Read Online A Convergence Of Birds by Jonathon Safran Foer - Free Book Online Page B

and quarreling, seeking the temporary oblivion the laborer needs from his hire. At such a time, Anne thinks, we might actually let the priests out, for a stretch and a snack, but there are so many of them you are bound to make a mistake. Little does she know it, but Bromley, an organized mind in an untidy life, has insisted that at least one man remain on guard on each floor, although how far any watchman can be trusted not to fall asleep he cannot know. If the priests make a move, he knows it will be by night. He resolves to stay awake until dawn, but realizes he has been on the go since today’s, and readily exempts himself. Does he hope to find a priest or merely to achieve the most thorough fruitless search in the world? This Habington, he muses, is a rather rash person, but manly in bearing and, if a liar, one with plausible good manners. My sister lies in the same fashion. Yet I do not worry about her; her lies are between her and God Almighty. Some of us with the highest power blow both ways. We are not without sympathy, but work is work is duty. Will I ever have to rope my sister in, merely for being a Catholic? Never, so what’s all the fuss about? If you strip away the varnish of religion, life is the same for all of us. If I were God, would I want to be prayed to? No, I would want to be left alone, lost in the lap of memory.
    Even on the first day, through diligence and willingness to deface the house’s interior, the poursuivants have found grist for their mill: three simulated chimneys with planks soot-blackened to resemble bricks, and cavities—chambers—full of trinkets and trumpery (as they say) ranging from books to rosaries, vases, chalices, and huge thick candles. “I am a collector,” Habington raves, “I am entitled to put my things where I want. Nothing has to be on view.” What, then, are these? They produce the title deeds concerning the estate, opening them up and riffling the pages amid their pink ribbons. “Are you telling me,” he insists, “I have no right to put important papers in a safe place? Don’t you? What does this signify? I am a landowner; I do not want people wiping their boots on legal papers or peering at them to see how much I am worth.” Then they inform him that in the brick-work of the gallery surmounting the gate they have found two spaces, each large enough for a man. Why so many open cubbyholes? He tells them, in his protracted huff, that all country houses have such facilities, to store unwanted books, vases, hunting boots—”You know, Sir Henry,” he says, with his most produced voice, coming on strong, “the sorts of things you don’t want to part with but cannot stand to have under your feet. Any woman will tell you that. After all, dear sir, you found nobody in these places. There is nobody, as I said. I dare say, if you and the loyal Hargreaves wish to stay the night, as all the signs indicate, we can surely find so-called priest holes for you, in which you will feel so uncomfortable that you will just as soon recognize that they were never intended for human occupation. They are for storage, but you are welcome to try. A severe lesson cannot be more certainly learned.”
    “I respect our armor, sir,” Bromley tells him, “but you must understand we will be here as long as necessary. Hargreaves will keep an eye on the house all night.”
    “No, Sir Henry, I will.”
    “No need, sir. Take your rest. I will take mine.”
    “Not in a priest hole, then. We do have rooms adjudged suitable for a gentleman.”
    “A sit-up sleep,” Sir Henry tells him. “Taught me by my father.” He is still pondering Habington’s riposte about a country house’s being so vast that you forget what you have and do not memorize a house by its cavities, whatever their purpose might be.
    So: Anne Vaux ordered and got her ham and eggs just in time and so feels nourished for a fray in which she plays little part, now thinking of herself as merely a mouth, a tongue, likely