The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini Read Free Page B

and I was sorry for his loneliness. Getting to my feet, I walked to the window. From somewhere came the high whine of a siren. I wondered about the others. They were supposed to arrive at six-thirty and it was nearly seven. In my imagination I saw Dalakis watching his wife wheeling a baby carriage. She’d been a pretty girl; perhaps that was part of the problem. I pictured Dalakis ducking down behind a parking meter and looking silly. It’s terrible how people we care about can cause us to lose our autonomy.
    â€œAnd how has your life been?” asked Dalakis. “Are you still working at the orphanage?”
    â€œWell, not working, exactly. I go there on Sundays.” For years I have visited an orphanage each Sunday where I try to make myself useful. Originally, I was supposed to play games with the children, but I’m not very good at games so now I read to them, or at least to those few who have any interest in hearing a middle-aged man read Grimm’s fairy tales or from an expurgated version of Cervantes. I also bring them books from the book review, although only the suitable ones, of course. But I don’t mean to speak disparagingly. I quite look forward to these Sunday visits.
    â€œAnd what about your novel,” asked Dalakis, “have you started that?”
    â€œI hope to start it sometime this fall,” I said, walking back to the sofa.
    â€œIt’s been a long time. Can’t you get a leave of absence for a year?” Dalakis has a low bass voice that resonates sympathy no matter the subject.
    â€œI doubt it. Unfortunately, the book has required more preparation than I anticipated.” I couldn’t help but feel the irony of these remarks as I stood surrounded by the greatest works of Western literature. The best reason I had for not beginning my novel was that I didn’t know how to begin it; the worst was a fear of the blank page.
    â€œAnd the novel’s about a married couple? A divorce or something like that?”
    â€œActually, I had hoped it to be an analysis of betrayal and the psychological effects of betrayal.” It seemed I had said this before, yet there was Dalakis’s interested face looking like a mound of bread dough rising out of a bowl. But then, because of his history, he had a special interest in betrayal.
    The door opened again and the housekeeper entered followed by Luis Malgiolio, looking eager and energetic. It amused me to see how Luis focused on the objects of the room before noticing the occupants. Then he saw us and gave a mock salute.
    â€œThis is a great place, Nicky. I see why you wanted dinner here before. Nearly got killed on the way over but no matter. And Carl, how’re you doing? I feel like a drink. D’you know the taxi driver got a bullet hole in the trunk of his cab?” Malgiolio continued to talk as he inspected several different bottles of brandy. “They have tanks stationed downtown. The roads were blocked but I could see them in the distance, just sitting there like great metal toads.”
    Malgiolio laughed, a squawking noise that rang without humor. He had half-filled a brandy snifter and began inspecting the room, lifting one object after another—silver cigar lighter, a ship in a bottle, a small bronze statue of a naked woman—as if he intended to buy something but didn’t have much time. He was a short balding man, no more than five feet six, and overweight, so that when he moved quickly he appeared to roll rather than walk. He had a thick neck and wide face, and the combination has always reminded me of a thumb. It was a white, puffy face, as if he rarely went outside, and his nose looked haphazard, like a chunk of clay rolled into a ball and stuck into place. His blue eyes never seem to look straight ahead but always to the sides. Malgiolio was dressed in a well-brushed blue suit that had seen better days. Despite his looks, he carried himself with great authority. I