The Thirteenth Tale-第44章

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qualities　of　the　storytelling　itself。

the　end　of　my　nine　o’clocks　was　another　anchor　in　time　gone。　i　listened　to　her　story；　i　wrote　the　story；　when　i　slept　i　dreamed　the　story；　and　when　i　was　awake　it　was　the　story　that　formed　the　constant　backdrop　of　my　thoughts。　it　was　like　living　entirely　inside　a　book。　i　didn’t　even　need　to　emerge　to　eat；　for　i　could　sit　at　my　desk　reading　my　transcript　while　i　ate　the　meals　that　judith　brought　to　my　room。　porridge　meant　it　was　morning。　soup　and　salad　meant　lunchtime。　steak　and　kidney　pie　was　evening。　i　remember　pondering　for　a　long　time　over　a　dish　of　scrambled　egg。　what　did　it　mean？　it　could　mean　anything。　i　ate　a　few　mouthfuls　and　pushed　the　plate　away。

in　this　long；　undifferentiated　lapse　of　time；　there　were　a　few　incidents　that　stood　out。　i　noted　them　at　the　time；　separately　from　the　story；　and　they　are　worth　recalling　here。

this　is　one。

i　was　in　the　library。　i　was　looking　for　jane　eyre　and　found　almost　a　whole　shelf　of　copies。　it　was　the　collection　of　a　fanatic：　there　were　cheap；　modern　copies；　with　no　secondhand　value；　editions　that　came　up　so　rarely　on　the　market　it　would　be　hard　to　put　a　price　to　them；　copies　that　fell　at　every　point　between　these　two　extremes。　the　one　i　was　looking　for　was　an　ordinary；　though　particular；　edition　from　the　turn　of　the　century。　while　i　was　browsing；　judith　brought　miss　winter　in　and　settled　her　in　her　chair　by　the　fire。

when　judith　had　gone；　miss　winter　asked；　“what　are　you　looking　for？”

“jane　eyre。”

‘do　you　like　jane　eyre？“　she　asked。

‘very　much。　do　you？“

‘yes。“

she　shivered。

‘shall　i　stoke　up　the　fire　for　you？“

she　lowered　her　eyelids　as　if　a　wave　of　pain　had　e　over　her。　“i　suppose　so。”

once　the　fire　was　burning　strongly　again；　she　said；　“do　you　have　a　moment？　sit　down；　margaret。”

and　after　a　minute　of　silence　she　said　this。

‘picture　a　conveyor　belt；　a　huge　conveyor　belt；　and　at　the　end　of　it　a　massive　furnace。　and　on　the　conveyor　belt　are　books。　every　copy　in　the　world　of　every　book　you’ve　ever　loved。　all　lined　up。　jane　eyre。　villette。　the　woman　in　white。“

“middlemarch；　”　i　supplied。

‘thank　you。　middlemarch。　and　imagine　a　lever　with　two　labels；　on　and　off。　at　the　moment　the　lever　is　off。　and　next　to　it　is　a　human　being；　with　his　hand　on　the　lever。　about　to　turn　it　on。　and　you　can　stop　it。　you　have　a　gun　in　your　hand。　all　you　have　to　do　is　pull　the　trigger。　what　do　you　do？“

‘no；　that’s　silly。“

‘he　turns　the　lever　to　on。　the　conveyor　belt　has　started。“

‘but　it’s　too　extreme；　it’s　hypothetical。“

‘first　of　all；　shirley　goes　over　the　edge。“

‘i　don’t　like　games　like　this。“

‘now　george　sand　starts　to　go　up　in　flames。“

i　sighed　and　closed　my　eyes。

‘wuthering　heights　ing　up。　going　to　let　that　burn；　are　you？“

i　couldn’t　help　myself。　i　saw　the　books；　saw　their　steady　process　to　the　mouth　of　the　furnace；　and　flinched。

