Galilee. Clive Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ feel it. Fat cow.”

      “You just can’t bear to be in anybody’s debt.”

      “I wouldn’t mind with you,” she said.

      “I don’t count.”

      “No, I guess you don’t,” she replied. Then, seeing the expression on my face. “Now what have I said? I’m just agreeing with you, for God’s sake! Why is everybody so damn sensitive around here?” She went to my desk and examined the contents of the gin bottle. There was barely a shot remaining. “Got any more?”

      “There’s half a case in the closet in the bedroom.”

      “Mind if I—?”

      “Help yourself.”

      “You know we should talk more often, Eddie,” she called back to me while she dug for the gin. “Get to know one another. I don’t have anything in common with Dwight and Zabrina’s been in the foulest mood for the last couple of months. She’s so obese these days, Eddie. Have you seen her? I mean, she’s grossly fat.”

      Though both Zabrina and Marietta insist that they’re completely unlike—and in many regards this is true—they have some essential qualities in common. At their cores they’re both willful, stubborn, obsessive women. But whereas Marietta, who’s eleven years Zabrina’s junior, has always prided herself on her athleticism, and is as lean as a woman can get and still have a lushness about her body, Zabrina gave into her cravings for praline brittle and pecan pie years ago. Occasionally I’ll see her from my window, wandering rotundly across the lawn. At the last sighting she was probably three hundred and fifty pounds. (We are, you’ve doubtless begun to grasp, a profoundly wounded group of people. But trust me, when you better know the circumstances of our lives, you’ll be astonished we’re as functional as we are.)

      Marietta had emerged with a fresh bottle of gin, and, unscrewing the top, poured herself an ample measure.

      “Why do you keep all those clothes in the closet?” she said, knocking back a mouthful. “You’re never going to wear most of them.”

      “I presume that means you have your eye on something.”

      “The smoking jacket.”

      “Take it.”

      She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I’ve underrated you all these years,” she said, and went back into the bedroom to fetch the jacket in case I changed my mind.

      “I’ve decided to write the book,” I told her when she emerged.

      She tossed the jacket at Nicodemus’s chair and fairly danced with excitement. “That’s so wonderful,” she said. “Oh my God, Eddie, we’re going to have such fun.”

      “We?”

      “Yes, we. I mean, you’ll be writing it most of the time, but I’ll be helping. There’s a lot you don’t know. Dirt about Cesaria that she told me when I was little.”

      “Maybe you should keep your voice down.”

      “She can’t hear me. She’s always in her chambers these days.”

      “We don’t know what she can hear,” I said. There was a story that she’d had Jefferson design the house so that it funneled sounds to her chambers (which I’ve never entered, by the way; nor has Marietta). The story may be apocryphal, but I wonder. Though it’s many, many months since I caught sight of the woman I don’t have difficulty believing she sits there in her boudoir listening to her children, and her husband’s children, conniving and weeping and slowly losing their minds. She probably enjoys it.

      “Well if she can hear me, so what? She should be happy we’re going to all this trouble. I mean, it’s going to be a history of the Barbarossas. It’ll make her immortal.”

      “If she isn’t already.”

      “Oh no…she’s getting old. Zabrina sees her all the time and she says the old bitch is failing.”

      “I find that hard to imagine.”

      “It was her saying that which started me thinking about our book.”

      “It’s not our book,” I insisted. “If I’m going to do it, it’s going to be done my way. Which means it’s not going to simply be a history of the Barbarossas.”

      She emptied her glass. “I see,” she said, with a little chill in her voice. “So what’s it going to be?”

      “Oh, it’ll be about the family. But it’ll be about the Gearys too.”

      Now she fell silent and stared out of the window at the place where I sit with the birds. It took her fully a minute to bring herself to speak again. “If you write about the Gearys, then I’m having nothing to do with the fucking thing.”

      “How can I write—”

      “Or indeed you.”

      “Let me finish, will you? How can I write about this family—particularly the recent history of this family—and not write about the Gearys?”

      “They’re scum, Eddie. Human scum. And vicious. Every one of them.”

      “That’s not true, Marietta. And even if it were, I say again: what kind of bowdlerized account would this damn book be if I didn’t include them?”

      “All right. So just mention them in passing.”

      “They’re part of our lives.”

      “They’re not part of mine,” she said fiercely. Her gaze came back in my direction and I saw that she wasn’t so much enraged as sorrowful. I was revealing myself as a traitor with my desire to tell the story this way. She measured her next words with great care, like a lawyer making a pivotal argument.

      “You realize, don’t you, that this may be the only way people out there get to know about our family?” she snapped, showing me a glimpse of her temper.

      “All the more—”

      “Now you let me finish. When I came in here suggesting you write this fucking book, it was because I had this feeling—I have this feeling—that we haven’t got very long. And my instincts are rarely wrong.”

      “I realize that,” I said quietly. Marietta has prophetic talents, no question. She gets them from her mother.

      “Maybe that’s why she’s looking so haggard these days,” Marietta said.

      “She’s feeling what you’re feeling?”

      She nodded. “Poor bitch,” she said softly. “And that’s another thing to consider. Cesaria. She hates the Gearys even more than I do. They took her beloved Galilee.”

      I snorted at this nonsense. “That’s one sentimental myth I intend to lay to rest, for a start,” I said.

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