The Thirteenth Tale-第7章

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y　stage　of　my　life；　and　there　has　never　been　a　time　when　reading　was　not　my　greatest　joy。　and　yet　i　cannot　pretend　that　the　reading　i　have　done　in　my　adult　years　matches　in　its　impact　on　my　soul　the　reading　i　did　as　a　child。　i　still　believe　in　stories。　i　still　forget　myself　when　i　am　in　the　middle　of　a　good　book。　yet　it　is　not　the　same。　books　are；　for　me；　it　must　be　said；　the　most　important　thing；　what　i　cannot　forget　is　that　there　was　a　time　when　they　were　at　once　more　banal　and　more　essential　than　that。　when　i　was　a　child；　books　were　everything。　and　so　there　is　in　me；　always；　a　nostalgic　yearning　for　the　lost　pleasure　of　books。　it　is　not　a　yearning　that　one　ever　expects　to　be　fulfilled。　and　during　this　time；　these　days　when　i　read　all　day　and　half　the　night；　when　i　slept　under　a　counterpane　strewn　with　books；　when　my　sleep　was　black　and　dreamless　and　passed　in　a　flash　and　i　woke　to　read　again—the　lost　joys　of　reading　returned　to　me。　miss　winter　restored　to　me　the　virginal　qualities　of　the　novice　reader；　and　then　with　her　stories　she　ravished　me。

from　time　to　time　my　father　would　knock　at　the　door　at　the　top　of　：he　stairs。　he　stared　at　me。　i　must　have　had　that　dazed　look　intense　reading　gives　you。　“you　won’t　forget　to　eat；　will　you？”　he　said；　as　he　handed　me　a　bag　of　groceries　or　a　pint　of　milk。

i　would　have　liked　to　stay　in　my　flat　forever　with　those　books。　but　if　i　was　to　go　to　yorkshire　to　meet　miss　winter；　then　there　was　other　work　to　be　done。　i　took　a　day　off　from　reading　and　went　to　the　library。　in　the　newspaper　room；　i　looked　at　the　books　pages　of　the　national　newspapers　for　pieces　on　miss　winter’s　recent　novels。　for　every　new　book　that　came　out；　she　summoned　a　number　of　journalists　to　a　hotel　in　harrogate；　where　she　met　them　one　by　one　and　gave　them；　separately；　what　she　termed　her　life　story。　there　must　have　been　dozens　of　these　stories　in　existence；　hundreds　perhaps。　i　found　almost　twenty　without　looking　very　hard。

after　the　publication　of　betwixt　and　between；　she　was　the　secret　daughter　of　a　priest　and　a　schoolmistress；　a　year　later　in　the　same　newspaper　she　got　publicity　for　hauntings　by　telling　how　she　was　the　runaway　child　of　a　parisian　courtesan。　for　the　puppet　show；　she　was；　in　various　newspapers；　an　orphan　raised　in　a　swiss　convent；　a　street　child　from　the　backstreets　of　the　east　end　and　the　stifled　only　girl　in　a　family　of　ten　boisterous　boys。　i　particularly　liked　the　one　in　which；　being　accidentally　separated　in　india　from　her　scottish　missionary　parents；　she　scraped　out　an　existence　for　herself　in　the　streets　of　bombay；　making　a　living　as　a　storyteller。　she　told　stories　about　pine　trees　that　smelled　like　the　freshest　coriander；　mountains　as　beautiful　as　the　taj　mahal；　haggis　more　delicious　than　any　street…corner　pakora　and　bagpipes。　oh；　the　sound　of　the　bagpipes！　so　beautiful　it　defied　description。　when　many　years　later　she　was　able　to　return　to　scotland—a　country　she　had　left　as　a　tiny　baby—she　was　gravely　disappointed。　the　pine　trees　smelled　nothing　like　coriander。　snow　was　cold。　haggis　tasted　flat。　as　for　the　bagpipes…

wry　and　sentimental；　tragic　and　astringent；　ic　and　sly；　each　and　every　one　of　these　stories　was　a　masterpiece　in　miniature。　for　a　different　kind　of　writer；　they　might　be　the　pinnacle　of　her　achievement；　for　vida　winter　they　were　mere　throwaways。　no　one；　i　think；　would　have　mistaken　them　for　the　truth。

the　day　before　my　departure　was　sunday　and　i　spent　the　afternoon　at　y　parents’　house。　it　never　changes；　a　single　lupine　exhalation　could　re…ice　it　to　rubble。

my　mother　smiled　a　small；　taut　smile　and　talked　brightly　while　we　had　tea。　the　neighbor’s　garden；　roadworks　in　town；　a　new　perfume　that　had　brought　her　up　in　a　rash。　light；　empty　chat；　produced　to　keep　since　at　bay；　silence　in　which　her　demons　lived。　it　was　a　good　performance：　nothing　to　reveal　that　she　could　hardly　bear　to　leave　the　house；　at　the　most　minor　unexpected　event　gave　her　a　migraine；　that　she　mid　not　read　a　book　for　fear　of　the　feelings　she　might　find　in　it。

father　and　i　waited　until　mother　went　to　make　fresh　tea　before　talk…g　about　miss　winter。

‘it’s　not　her　real　name；“　i　told　him。　”if　it　was　her　real　name；　it　would　be　easy　to　trace　her。　and　everyone　who　has　tried　has　given　up　for　ant　of　information。　no　one　knows　even　the　simplest　fact　about　her。“

‘how　curious。“

‘it’s　as　if　she　came　from　nowhere。　as　if　before　being　a　writer　she　didn’t　exist　at　all。　as　if　she　invented　herself　at　the　same　time　as　her　book。“

‘we　know　what　she　chose　for　a　pen　name。　that　must　reveal　something；　surely；“　my　father　suggested。