‘suit　yourself。　in　it　goes。　same　for　jane　eyre？“

jane　eyre。　i　was　suddenly　dry…mouthed。

‘all　you　have　to　do　is　shoot。　i　won’t　tell。　no　one　need　ever　know。“　she　waited。　”they’ve　started　to　fall。　just　the　first　few。　but　there　are　a　lot　of　copies。　you　have　a　moment　to　make　up　your　mind。“

i　rubbed　my　thumb　nervously　against　a　rough　edge　of　nail　on　my　middle　finger。

‘they’re　falling　faster　now。“

she　did　not　remove　her　gaze　from　me。

‘half　of　them　gone。　think；　margaret。　all　of　jane　eyre　will　soon　have　disappeared　forever。　think。“

miss　winter　blinked。

‘two　thirds　gone。　just　one　person；　margaret。　just　one　tiny；　insignificant　little　person。“

i　blinked。

‘still　time；　but　only　just。　remember；　this　person　burns　books。　does　he　really　deserve　to　live？“

blink。　blink。

‘last　chance。“

blink。　blink。　blink。

jane　eyre　was　no　more。

“margaret！”　miss　winter’s　face　twisted　in　vexation　as　she　spoke；　she　beat　her　left　hand　against　the　arm　of　her　chair。　even　the　right　hand；　injured　though　it　was；　twitched　in　her　lap。

later；　when　i　transcribed　it；　i　thought　it　was　the　most　spontaneous　expression　of　feeling　i　had　ever　seen　in　miss　winter。　it　was　a　surprising　amount　of　feeling　to　invest　in　a　mere　game。

and　my　own　feelings？　shame。　for　i　had　lied。　of　course　i　loved　books　more　than　people。　of　course　i　valued　jane　eyre　over　the　anonymous　stranger　with　his　hand　on　the　lever。　of　course　all　of　shakespeare　was　worth　more　than　a　human　life。　of　course。　unlike　miss　winter；　i　had　been　ashamed　to　say　so。

on　my　way　out；　i　returned　to　the　shelf　of　jane　eyres　and　took　the　one　volume　that　met　my　criteria。　right　age；　right　kind　of　paper；　right　typeface。　in　my　room　i　turned　the　pages　till　i　found　the　place。

‘…　not　at　first　aware　what　was　his　intention；　but　when　i　saw　him　lift　and　poise　the　book　and　stand　in　act　to　hurl　it；　i　instinctively　started　aside　with　a　cry　of　alarm—not　soon　enough　however；　the　volume　was　flung；　it　hit　me；　and　i　fell；　striking　my　head　against　the　door　and　cutting　it。

the　book　was　intact。　not　a　single　page　was　missing。　this　was　not　the　volume　aurelius’s　page　had　been　torn　from。　but　in　any　case；　why　should　it　be？　if　his　page　had　e　from　angelfield—if　it　had—then　it　would　have　burned　with　the　rest　of　the　house。

for　a　time　i　sat　doing　nothing；　only　thinking　of　jane　eyre　and　a　library　and　a　furnace　and　a　house　fire；　but　no　matter　how　i　bined　and　rebined　them；　i　could　not　make　sense　of　it。

the　other　thing　i　remember　from　this　time　was　the　incident　of　the　photograph。　a　small　parcel　appeared　with　my　breakfast　tray　one　morning；　addressed　to　me　in　my　father’s　narrow　handwriting。　it　was　my　photographs　of　angelfield；　i　had　sent　him　the　canister　of　film；　and　he　had　had　it　developed　for　me。　there　were　a　few　clear　pictures　from　my　first　day：　brambles　growing　through　the　wreckage　of　the　library；　ivy　snaking　its　way　up　the　stone　staircase。　i　halted　at　the　picture　of　the　bedroom　where　i　had　e　face…to…face　with　my　ghost；　over　the　old　fireplace　there　was　only　the　glare　of　a　flashbulb　reflected。　still；　i　took　it　out　of　the　bundle　and　tucked　it　inside　the　cover　of　my　book；　to　keep。

