The Thirteenth Tale-第9章

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and　then　something　penetrated　through　my　reading　and　drew　me　out　of　the　book。　a　prickling　sensation　at　the　back　of　the　neck。

someone　was　watching　me。

i　know　the　back…of…the…neck　experience　is　not　an　unmon　phenomenon；　it　was；　however；　the　first　time　it　had　happened　to　me。　like　those　of　a　great　many　solitary　people；　my　senses　are　acutely　attuned　to　the　presence　of　others；　and　i　am　more　used　to　being　the　invisible　spy　in　a　room　than　to　being　spied　upon。　now　someone　was　watching　me；　and　not　only　that；　but　whoever　it　was　had　been　watching　me　for　some　time。　how　long　had　that　unmistakable　sensation　been　tickling　me？　i　thought　back　over　the　past　minutes；　trying　to　retrace　the　memory　of　the　body　behind　my　memory　of　the　book。　was　it　since　the　nun　began　to　speak　to　the　young　man？　since　she　was　shown　into　the　house？　or　earlier？　without　moving　a　muscle；　head　bent　over　the　page　as　though　i　had　noticed　nothing；　i　tried　to　remember。

then　i　realized。

i　had　felt　it　even　before　i　picked　up　the　book。

needing　a　moment　to　recover　myself；　i　turned　the　page；　continuing　the　pretense　of　reading。

‘you　can’t　fool　me。“

imperious；　declamatory；　magisterial。

there　was　nothing　to　be　done　but　turn　and　face　her。

vida　winter’s　appearance　was　not　calculated　for　concealment。　she　was　an　ancient　queen；　sorceress　or　goddess。　her　stiff　figure　rose　regally　out　of　a　profusion　of　fat　purple　and　red　cushions。　draped　around　her　shoulders；　the　folds　of　the　turquoise…and…green　cloth　that　cloaked　her　body　did　not　soften　the　rigidity　of　her　frame。　her　bright　copper　hair　had　been　arranged　into　an　elaborate　confection　of　twists；　curls　and　coils。　her　face；　as　intricately　lined　as　a　map；　was　powdered　white　and　finished　with　bold　scarlet　lipstick。　in　her　lap；　her　hands　were　a　cluster　of　rubies；　emeralds　and　white；　bony　knuckles；　only　her　nails；　unvarnished；　cut　short；　square　like　my　own；　struck　an　incongruous　note。　what　unnerved　me　more　than　all　the　rest　were　her　sunglasses。　i　lid　not　see　her　eyes　but；　as　i　remembered　the　inhuman　green　irises　in　the　poster；　her　dark　lenses　seemed　to　develop　the　force　of　a　search…it；　i　had　the　impression　that　from　behind　them　she　was　looking　through　my　skin　and　into　my　very　soul。

i　drew　a　veil　over　myself；　masked　myself　in　neutrality；　hid　behind　appearance。

for　an　instant　i　think　she　was　surprised　that　i　was　not　transparent；‘t　she　could　not　see　straight　through　me；　but　she　recovered　quickly；　re　quickly　than　i　had。

‘very　well；“　she　said　tartly；　and　her　smile　was　for　herself　more　than　me。　”to　business。　your　letter　gives　me　to　understand　that　you　have　reservations　about　the　mission　i　am　offering　you。“

“well；　yes；　that　is—”

the　voice　ran　on　as　if　it　had　not　registered　the　interruption。　“i　could　suggest　increasing　the　monthly　stipend　and　the　final　fee。”

i　licked　my　lips；　sought　the　right　words。　before　i　could　speak；　miss　winter’s　dark　shades　had　bobbed　up　and　down；　taking　in　my　flat　brown　bags；　my　straight　skirt　and　navy　cardigan。　she　smiled　a　small；　pitying　smile　and　overrode　my　intention　to　speak。　“but　pecuniary　interest　is　clearly　not　in　your　nature。　how　quaint。”　her　tone　was　dry。　“i　have　forgotten　about　people　who　don’t　care　for　money；　but　i　never　expected　to　meet　one。”　she　leaned　back　against　the　cushions。　“therefore　i　conclude　that　the　difficulty　concerns　integrity。　people　whose　lives　are　not　balanced　by　a　healthy　love　of　money　suffer　from　an　appalling　obsession　with　personal　integrity。”

she　waved　a　hand；　dismissing　my　words　before　they　were　out　of　my　mouth。　“you　are　afraid　of　undertaking　an　authorized　biography　in　case　your　independence　is　promised。　you　suspect　that　i　want　to　exert　control　over　the　content　of　the　finished　book。　you　know　that　i　have　resisted　biographers　in　the　past　and　are　wondering　what　my　agenda　is　in　changing　my　mind　now。　above　all”—that　dark　gaze　of　her　sunglasses　again—“you　are　afraid　i　mean　to　lie　to　you。”

i　opened　my　mouth　to　protest　but　found　nothing　to　say。　she　was　right。

‘you　see；　you　don’t　know　what　to　say；　do　you？　are　you　embarrassed　to　accuse　me　of　wanting　to　lie　to　you？　people　don’t　like　to　accuse　each　other　of　lying。　and　for　heaven’s　sake；　sit　down。“

i　sat　down。　“i　don’t　accuse　you　of　anything；”　i　began　mildly；　but　immediately　she　interrupted　me。

‘don’t　be　so　polite。　if　there’s　one　thing　i　can’t　abide；　it’s　politeness。“

her　forehead　twitched；　and　an　eyebrow　rose　over　the　top　of　the　sunglasses。　a　strong　black　arch　that　bore　no　relation　to　any　natural　brow。

