The Thirteenth Tale-第6章

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s　desire—the　king　had　his　daughter　restored　to　life　by　a　stranger’s　kiss；　the　beast　was　divested　of　his　fur　and　left　naked　as　a　man；　the　mermaid　walked—but　only　when　it　was　too　late　did　they　realize　the　price　they　must　pay　for　escaping　their　destiny。　every　happy　ever　after　was　tainted。　fate；　at　first　so　amenable；　so　reasonable；　so　open　to　negotiation；　ends　up　by　exacting　a　cruel　revenge　for　happiness。

the　tales　were　brutal　and　sharp　and　heartbreaking。　i　loved　them。

it　was　while　i　was　reading　“the　mermaid’s　tale”—the　twelfth　tale—that　i　began　to　feel　stirrings　of　an　anxiety　that　was　unconnected　to　the　story　itself。　i　was　distracted：　my　thumb　and　right　index　finger　were　sending　me　a　message：　not　many　pages　left。　the　knowledge　nagged　more　insistently　until　i　tilted　the　book　to　check。　it　was　true。　the　thirteenth　tale　must　be　a　very　short　one。

i　continued　my　reading；　finished　tale　twelve　and　turned　the　page。

blank。

i　flicked　back；　forward　again。　nothing。

there　was　no　thirteenth　tale。

there　was　a　sudden　rush　in　my　head；　i　felt　the　sick　dizziness　of　the　deep…sea　diver　e　too　fast　to　the　surface。

aspects　of　my　room　came　back　into　view；　one　by　one。　my　bedspread；　the　book　in　my　hand；　the　lamp　still　shining　palely　in　the　daylight　that　was　beginning　to　creep　in　through　the　thin　curtains。

it　was　morning。

i　had　read　the　night　away。

there　was　no　thirteenth　tale。

in　the　shop　my　father　was　sitting　at　the　desk　with　his　head　in　his　hands。　he　heard　me　e　down　the　stairs　and　looked　up；　white…faced。

‘whatever　is　it？“　i　darted　forward。

he　was　too　shocked　to　speak；　his　hands　roused　themselves　to　a　mute　gesture　of　desperation　before　slowly　replacing　themselves　over　his　horrified　eyes。　he　groaned。

my　hand　hovered　over　his　shoulder；　but　i　am　not　in　the　habit　of　touching　people；　so　it　fell　instead　to　the　cardigan　that　he　had　draped　over　the　back　of　his　chair。

‘is　there　anything　i　can　do？“　i　asked。

when　he　spoke；　his　voice　was　weary　and　shaken。　“we’ll　have　to　phone　the　police。　in　a　minute。　in　a　minute…”

‘the　police？　father；　what’s　happened？“

‘a　break…in。“　he　made　it　sound　like　the　end　of　the　world。

i　looked　around　the　shop；　bewildered。　everything　was　neat　and　in　order。　the　desk　drawers　had　not　been　forced；　the　shelves　not　ransacked；　the　window　not　broken。

‘the　cabinet；“　he　said；　and　i　began　to　understand。

‘the　thirteen　tales。“　i　spoke　firmly。　”upstairs　in　my　flat。　i　borrowed　it。“

father　looked　up　at　me。　his　expression　bined　relief　with　utter　astonishment。　“you　borrowed　it？”

‘yes。“

“you　borrowed　it？”

‘yes。“　i　was　puzzled。　i　was　always　borrowing　things　from　the　shop；　as　he　knew。

‘but　vida　winter…？“

and　i　realized　that　some　kind　of　explanation　was　called　for。

i　read　old　novels。　the　reason　is　simple：　i　prefer　proper　endings。　marriages　and　deaths；　noble　sacrifices　and　miraculous　restorations；　tragic　separations　and　unhoped…for　reunions；　great　falls　and　dreams　fulfilled；　these；　in　my　view；　constitute　an　ending　worth　the　wait。　they　should　e　after　adventures；　perils；　dangers　and　dilemmas；　and　wind　everything　up　nice　and　neatly。　endings　like　this　are　to　be　found　more　monly　in　old　novels　than　new　ones；　so　i　read　old　novels。

contemporary　literature　is　a　world　i　know　little　of。　my　father　had　taken　me　to　task　on　this　topic　many　times　during　our　daily　talks　about　books。　he　reads　as　much　as　i　do；　but　more　widely；　and　i　have　great　respect　for　his　opinions。　he　has　described　in　precise；　measured　words　the　beautiful　desolation　he　feels　at　the　close　of　novels　where　the　message　is　that　there　is　no　end　to　human　suffering；　only　endurance。　he　has　spoken　of　endings　that　are　muted；　but　which　echo　longer　in　the　memory　than　louder；　more　explosive　denouements。　he　has　explained　why　it　is　that　ambiguity　touches　his　heart　more　nearly　than　the　death　and　marriage　style　of　finish　that　i　prefer。

during　these　talks；　i　listen　with　the　gravest　attention　and　nod　my　head；　but　i　always　end　up　continuing　in　my　old　habits。　not　that　he　blames　me　for　it。　there　is　one　thing　on　which　we　are　agreed：　there　are　too　many　books　in　the　world　to　read　in　a　single　lifetime；　you　have　to　draw　the　line　somewhere。

once　father　even　told　me　about　vida　winter。　“now；　there’s　a　living　writer　who　would　suit　you。”

but　i　had　never　read　any　vida　winter。　why　should　i　when　there　were　so　many　dead　writers　i　had　still　not　discovered？

except　that　now　i　had　e　down　in　the　middle　of　the　night　to　take　the　thirteen　tales　from　the　cabinet。　my　father；　with　good　reason；　was　wondering　why。