the　rest　of　the　photographs　were　from　my　second　visit；　when　the　weather　had　been　against　me。　most　of　them　were　nothing　but　puzzling　positions　of　murkiness。　what　i　remembered　was　shades　of　gray　overlaid　with　silver；　the　mist　moving　like　a　veil　of　gauze；　my　own　breath　at　tipping　point　between　air　and　water。　but　my　camera　had　captured　none　of　that；　nor　was　it　possible　in　the　dark　smudges　that　interrupted　the　gray　to　make　out　a　stone；　a　wall；　a　tree　or　a　forest。　after　half　a　dozen　such　pictures；　i　gave　up　looking。　stuffing　the　wad　of　photos　in　my　cardigan　pocket；　i　went　downstairs　to　the　library。

we　were　about　halfway　through　the　interview　when　i　became　aware　of　a　silence。　i　was　dreaming。　lost；　as　usual；　in　her　world　of　childhood　twinship。　i　replayed　the　sound　track　of　her　voice；　recalled　a　changed　tone；　the　fact　that　she　had　addressed　me；　but　could　not　recall　the　words。

‘what？“　i　said。

‘your　pocket；“　she　repeated。　”you　have　something　in　your　pocket。“

‘oh…　it’s　some　photographs…“　in　that　limbo　state　halfway　between　a　story　and　your　life；　when　you　haven’t　caught　up　with　your　wits　yet；　i　mumbled　on。　”angelfield；“　i　said。

by　the　time　i　returned　to　myself；　the　pictures　were　in　her　hands。

at　first　she　looked　closely　at　each　one；　straining　through　her　glasses　to　make　sense　of　the　blurred　shapes。　as　one　indecipherable　image　followed　another；　she　let　out　a　small　vida　winter　sigh；　one　that　implied　her　low　expectations　had　been　amply　fulfilled；　and　her　mouth　tightened　into　a　critical　line。　with　her　good　hand　she　began　to　flick　through　the　pile　of　pictures　more　cursorily；　to　show　that　she　no　longer　expected　to　find　anything　of　interest；　she　tossed　each　one　after　the　briefest　glance　onto　the　table　at　her　side。

i　was　mesmerized　by　the　discarded　photos　landing　at　a　regular　rhythm　on　the　table。　they　formed　a　messy　sprawl　on　the　surface；　flopping　on　top　of　each　other　and　gliding　over　each　other’s　slippery　surfaces　with　a　sound　like　useless；　useless；　useless。

then　the　rhythm　came　to　a　halt。　miss　winter　was　sitting　with　intent　rigidity；　holding　up　a　single　picture　and　studying　it　with　a　frown。　she’s　seen　a　ghost；　i　thought。　then；　after　a　long　moment；　pretending　not　to　feel　my　gaze　upon　her；　she　tucked　the　photo　behind　the　remaining　dozen　and　looked　at　the　rest；　tossing　them　down　just　as　before。　when　the　one　that　had　arrested　her　attention　resurfaced；　she　barely　glanced　at　it　but　added　it　to　the　others。　“i　wouldn’t　have　been　able　to　tell　it　was　angelfield；　but　if　you　say　so…”　she　said　icily；　and　then；　in　an　apparently　artless　movement；　she　picked　up　the　whole　pile　and；　holding　them　toward　me；　dropped　them。

‘my　hand。　do　excuse　me；“　she　murmured　as　i　bent　down　to　retrieve　the　pictures；　but　i　wasn’t　deceived。

and　she　picked　up　her　story　where　she　had　left　it。

later　i　looked　through　the　pictures　again。　for　all　that　the　dropping　of　the　photos　had　muddled　the　order；　it　wasn’t　difficult　to　tell　which　one　had　struck　her　so　forcefully。　in　the　bundle　of　blurred　gray　images　there　was　really　only　one　that　stood　out　from　the　rest。　i　sat　on　the　edge　of　my　bed；　looking　at　the　image；　rememberi