Tales From the Black Chamber Read Free Page B

drink arriving like magic, she’d probably had a couple bottles of vintage cabernet herself—she was a little unclear on the details—and she’d slept in until well after two in the afternoon.
    Once sufficiently hydrated and caffeinated to open the window shades, she called her parents in Albuquerque and shared the good news. They were elated, though she could hear a tiny unarticulated undertone of grief that she was more firmly anchored to New York than ever. Around five, she called Lindsay at work and invited her out for a non-alcoholic celebration (“Non-alcoholic only on your part, Anne”), then called a few other friends, intentionally skipping peers from the office just to give them a little breather for any awkwardness to pass. She’d take them out for lunches or dinner sometime later. Tonight she just wanted to relax and not worry or think about work in the least.
    She had everyone rally in Midtown for boatloads of Chinese at Ollie’s, the new Johnny Depp flick on an enormous screen at the big AMC theater off Times Square, and a cab ride down to Bowlmor near the Village for some midnight bowling and beers (or decaf cappuccino, in her case).
    As she climbed into bed, she thought, “With apologies to Kundera, that was the perfect evening of laughter and forgetting.” Sleep never felt so deep or restful.

    The next day was Saturday, and after some time on Citibank’s website and doing a little math, Anne decided that she could afford to do a little shopping, so she spent the day picking out a couple “partner suits” and some “partner shoes” and having some seriously frivolous fun.
    Sunday, she hit the gym to sweat out some of the weekend’s excesses, then called her ex-boyfriend Dave to share the good news. Dave and she had remained friendly, against the odds, largely because of their shared love for 1930s horror movies, which kept them running into each other at revival houses. After a while, they decided they might as well sit together. Then, they revived their old habit of watching them on TV late at night together—by phone or Internet chat instead of in bed.
    She and Dave had steaks at Carne on the Upper West Side, and he grabbed the check.
    â€œHey, wait, I’m the new titan of, um, antiquarian book auctions.”
    â€œI know,” he said, smiling, “but it’s on me.”
    â€œDave, I don’t want to be callous here, but I’m going to be making a lot of money fairly soon.”
    â€œYes, but for the moment, you have to buy into the partnership, which I imagine will involve some massive loan on your part. So it’s on me. Because I’m really happy for you.”
    She looked at him asquint for a moment, then exhaled. “Okay. Thank you. That’s really very kind of you.” Damn , she wondered, not for the first time, did I screw up badly in dumping him ?
    Dave gave her a brief peck as she got into the cab, which let her wallow a bit more in romantic nostalgia and no small amount of fantasy about the future. Maybe she could finally stop being so obsessive about the job. Maybe there was someone out there—maybe even Dave again?—with whom she could actually settle down, move to the suburbs, have a kid or two. Possibility beckoned seductively.

    Monday morning, Anne strolled into the office and humbly accepted the further congratulations and plaudits of all her coworkers. After pouring herself a coffee, she was relieved and pleased to shut her office door and just sit down to work. She opened up her e-mail. As she was typing an enthusiastic response to a man in Chillicothe, Ohio, who claimed to have a 1601 copy of Trithemius’s Steganographia , the first printed edition by Johann Berner, an itch between the third and fourth fingers of her right hand began to bother her. She rubbed at the web between her fingers and kept typing. A touch-typist, she could do ninety-five or a hundred words a