A Read Free

played tricks on him. He was sure of it.
    He was less certain about how to proceed. Should he leave a copy of his manuscript in the living room at 29 Cowan? He wasn’t convinced the short man actually was Avery Andrews, but one had to start somewhere. Why not start at the home of this gentleman who, after all, had both the yellow cardigan and the oxblood shoes?
    He hadn’t worked out how he would break into the man’s house but, as it happened, this was no problem at all. Though the man in the cardigan had locked his front door, the back door was open. So, Baddeley walked into a spotless kitchen. At least, “spotless” is what he thought on entering. But it was more that the place seemed uninhabited, expectant. There were no cobwebs and not much dust. The rooms were in order, the furniture arranged “just so.” The lamps and wicker wastebaskets, the books in bookcases and the pictures on the walls were all neatly arranged. The place smelled faintly of incense. The further he went into the house, the less likely it seemed that anyone actually lived there.
    Despite his sense that something wasn’t right, Baddeley placed a copy of his manuscript — which he’d optimistically brought with him — on a coffee table in the living room. He left the house by the door he’d come in, resolving to return the following morning. But as Baddeley closed the kitchen door behind him and turned to go, he was confronted by the man in the yellow cardigan.
    Caught off guard, Baddeley stuttered.
    â€“ I’m sorry. I’m sorry, he said. The door was open. I thought there was someone home.
    The man stared at Baddeley a moment.
    â€“ I’m home now, he said.
    â€“ That’s just it, said Baddeley. I thought a friend of mine lived here. That’s why I went in. I must have the wrong address. – Stop lying, said the man. I’m Avery Andrews and I know who you are, assassin.
    When he thought about this moment later — and he was to think about it often — Baddeley thought about how strange his face must have looked. On learning that he had found Avery Andrews, the emotions that coursed through him were myriad, contradictory, and sharply experienced. He felt excitement, wonder, fear, confusion, guilt, deference, arrogance, and disbelief. And each emotion must have imposed its own fleeting expression on his face.
    â€“ But, but, but ..., he said.
    Andrews interrupted him.
    â€“ I apologize, he said. I shouldn’t have called you “assassin.”
    Let’s play this out. – Play what out?
    was Baddeley’s first thought, but he almost dutifully followed Andrews back into the house. They walked through the kitchen into the living room.
    â€“ Don’t sit down, said Andrews. I don’t like housecleaning.
    Baddeley stood, as Andrews sat down on the sofa. Andrews saw Baddeley’s manuscript, picked it up from the coffee table — Baddeley’s heart raced as his idol touched its pages — and threw it so that Time and Mr. Andrews hit Baddeley on the shoulder.
    â€“ You don’t know anything about my work, said Andrews. None of you do. You’re all deluded.
    The bitterness in Andrews’ voice was so corrosive, Baddeley accepted his own insignificance as if it were an obvious fact.
    â€“ Yes, he said. But if only you’d help me interpret your work, it would be even more popular than it is.
    â€“ Are you out of your mind? asked Andrews. I write poetry. It’s not meant to be popular. Anyway, I can’t help you interpret what I don’t understand myself.
    It was not going as Baddeley had hoped. He was certain a mind as acute as Andrews’ would know the springs and coils of its own mechanism intimately. If only he could coax certain things from the poet.
    â€“ Mr. Andrews, Baddeley said, I really believe people would have a deeper appreciation for your work if ...
    Andrews cut him off.
    â€“ You don’t