‘vida。　from　vita；　latin；　meaning　life。　though　i　can’t　help　thinking　：　french；　too。“

vide　in　french　means　empty。　the　void。　nothingness。　but　we　don’t　；e　words　like　this　in　my　parents’　house；　so　i　left　it　for　him　to　infer。

‘quite。“　he　nodded。　”and　what　about　winter？“

winter。　i　looked　out　of　the　window　for　inspiration。　behind　my　writer’s　ghost；　dark　branches　stretched　naked　across　the　darkening　sky；　and　the　flower　beds　were　bare　black　soil。　the　glass　was　no　protection　against　the　chill；　despite　the　gas　fire；　the　room　seemed　filled　with　bleak　despair。　what　did　winter　mean　to　me？　one　thing　only：　death。

there　was　a　silence。　when　it　became　necessary　to　say　something　so　as　not　to　burden　the　previous　exchange　with　an　intolerable　weight；　i　said；　“it’s　a　spiky　name。　v　and　w。　vida　winter。　very　spiky。”

my　mother　came　back。　placing　cups　on　saucers；　pouring　tea；　she　talked　on；　her　voice　moving　as　freely　in　her　tightly　policed　plot　of　life　as　though　it　were　seven　acres。

my　attention　wandered。　on　the　mantel　over　the　fireplace　was　the　one　object　in　the　room　that　might　be　considered　decorative。　a　photograph。　every　so　often　my　mother　talks　about　putting　it　away　in　a　drawer；　where　it　will　be　safe　from　dust。　but　my　father　likes　to　see　it；　and　since　he　so　rarely　opposes　her；　on　this　she　cedes　to　him。　in　the　picture　are　a　youthful　bride　and　groom。　father　looks　the　same　as　ever：　quietly　handsome；　with　dark；　thoughtful　eyes；　the　years　do　not　change　him。　the　woman　is　scarcely　recognizable。　a　spontaneous　smile；　laughter　in　her　eyes；　warmth　in　her　gaze　as　she　looks　at　my　father。　she　looks　happy。

tragedy　alters　everything。

i　was　born；　and　the　woman　in　the　wedding　photo　disappeared。

i　looked　out　into　the　dead　garden。　against　the　fading　light；　my　shadow　hovered　in　the　glass；　looking　into　the　dead　room。　what　did　she　make　of　us？　i　wondered。　what　did　she　think　of　our　attempts　to　persuade　ourselves　that　this　was　life　and　that　we　were　really　living　it？

arrivali　left　home　on　an　ordinary　winter　day；　and　for　miles　my　train　ran　。　under　a　gauzy　white　sky。　then　i　changed　trains；　and　the　clouds　assed。　they　grew　thicker　and　darker；　more　and　more　bloated；　as　i　traveled　north。　at　any　moment　i　expected　to　hear　the　first　scattering　of　？ops　on　the　windowpane。　yet　the　rain　did　not　e。

at　harrogate；　miss　winter’s　driver；　a　dark…haired；　bearded　man；　as　disinclined　to　talk。　i　was　glad；　for　his　lack　of　conversation　left　me　free　to　study　the　unfamiliar　views　that　unfolded　as　soon　as　we　left　the　town　behind。　i　had　never　been　north　before。　my　researches　had　taken　e　to　london　and；　once　or　twice；　across　the　channel　to　libraries　and　chives　in　paris。　yorkshire　was　a　county　i　knew　only　from　novels；　and　novels　from　another　century　at　that。　once　we　left　the　town　behind；　there　were　few　signs　of　the　contemporary　world；　and　it　was　possible　to　believe　i　was　traveling　into　the　past　at　the　same　time　as　into　the　countryside。　the　villages　were　quaint；　with　their　churches　and　pubs　and　stone　cottages；　then；　the　farther　we　went；　the　smaller　the　villages　became　and　the　greater　the　distance　between　them　until　isolated　farmhouses　were　the　only　interruptions　to　the　naked　winter　fields。　at　last　we　left　even　the　farmhouses　behind　and　it　grew　dark。　the　car’s　headlamps　showed　me　swathes　of　a　colorless；　undefined　landscape：　no　fences；　no　walls；　no　hedges；　no　buildings。　just　a　vergeless　road　and　each　side　of　it；　vague　undulations　of　darkness。

‘is　this　the　moors？“　i　asked。

‘it　is；“　the　driver　said；　and　i　leaned　closer　to　the　window；　but　all　i　could　make　out　was　the　waterlogged　sky　that　pressed　down　claustrophobically　on　the　land；　on　the　road；　on　the　car。　beyond　a　certain　distance　even　the　light　from　our　headlamps　was　extinguished。

at　an　unmarked　junction　we　turned　off　the　road　and　bumped　along　for　a　couple　of　miles　on　a　stony　track。　we　stopped　twice　for　the　driver　to　open　a　gate　and　close　it　behind　us；　then　on　we　went；　jolting　and　shaking　for　another　mile。

miss　winter’s　house　lay　between　two　slow　rises　in　die　darkness；　almost…hills　that　seemed　to　merge　into　each　other　and　that　revealed　the　presence　of　a　valley　and　a　house　only　at　the　last　turn　of　the　drive。　the　sky　by　now　was　blooming　shades　of　purple；　indigo　and　gunpowder；　and　the　house　beneath　it　crouched　long　and　low　and　very　dark。　the　driver　opened　the　car　door　for　me；　and　i　stepped　out　to　see　that　he　had　already　unloaded　my　case　and　was　ready　to　pull　away；　leaving　me　alone　in　front　of　an　unlit　porch。　barred　shutters　blacked　out　the　windows　and　there　was　not　a　single　sign　of　human　habitation。　closed　in　upon　itself；　the　place　seemed　to　shun　visitors。