。　it　has　always　been　that　way。　i　flicked　through　the　documents。　my　parents’　marriage　certificate。　their　birth　certificates。　my　own　birth　certificate。　red　print　on　cream　paper。　my　father’s　signature。　i　refolded　it　carefully；　put　it　with　the　other　forms　i’d　ready　read；　and　passed　on　to　the　next。　it　was　identical。　i　was　puzzled。　why　would　i　have　two　birth　certificates？

then　i　saw　it。　same　father；　same　mother；　same　date　of　birth；　same　ace　of　birth；　different　name。

what　happened　to　me　in　that　moment？　inside　my　head　everything　came　to　pieces　and　came　back　together　differently；　in　one　of　those　kaleidoscopic　reorganizations　the　brain　is　capable　of。

i　had　a　twin。

ignoring　the　tumult　in　my　head；　my　curious　fingers　unfolded　a　sec…id　piece　of　paper。

a　death　certificate。

my　twin　was　dead。

i　knew　what　it　was　that　had　stained　me。

though　i　was　stupefied　by　the　discovery；　i　was　not　surprised。　for　ire　had　always　been　a　feeling。　the　knowledge；　too　familiar　to　have　ever　needed　words；　that　there　was　something。　an　altered　quality　in　the　air　to　my　right。　a　coagulation　of　light。　something　peculiar　to　me　that　set　empty　space　vibrating。　my　pale　shadow。

pressing　my　hands　to　my　right　side；　i　bowed　my　head；　nose　almost　to　shoulder。　it　was　an　old　gesture；　one　that　had　always　e　to　me　in　pain；　in　perplexity；　under　duress　of　any　kind。　too　familiar　to　be　pondered　until　now；　my　discovery　revealed　its　meaning。　i　was　looking　for　my　twin。　where　she　should　have　been。　by　my　side。

when　i　saw　the　two　pieces　of　paper；　and　when　the　world　had　recovered　itself　enough　to　start　turning　again　on　its　slow　axis；　i　thought；　so　that’s　it。　loss。　sorrow。　loneliness。　there　was　a　feeling　that　had　kept　me　apart　from　other　people—and　kept　me　pany—all　my　life；　and　now　that　i　had　found　the　certificates；　i　knew　what　the　feeling　was。　my　sister。

after　a　long　time　there　came　the　sound　of　the　kitchen　door　opening　downstairs。　pins　and　needles　in　my　calves；　i　went　as