Authors: Berry Fleming

The Bookman's Tale (12 page)

“Oh, sorry, sir,” with a little smile at the impropriety of such a question, then indulgently, “Perhaps our Social Directorâbut she doesn't come on until noon.”

But there were other questions that haunted him as he waited in his bolted-down chair before the two-way mirror-windowâshining white planes beyond it slanting past with the soft hum of muted cellos, slanting up, slanting down, slicing through the travelers at his back, the hatted and the hatless, the restless and the patient, through a barefoot boy with a dog on a leash, through the hand luggage, the carry-on, through the dancers turning on the powdered earth, the chanting, the resurrected old man (old men!), through the questions pounding in his head like the drums: who was this woman, this girl? calling herself Augusta, “named for the month I began,” counting back from a birthday and coming to his month in the mountains? Or told by her mother she “began” in the month of August? Her embittered mother?

Or was it all just fiction, just a putting together of stories she had heard, fancies she had dreamed, like any other of those strange people at their writing machines? She might never have heard the name, Claudia Motlowâ

The mirror-window becoming all window, the bowed trunks of the two palms sliced off by the waiting-room ceiling, the herringbone path between the sprinklers filled with passengers out of the sky, with welcomes that reached from restrained to exuberant, from handshakes to open arms, and in the midst of the animated parade to the waiting room and his bolted-down chair Janet in white and yellow arm-in-arm with a woman his age (nearly), black hair now a well-kept gray, well-made navy blue linen skirt and jacket with the, for him, indefinable something that said taste, if not hers then some knowing saleswoman's in a costly shop. If he moved he would draw their attention, after a moment would be hearing, “Mother” (probably, “Mum,” or, “Mom”), “this is Edwardâwhat did you say your name was? King?” “Ray. Edward Ray. Aren't you confusing me with Oedipus the King?â¦”

If he held his breath, pulled in his shoulders, turned his face slowly, very slowly, away to watch the barefoot boy behind him and the dog, sat as still as a puzzled squirrelâ

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-5040-0984-3

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