The thirteenth tale Read Free

archaeologists of
the future, would seem an artifact, a product not of blunt-tooled nature but of
the very peak of artistic endeavor. The skin that embellishes these remarkable
bones has the opaque luminosity of alabaster; it appears paler still by
contrast with the elaborate twists and coils of copper hair that are arranged
with such precision about the fine temples and down the strong, elegant neck.
     
    As if this extravagant beauty were not enough, there are the
eyes. Intensified by some photographic sleight of hand to an inhuman green, the
green of glass in a church window, or of emeralds or of boiled sweets, they
gaze out over the heads of the commuters with perfect in-expression. I can’t
say whether the other travelers that day felt the same way as I about the
picture; they had read the books, so they may have had a different perspective
on things. But for me, looking into the large green eyes, I could not help
being reminded of that commonplace expression about the eyes being the gateway
to the soul. This woman, I remember thinking, as I gazed at her green, unseeing
eyes, does not have a soul.
     
    Such was, on the night of the letter, the extent of my knowledge
about Vida Winter. It was not much. Though on reflection perhaps it was as much
as anyone else might know. For although everyone knew Vida Winter—knew her
name, knew her face, knew her books—at the same time nobody knew her. As famous
for her secrets as for her stories, she was a perfect mystery.
     
    Now, if the letter was to be believed, Vida Winter wanted to
tell the truth about herself. This was curious enough in itself, but curiouser
still was my next thought: Why should she want to tell it to me?
     
    MARGARET’S STORY
     
    Rising from the stairs, I stepped into the darkness of the shop.
I didn’t need the light switch to find my way. I know the shop the way you know
the places of your childhood. Instantly the smell of leather and old paper was
soothing. I ran my fingertips along the spines, like a pianist along his keyboard.
Each book has its own individual note: the grainy, linen-covered spine of
Daniels’s History of Map Making, the racked leather of Lakunin’s minutes from
the meetings of the St. Petersburg Cartographic Academy; a well-worn folder
that contains his maps, and-drawn, hand-colored. You could blindfold me and
position me anywhere on the three floors of this shop, and I could tell you
from the books under my fingertips where I was.
     
    We see few customers in Lea’s Antiquarian Booksellers, a scant
half-dozen a day on average. There is a flurry of activity in September when le
students come to buy copies of the new year’s set texts; another in ay when
they bring them back after the exams. These books my father ills migratory. At
other times of the year we can go days without see-g a client. Every summer
brings the odd tourist who, having wan-Ted off the beaten track, is prompted by
curiosity to step out of the sunshine and into the shop, where he pauses for an
instant, blinking as his eyes adjust. Depending on how weary he is of eating
ice cream and watching the punts on the river, he might stay for a bit of shade
and tranquility or he might not. More commonly visitors to the shop are people
who, having heard about us from a friend of a friend, and finding themselves
near Cambridge, have made a special detour. They have anticipation on their
faces as they step into the shop, and not infrequently apologize for disturbing
us. They are nice people, as quiet and as amiable as the books themselves. But
mostly it is just Father, me and the books.
     
    How do they make ends meet? you might think, if you saw how few
customers come and go. But you see, the shop is, in financial terms, just a
sideline. The proper business takes place elsewhere. We make our living on the
basis of perhaps half a dozen transactions a year. This is how it works: Father
knows all the world’s great collectors,