Rare Objects. Kathleen Tessaro

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ underlined in pencil.

       How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

       To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

       As tho’ to breathe were life! …

       … that which we are, we are:

       One equal temper of heroic hearts,

       Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

       To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

      Something quickened in my chest as I read it, an indefinable excitement and longing.

      … that which we are, we are … to shine in use …

      Someone, presumably Mr. Winshaw, had scrawled “Yes!” in the margin.

      I’d read The Odyssey in high school and admired the mythic realm of skies tinted rose and gold by dawn’s light fingertips and a wine-dark sea; of a life defined by bold actions, loyal companions, and true hearts. But I’d never read this poem before.

      To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

      My eyes were drawn to the emphatic “Yes!”

      Yes!

      The word moved me, though I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because it had been such a long time since I’d felt pure, unrestrained enthusiasm for anything.

      Mr. Winshaw was still alive; I felt sure of it.

      A man who believed in “Yes!” couldn’t simply disappear from life without ripples extending to every shore.

       Dear Mr. Winshaw,

       My name is May Fanning. I’m Mr. Kessler’s new assistant at the shop, and he’s asked me to forward your post on to you. I realize we haven’t met, but there is a great deal of concern here as to your current whereabouts and welfare. We are both, Mr. Kessler and I, eager to know that you are safe. If you would be so kind as to drop us a line or, indeed, any form of correspondence, it would be greatly appreciated. Likewise, if there is anything we can do on your behalf, please don’t hesitate to let us know.

      I paused.

      I was alone in the shop. The ticking of the clocks and Persia’s deep purr were the only sounds.

      “Occasionally,” I continued,

       I have used your desk for brief periods in order to complete paperwork and I have come to admire the great map on your wall. I am curious as to whether you have been to all those places and what they were like.

      Again, I stopped. He might, quite rightly, find the idea of me sitting in his office intrusive. Then again, I reasoned, this letter would most likely rot in the postal box in Baghdad, along with the rest of his mail.

       I envy you your freedom, Mr. Winshaw. I wish I too could leave Boston behind. I would like nothing better than to be somewhere new, where people weren’t so bound by convention and narrow-minded ideas of right and wrong, good and evil. I think there’s nothing duller than trying to be good nor any task more thankless. If I were you, I would stay missing as long as I could.

       Sincerely,

       May Fanning

      Well, that was childish.

      I tore the sheet off the writing pad and began again.

      When I had finished the second letter—a brief, polite inquiry—I looked for envelopes in the drawers of his desk. Failing to find any, I took one from Mr. Kessler and then packaged up the rest of Mr. Winshaw’s mail into a small parcel covered in brown paper and twine and took it to the post office. It took three clerks twenty minutes to figure out the postage to Baghdad. They were naturally curious about who I was corresponding with, what was in the package … I exaggerated a little, explaining it was my husband, the famous explorer, who was abroad and that I needed some urgent signatures on very important business documents.

      By the time I left, they were looking at me differently—as if I was fascinating, handling difficult situations on my own, braving the absence of my beloved with dignity and poise. The fantasy lent the afternoon a certain tender hue of melancholy, an imaginary sadness and courage that made everything just a little more interesting.

      So I pretended that, in my own way, I’d somehow said “Yes!” to life too.

      I was walking past a barbershop in Prince Street when I spotted it, hanging in the window. “Boxing,” the poster advertised in bold red letters across the top, “Five Bouts, Thirty-Six Rounds at Boston Garden.”

      I don’t know why I stopped; maybe out of habit, maybe just because things had been going well and I had to test them, poking and prodding at my own happiness the way a child picks at a newly formed scab.

      I read through the list of names, searching, looking for the one I wanted to find. And sure enough, there it was, down near the bottom: Mickey Finn.

      A sudden wave of loneliness hit me hard. I had my freedom back, a new job, money in my pocket, but still my chest ached the way an empty stomach gnaws and clutches for food that isn’t there.

      Michael Thomas Finlay.

      For years he’d been as much a part of my life as my right hand.

      We’d grown up together, been in the same class for a while in grammar school. But as soon as he’d grown tall enough, in sixth grade, Mick had been pulled out to work on the docks, loading and unloading with his father, brothers, and uncles. Still, I saw him every Sunday at church, sat next to him in confirmation class. When I learned how to waltz, he was my first and only partner.

      I must have been staring—there was a rap on the window, and when I looked up the guys in the barbershop were laughing and blowing kisses at me.

      I ignored them, walked on. But the emptiness in my chest grew and spread.

      I could still remember the first time Mickey kissed me, in the alleyway behind the cinema; the soft, warm pressure of his lips on mine and, most of all, the way he held me—gently, as if I were made of delicate glass he was afraid of breaking. No one before or since had ever thought I was that precious. It was a pure, uncomplicated affection, almost like siblings, based on unquestioning loyalty.

      Of course Ma didn’t like him. He was black Irish, she said, with his thick dark hair and brown gypsy eyes. He’d been taken out of school and would never amount to anything.

      But I didn’t want anyone Ma approved of.

      Then Mickey’s brother started boxing, and Mick took to hanging out at the Casino Club. As luck would have it, he turned out to be even better than his brother; just the right combination of height, muscle, and speed. And there was money to be made, a lot of money, for just one night’s work.

      Everyone knew all the best boxers were Irish. Kids from nowhere could rise to the top of the boxing world in no time—going СКАЧАТЬ