Canarino. Katherine Bucknell

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СКАЧАТЬ voices swelling, shouting, dying. A siren blared to the east, then another, faster one; both faded. He could hear birds, tuneful ones, in the garden, though he couldn’t see them. The pale, narrow band of sky visible between the trees and the houses seemed to soar up into a wide dome spreading over immeasurable life and variety—neon, hopping, embattled, unpredictable.

      It still excites me, David thought, the fighting, vulgarity, noise, surging threat and promise of it all. Nobody even knows I’m in town, apart from one or two people at the office. It’s like freedom all over again, being small in it, anonymous. He slapped the railings with the palms of his hands; they didn’t wobble, didn’t even vibrate. So solid, this house, this success.

      Here I am, David Judd, a very rich man, in my mansion in Belgravia, about to retire from investment banking and go home. Whatever that is. Somebody said home is a place you can freely go both in and out of. Why does America make me think of my grave? I’m only forty-seven. He slapped the railings again, hard, so that his hands stung and the little bones at the top of his palms ached with the smack.

      There on the balcony, David felt like he was on the edge of a precipice. It was a moment of freedom, and a moment of uncertainty. The moment lasted a long time. He looked out at the gathering dusk, feeling the dull continual energy of the city, listening to its throbs of activity, sometimes remote, sometimes nearby. How could anyone engage with it all? A single life was narrow, short. The city was only an idea, he told himself, an endless seduction that nonetheless ended—ended in just a handful of recognized achievements, familiar relationships, habitual activities, done deals, inescapable commitments. He dusted his blackened palms against each other, swept both hands back through his floppy brown hair, holding his thumbs free, stiffly cocked, and went back inside.

      There was a light clatter on the parquet in the drawing-room doorway, then the sound of desperate claws sliding and failing to grip. In the small remaining light, David saw the children’s pug right itself on the slippery floor then bound onto the sofa. The dog made a sleek black arc in the gloom, quick, coiled, darting, then stood on the priceless blue silk, snuffling like a happy fool.

      ‘Why is the dog here?’ David said out loud.

      He felt a bubble of unexpected excitement. Elizabeth must have changed her mind! But the excitement passed instantly. It was followed by a shock of fear. Where were the children? Something had gone wrong.

      Oh, for Christ’s sake, he chided himself. That’s ridiculous; someone would have phoned. He looked at his watch. After nine. They must be there already; Elizabeth will call.

      He reached down and stroked the dog. ‘I hate pets,’ he cooed at it, ‘and you are making me feel pretty fucking lonely.’ The dog whined and fawned, raking the sofa with its claws, daintily slobbering.

      Then David said, still gently, ‘I’ve got two more trips to the Far East before I quit, buddy, and meetings all over Europe, and I’m hardly ever home anyway. I don’t know what the hell you are planning to eat. And I’ll tell you what’s worse: I am not going to carry you to Virginia at the end of the summer. Those selfish little kids of mine were only pretending they loved you; that’s what I think. They obviously forgot all about you. God only knows what’s going on in their mother’s head, because she’s been telling me all she wants is dogs and horses and open fields.’ He scratched the dog’s ears and pulled them with both hands.

      ‘I think you better get off this damn sofa, for starters.’ And suddenly he picked the dog up and dumped it on the floor so that it fell on its side. It sprang up and tottered out of the room.

      ‘There has to be someone here for the dog—one of her Filipinas. She must have told me.’ David ran unyielding fingers through his hair again, as he made for the stairs following the dog.

      There were lights on in the kitchen and he could hear noises before he even got to the bottom of the basement stairs—water running, cabinet doors opening and shutting, then the roar of the garbage disposal.

      I was never alone for a second, he thought. Elizabeth has it all organized. He felt a little irritated, a little disappointed. But he didn’t feel surprised.

      ‘Yes, Mr Judd, good evening, sir.’

      She said it with a shy smile, stiffly. David was pretty certain that her name was Francine, but he wasn’t willing to risk it. She already seemed embarrassed, being there in the house with him all alone. He just nodded at her, trying not to notice. But he thought maybe she was a nice woman; she’d been around a longish time; she was, he thought, Elizabeth’s favorite. She had children of her own. Elizabeth was always saying she felt guilty taking a mother away from her family. That’s why there were three different Filipinas, more even; David didn’t know. They all wore the same blue-and-white-striped uniform which didn’t help him with telling them apart.

      ‘I have some cold drink for you, sir, if you would like a beer. I can open it for you, and I can serve it in your study before your dinner.’

      David blinked at her, trying not to look startled. ‘Fine. In my study. What’s the dinner?’

      ‘Just simple chicken, grilled plain, and some salad, sir. Maybe you like a little rice?’

      ‘A little.’

      David turned around and went back up the stairs. Usually when he arrived home, the children’s supper was long over; there might be something left out that he could pick at if he was hungry. He poured his own beer if he was having one. More often than not, he ate out, either with clients in London or in some foreign city. He hadn’t lifted a finger to cook or clean for years, but he was taken aback by the sudden attentions of a personal servant. How would he stand the scheduling? The scrutiny? The need to be polite? What was Elizabeth thinking?

      His study was another surprise. The movers had packed absolutely everything. There was not a photograph, not a book, not a paperweight in sight. Even his desk was gone. The telephone and the fax machine were sitting on the floor beside a small pink-and-green-flowered armchair that David thought might have come from a spare bedroom upstairs. The chair looked absurdly feminine in the walnut-paneled room. His computer, with the screen and the keyboard, had been transferred onto a rickety-looking work station that he’d never seen before; did it belong to the children? Had Elizabeth bought it especially? Such a cheap sort of thing? There were faint black outlines on the beige wall-to-wall carpet where his desk and his files and his various chairs had once stood, a few more on the walls where his maps of London and New York and his New Yorker cartoons had hung. He opened the paneled supply-cupboard door; it was nearly empty—just two reams of copier paper, some stationery, a few pencils. He ran a finger over a shelf in the bookcase. Already dusted. David thought he could still smell cigars, sour and fragrant. Unpackable, he said to himself, the vile, rancid cloud.

      Francine came to the door with his beer, in an enormous misty mug, on a tray. David smiled broadly, practically guffawed. A chilled beer mug? He didn’t conceal his pleasure.

      ‘That’s great, Francine.’ He took a long pull at the inch-high foam and smacked his lips.

      ‘It’s up to me, the glasses, now the house manager is off. In Peter Jones, I wasn’t sure, but maybe this one is nice for a bachelor—for just a few weeks, I mean. And I have others if you prefer it?’

      David ignored the anxiety in her voice. ‘What about the dog, Francine? Did my wife tell you what her plans are for Puck?’

      David thought Francine looked a little nervous, but right away she said boldly, ‘Don’t worry about the dog, sir. He’s my responsibility. It’s no problem with me at all. I walk him plenty and the walking is good СКАЧАТЬ