Read Online Authenticity by Deirdre Madden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deirdre Madden
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she knew it. He had studied it with even more fetishistic attention than the book.
The picture on the postcard was of a fifteenth-century painting, showing a woman with a demure pale face, wedged into a cleft mountain of crystal. She wore a dress with a belt that pulled the waist in tightly, and a clean white collar. On her head was a type of wimple. A clear stream ran from the crystal mountain, and before her were two lions with faces like angry teddy bears, bearing shields of burnished gold. In the landscape behind the mountain was a small walled city, all turrets and pointed red roofs. The whole scene, which the woman dominated from her lofty situation, was painted in soft tones of olive and ochre. ‘Hans Memling. Allégorie de la Pureté, ’ was printed on the back, and there was a colourful French stamp. The right-hand side gave Julia’s name and the address of the house in Francis Street. William knew the message off by heart by now:
30th October
Dearest Julia,
It’s raining here and Paris is grey, but grey like a pearl, all the hipped roofs slicked with rain, the river and the sky full of soft light. The galleries full of marvels: we’ll come here together someday, that’s a promise.
Miss you. XXXX
P.S. I know exactly what you’ll think of Madame in her crystal!
William, however, had no idea at all of what Julia would think of the woman, and dearly wanted to know. He couldn’t, however, think of how to ask her without drawing attention to the fact that he had read her card, even though she knew he had. But the message was too private to make any comment that wouldn’t be rude or intrusive. He hoped she might remark upon it herself, for she didn’t replace the card in the book, but propped it up against a bottle on thefireplace, and stood for a moment looking at the picture. With a hysterical whistle, the kettle in the kitchen came to the boil. ‘Coffee or tea?’ she asked.
While she was out in the kitchen, William had his first opportunity to look around with frank curiosity at the place in which he was sitting. It was a dim room, softly lit. Not since he was a student had he been in a room like this, perhaps not even then. It half appealed to him and half alarmed him: it was a shock to think people lived like this, for Julia wasn’t a student, he would have guessed. He had been married and had bought the house he was living in now before he was thirty, and although they had done a considerable amount to it since then, and bought many pieces of furniture, even at the beginning it had been infinitely more prosperous than this set-up. The sofa, for example, on which he was sitting was covered with a woollen blanket in heathery colours of purple and green, but it slipped away slightly at the arm to reveal that the original upholstery was torn and stained. Looking around, he could see that much else was like this, improvised and shabby: cloths not quite covering boxes that served as tables, a bookshelf constructed from planks and bricks, flowers in a cut-down plastic water bottle that served as a vase. Strangest of all, at the far end of the room were a few good pieces of antique furniture, including a hunting table and a wooden trunk: overstock from the shop downstairs, he correctly guessed. And yet for all this, William couldn’t remember when he had last been in a room that appealed to him so much. It was warm, not just because of the fire in the hearth, but because of the soft lighting and the general relaxed air. The sofa was comfortable. You could have burned a hole in the rug with a cigarette or knocked over a glass of red wine and it wouldn’t have been the calamity it would have been in his own house, for it was evidently something that had already happened here. He envied the cat, slumped now in front of the fire, and the cat knew it.Max looked at him smugly, stretched, gave a quick and dramatic yawn, showing a ferocious collection of teeth, and then slept again. He envied the cat who was in
The picture on the postcard was of a fifteenth-century painting, showing a woman with a demure pale face, wedged into a cleft mountain of crystal. She wore a dress with a belt that pulled the waist in tightly, and a clean white collar. On her head was a type of wimple. A clear stream ran from the crystal mountain, and before her were two lions with faces like angry teddy bears, bearing shields of burnished gold. In the landscape behind the mountain was a small walled city, all turrets and pointed red roofs. The whole scene, which the woman dominated from her lofty situation, was painted in soft tones of olive and ochre. ‘Hans Memling. Allégorie de la Pureté, ’ was printed on the back, and there was a colourful French stamp. The right-hand side gave Julia’s name and the address of the house in Francis Street. William knew the message off by heart by now:
30th October
Dearest Julia,
It’s raining here and Paris is grey, but grey like a pearl, all the hipped roofs slicked with rain, the river and the sky full of soft light. The galleries full of marvels: we’ll come here together someday, that’s a promise.
Miss you. XXXX
P.S. I know exactly what you’ll think of Madame in her crystal!
William, however, had no idea at all of what Julia would think of the woman, and dearly wanted to know. He couldn’t, however, think of how to ask her without drawing attention to the fact that he had read her card, even though she knew he had. But the message was too private to make any comment that wouldn’t be rude or intrusive. He hoped she might remark upon it herself, for she didn’t replace the card in the book, but propped it up against a bottle on thefireplace, and stood for a moment looking at the picture. With a hysterical whistle, the kettle in the kitchen came to the boil. ‘Coffee or tea?’ she asked.
While she was out in the kitchen, William had his first opportunity to look around with frank curiosity at the place in which he was sitting. It was a dim room, softly lit. Not since he was a student had he been in a room like this, perhaps not even then. It half appealed to him and half alarmed him: it was a shock to think people lived like this, for Julia wasn’t a student, he would have guessed. He had been married and had bought the house he was living in now before he was thirty, and although they had done a considerable amount to it since then, and bought many pieces of furniture, even at the beginning it had been infinitely more prosperous than this set-up. The sofa, for example, on which he was sitting was covered with a woollen blanket in heathery colours of purple and green, but it slipped away slightly at the arm to reveal that the original upholstery was torn and stained. Looking around, he could see that much else was like this, improvised and shabby: cloths not quite covering boxes that served as tables, a bookshelf constructed from planks and bricks, flowers in a cut-down plastic water bottle that served as a vase. Strangest of all, at the far end of the room were a few good pieces of antique furniture, including a hunting table and a wooden trunk: overstock from the shop downstairs, he correctly guessed. And yet for all this, William couldn’t remember when he had last been in a room that appealed to him so much. It was warm, not just because of the fire in the hearth, but because of the soft lighting and the general relaxed air. The sofa was comfortable. You could have burned a hole in the rug with a cigarette or knocked over a glass of red wine and it wouldn’t have been the calamity it would have been in his own house, for it was evidently something that had already happened here. He envied the cat, slumped now in front of the fire, and the cat knew it.Max looked at him smugly, stretched, gave a quick and dramatic yawn, showing a ferocious collection of teeth, and then slept again. He envied the cat who was in
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