‘politeness。　now；　there’s　a　poor　man’s　virtue　if　ever　there　was　one。　what’s　so　admirable　about　inoffensiveness；　i　should　like　to　know。　after　all；　it’s　easily　achieved。　one　needs　no　particular　talent　to　be　polite。　on　the　contrary；　being　nice　is　what’s　left　when　you’ve　failed　at　everything　else。　people　with　ambition　don’t　give　a　damn　what　other　people　think　about　them。　i　hardly　suppose　wagner　lost　sleep　worrying　whether　he’d　hurt　someone’s　feelings。　but　then　he　was　a　genius。“

her　voice　flowed　relentlessly　on；　recalling　instance　after　instance　of　genius　and　its　bedfellow　selfishness；　and　the　folds　of　her　shawl　never　moved　as　she　spoke。　she　must　be　made　of　steel；　i　thought。

eventually　she　drew　her　lecture　to　a　close　with　the　words：　“politeness　is　a　virtue　i　neither　possess　nor　esteem　in　others。　we　need　not　concern　ourselves　with　it。”　and　with　the　air　of　having　had　the　final　word　on　the　subject；　she　stopped。

‘you　raised　the　topic　of　lying；“　i　said。　”that　is　something　we　might　concern　ourselves　with。“

‘in　what　respect？“　through　the　dark　lenses；　i　could　just　see　the　movements　of　miss　winter’s　lashes。　they　crouched　and　quivered　around　the　eye；　like　the　long　legs　of　a　spider　around　its　body。

‘you　have　given　nineteen　different　versions　of　your　life　story　to　journalists　in　the　last　two　years　alone。　that’s　just　the　ones　i　found　on　a　lick　search。　there　are　many　more。　hundreds；　probably。“

she　shrugged。　“it’s　my　profession。　i’m　a　storyteller。”

‘i　am　a　biographer。　i　work　with　facts。“

she　tossed　her　head　and　her　stiff　curls　moved　as　one。　“how　horribly　ill。　i　could　never　have　been　a　biographer。　don’t　you　think　one　can　tell’s　truth　much　better　with　a　story？”

‘not　in　the　stories　you　have　told　the　world　so　far。“

miss　winter　conceded　a　nod。　“miss　lea；”　she　began。　her　voice　was　lower。　“i　had　my　reasons　for　creating　a　smoke　screen　around　my　past；　lose　reasons；　i　assure　you；　are　no　longer　valid。”

‘what　reasons？“

‘life　is　post。“

i　blinked。

‘you　think　that　a　strange　thing　to　say；　but　it’s　true。　all　my　life　and　all　my　experience；　the　events　that　have　befallen　me；　the　people　i　have　own；　all　my　memories；　dreams；　fantasies；　everything　i　have　ever　read；　all　of　that　has　been　chucked　onto　the　post　heap；　where　over　time　it　has　rotted　down　to　a　dark；　rich；　organic　mulch。　the　process　of　cellular　breakdown　makes　it　unrecognizable。　other　people　call　it　the　imagination。　i　think　of　it　as　a　post　heap。　every　so　often　i　take　an　idea；　plant　it　in　the　post；　and　wait。　it　feeds　on　that　black　stuff　that　used　to　be　a　life；　takes　its　energy　for　its　own。　it　germinates。　takes　root。　produces　shoots。　and　so　on　and　so　forth；　until　one　fine　day　i　have　a　story；　or　a　novel。“

i　nodded；　liking　the　analogy。

‘readers；“　continued　miss　winter；　”are　fools。　they　believe　all　writ…；　is　autobiographical。　and　so　it　is；　but　not　in　the　way　they　think。　the　writer’s　life　needs　time　to　rot　away　before　it　can　be　used　to　nourish　a　work　of　fiction。　it　must　be　allowed　to　decay。　that’s　why　i　couldn’t　have　journalists　and　biographers　rummaging　around　in　my　past；　retrieving　bits　and　pieces　of　it；　preserving　it　in　their　words。　to　write　my　books　i　needed　my　past　left　in　peace；　for　time　to　do　its　work。“

i　considered　her　answer；　then　asked；　“and　what　has　happened　to　change　things　now？”

‘i　am　old。　i　am　ill。　put　those　two　facts　together；　biographer；　and　what　do　you　get？　the　end　of　the　story；　i　think。“

i　bit　my　lip。　“and　why　not　write　the　book　yourself？”

‘i　have　left　it　too　late。　besides；　who　would　believe　me？　i　have　cried　wolf　too　often。“

‘do　you　intend　to　tell　me　the　truth？“　i　asked。

‘yes；“　she　said；　but　i　had　heard　the　hesitation　even　though　it　lasted　only　a　fraction　of　a　second。

‘and　why　do　you　want　to　tell　it　to　me？“

she　paused。　“do　you　know；　i　have　been　asking　myself　the　very　same　question　for　the　last　quarter　of　an　hour。　just　what　kind　of　a　person　are　you；　miss　lea？”

i　fixed　my　mask　in　place　before　replying。　“i　am　a　shop　assistant。　i　work　in　an　antiquarian　bookshop。　i　am　an　amateur　biographer。　presumably　you　have　read　my　work　on　the　landier　brothers？　”

‘it’s　not　much　to　go　on；　is　it？　if　we　are　to　work　together；　i　shall　need　to　know　a　little　more　about　who　you　are。　i　can　hardly　spill　the　secrets　of　a　lifetime　to　a　person　of　whom　i　know　nothing。　so；　tell　me　about　yourself。　what　are　your　favorite　books？　what　do　you　dream　about？　whom　do　you　love？“

on　the　instant　i　was　too　affronted　to　reply。

‘well；　answer　me！　for　goodness’　sake！　am　i　to　have　a　stranger　living　under　my　roof？　a　stranger　working　for　me？　it　is　not　reasonable。　tell　me　this；　do　you　believe　in　ghosts？“

governed　by　something　stronger　t