‘i　got　a　letter　yesterday；“　i　began。

he　nodded。

‘it　was　from　vida　winter。“

father　raised　his　eyebrows　but　waited　for　me　to　go　on。

‘it　seems　to　be　an　invitation　for　me　to　visit　her。　with　a　view　to　writing　her　biography。“

his　eyebrows　lifted　by　another　few　millimeters。

‘i　couldn’t　sleep；　so　i　came　down　to　get　the　book。“

i　waited　for　father　to　speak；　but　he　didn’t。　he　was　thinking；　a　small　frown　creasing　his　brow。　after　a　time　i　spoke　again。　“why　is　it　kept　in　the　cabinet？　what　makes　it　so　valuable？”

father　pulled　himself　away　from　his　train　of　thought　to　answer。　“partly　because　it’s　the　first　edition　of　the　first　book　by　the　most　famous　living　writer　in　the　english　language。　but　mostly　because　it’s　flawed。　every　following　edition　is　called　tales　of　change　and　desperation。　no　mention　of　thirteen。　you’ll　have　noticed　there　are　only　twelve　stories？”

i　nodded。

‘presumably　there　were　originally　supposed　to　be　thirteen；　then　only　twelve　were　submitted。　but　there　was　a　mixup　with　the　jacket　design　and　the　book　was　printed　with　the　original　title　and　only　twelve　stories。　they　had　to　be　recalled。“

‘but　your　copy…“

‘slipped　through　the　net。　one　of　a　batch　sent　out　by　mistake　to　a　shop　in　dorset；　where　one　customer　bought　a　copy　before　the　shop　got　the　message　to　pack　them　up　and　send　them　back。　thirty　years　ago　he　realized　what　the　value　might　be　and　sold　it　to　a　collector。　the　collector’s　estate　was　auctioned　in　september　and　i　bought　it。　with　the　proceeds　from　the　avignon　deal。“

‘the　avignon　deal？“　it　had　taken　two　years　to　negotiate　the　avignon　deal。　it　was　one　of　father’s　most　lucrative　successes。

‘you　wore　the　gloves；　of　course？“　he　asked　sheepishly。

‘who　do　you　take　me　for？“

he　smiled　before　continuing。　“all　that　effort　for　nothing。”

‘what　do　you　mean？“

‘recalling　all　those　books　because　the　title　was　wrong。　yet　people　still　call　it　the　thirteen　tales；　even　though　it’s　been　published　as　tales　of　change　and　desperation　for　half　a　century。“

‘why　is　that？“

‘it’s　what　a　bination　of　fame　and　secrecy　does。　with　real　knowledge　about　her　so　scant；　fragments　of　information　like　the　story　of　the　recalled　first　edition　take　on　an　importance　beyond　their　weight。　it　has　bee　part　of　her　mythology。　the　mystery　of　the　thirteenth　tale。　it　gives　people　something　to　speculate　about。“

there　is　a　short　silence。　then；　directing　his　gaze　vaguely　into　the　middle　distance；　and　speaking　lightly　so　that　i　could　pick　up　his　words　or　let　them　go；　as　i　chose；　he　murmured；　“and　now　a　biography…　how　unexpected。”

i　remembered　the　letter；　my　fear　that　its　writer　was　not　to　be　trusted。　i　remembered　the　insistence　of　the　young　man’s　words；　“tell　me　die　truth。”　i　remembered　the　thirteen　tales　that　took　possession　of　me　with　its　first　words　and　held　me　captive　all　night。　i　wanted　to　be　held　hostage　again。

‘i　don’t　know　what　to　do；“　i　told　my　father。

‘it　is　different　from　what　you　have　done　before。　vida　winter　is　a　living　subject。　interviews　instead　of　archives。“

i　nodded。

‘but　you　want　to　know　the　person　who　wrote　the　thirteen　tales。“

i　nodded　again。

my　father　put　his　hands　on　his　knees　and　sighed。　he　knows　what　reading　is。　how　it　takes　you。

‘when　does　she　want　you　to　go？“

‘monday；“　i　told　him。

‘i’ll　run　you　to　the　station；　shall　i？“

‘thank　you。　and—“

‘yes？“

‘can　i　have　some　time　off？　i　ought　to　do　some　more　reading　before　i　go　up　there。“

‘yes；“　he　said；　with　a　smile　that　didn’t　hide　his　worry。　”yes；　of　course。“

　there　followed　one　of　the　most　glorious　times　of　my　adult　life。　for　the　first　time　ever　i　had　on　my　bedside　table　a　pile　of　brand…new；　glossy　paperbacks；　purchased　from　a　regular　bookshop。　betwixt　and　between　by　vida　winter；　twice　is　forever　by　vida　winter；　hauntings　by　vida　winter；　out　of　the　arc　by　vida　winter；　rules　of　affliction　by　vida　winter；　the　birthday　girl　by　vida　winter；　the　puppet　show　by　vida　winter。　the　covers；　all　by　the　same　artist；　glowed　with　heat　and　power：　amber　and　scarlet；　gold　and　deep　purple。　i　even　bought　a　copy　of　tales　of　change　and　desperation；　its　title　looked　bare　without　the　thirteen　that　makes　my　father’s　copy　so　valuable。　his　own　copy　i　had　returned　to　the　cabinet。

of　course　one　always　hopes　for　something　special　when　one　reads　an　author　one　hasn’t　read　before；　and　miss　winter’s　books　gave　me　the　same　thrill　i　had　when　i　discovered　the　landier　diaries；　for　instance。　but　it　was　more　than　that。　i　have　always　been　a　reader；　i　have　read　at　every　stage　of　my　life；　and　there　has　never　been　a　time　when　reading　was　not　my　greatest　joy。　and　yet　i