at him. Then she pushed her soft, furry body past his cold legs. She circled once on the rug and sat heavily on the carpet. Often, he could walk only that far himself. A few weak steps in the garden and then back to his desk.
He had seen a picture of himself in the paper last week. It showed him standing outside his new English home, his face clamped and sour, the corner of his mouth drooping to a mushy line. The doctors had removed a section of his jaw as neatly as youâd bone a chicken. They had shown him the bone afterward: black and soft with cancer. In its place they had put a prosthetic implant that fit closely into the hollow they had carved out. Already the muscles were cleaving to it, so that he could talk, even if he slurred.
He had used those jaws â to talk and howl and laugh, to kiss and eat. How he loved meat. Roasts and steak and flanken. Chew the bones and suck the marrow out. Now the thought of all that gnawing and bone-cracking left him weak and slightly nauseous. He fed himself with a spoon at mealtimes, his old manâs fingers shoving in a puree of infantâs mush.
Lün lifted her head slowly and stared sleepily out into the garden. à thrush had landed on the ground and pecked daintily at the dirt. The thrush looked at the dog and the dog looked at the thrush and they held each otherâs gaze for what seemed a long time. Then the bird chirped once as if to say, Bye-bye, Lün! and turned tail, hopping off. It flew up into the lower branch of the almond tree and preened. The dog yawned and laid her big head back down on the carpet.
âYouâre a lazy hound,â the old man said. Lün thumped her tail gently on the carpet, agreeing without too much effort.
They had found a new cancer near the prosthetic implantâ¦. He knew he smelled, that his whole mouth smelled rotten with decay. Thatâs why the dog chose a spot on the carpet far away. Sometimes he fancied that he could still taste those Canary Island cigars he used to buy by the box, He saw it clearly: a snug balsa wood box, holding twenty Triple-A hand-rolled cigars, each wrapped with a green-and-gold band.
Pope Julius II brand, they were called,- the pontiffâs profile and Medici nose were embossed on a miniature tinfoil plaque in the center of the box. His Old Jules, he used to call them, and during the long middle years of his practice each box cost twenty florins. That was the combined revenue from three and a third analytic sessions, each at six florins an hour. If he spent three hours in the morning analyzing three patients, they paid for the box of cigars he bought during lunch. But if the slow holiday season of a Vienna summer left his consultation room hideously empty, while the long afternoons slipped idly into evening, then that slim dayâs work barely covered a nasty indulgence. The smoke of those cigars wafted sweetly in his memory, hanging motionless in the air of the old consulting room shifting as the murmurs of his patients floated through their veils. And even now, at the end of his life, the whiff of Old Jules clung to him as cancer in his jaw.
The old room had been a little like a museum filled with collectibles and cherishables â more like a spinsterâs curiosity shop than a doctorâs office: inlaid marble boxes from the Orient, a print of the Sphinx in the Gizeh Nile Valley, embroidered pillows with worn tassels and book upon book on shelf after shelf. While nearby a watchful tribe of miniature antiquities silently guarded three sides of his green blotter.
Some of the statuettes were originals, others copies of copies. Some were gifts, some he had bought himself as the state of his practice and the price allowed, Isis the moon goddess was one of the first miniature statues he bought. He had fallen in love with her name, which meant âShe-Who-Weeps.â A Roman copy made of soft marble, seven inches high,- her lips full, her belly round and navel deep. Her
He had seen a picture of himself in the paper last week. It showed him standing outside his new English home, his face clamped and sour, the corner of his mouth drooping to a mushy line. The doctors had removed a section of his jaw as neatly as youâd bone a chicken. They had shown him the bone afterward: black and soft with cancer. In its place they had put a prosthetic implant that fit closely into the hollow they had carved out. Already the muscles were cleaving to it, so that he could talk, even if he slurred.
He had used those jaws â to talk and howl and laugh, to kiss and eat. How he loved meat. Roasts and steak and flanken. Chew the bones and suck the marrow out. Now the thought of all that gnawing and bone-cracking left him weak and slightly nauseous. He fed himself with a spoon at mealtimes, his old manâs fingers shoving in a puree of infantâs mush.
Lün lifted her head slowly and stared sleepily out into the garden. à thrush had landed on the ground and pecked daintily at the dirt. The thrush looked at the dog and the dog looked at the thrush and they held each otherâs gaze for what seemed a long time. Then the bird chirped once as if to say, Bye-bye, Lün! and turned tail, hopping off. It flew up into the lower branch of the almond tree and preened. The dog yawned and laid her big head back down on the carpet.
âYouâre a lazy hound,â the old man said. Lün thumped her tail gently on the carpet, agreeing without too much effort.
They had found a new cancer near the prosthetic implantâ¦. He knew he smelled, that his whole mouth smelled rotten with decay. Thatâs why the dog chose a spot on the carpet far away. Sometimes he fancied that he could still taste those Canary Island cigars he used to buy by the box, He saw it clearly: a snug balsa wood box, holding twenty Triple-A hand-rolled cigars, each wrapped with a green-and-gold band.
Pope Julius II brand, they were called,- the pontiffâs profile and Medici nose were embossed on a miniature tinfoil plaque in the center of the box. His Old Jules, he used to call them, and during the long middle years of his practice each box cost twenty florins. That was the combined revenue from three and a third analytic sessions, each at six florins an hour. If he spent three hours in the morning analyzing three patients, they paid for the box of cigars he bought during lunch. But if the slow holiday season of a Vienna summer left his consultation room hideously empty, while the long afternoons slipped idly into evening, then that slim dayâs work barely covered a nasty indulgence. The smoke of those cigars wafted sweetly in his memory, hanging motionless in the air of the old consulting room shifting as the murmurs of his patients floated through their veils. And even now, at the end of his life, the whiff of Old Jules clung to him as cancer in his jaw.
The old room had been a little like a museum filled with collectibles and cherishables â more like a spinsterâs curiosity shop than a doctorâs office: inlaid marble boxes from the Orient, a print of the Sphinx in the Gizeh Nile Valley, embroidered pillows with worn tassels and book upon book on shelf after shelf. While nearby a watchful tribe of miniature antiquities silently guarded three sides of his green blotter.
Some of the statuettes were originals, others copies of copies. Some were gifts, some he had bought himself as the state of his practice and the price allowed, Isis the moon goddess was one of the first miniature statues he bought. He had fallen in love with her name, which meant âShe-Who-Weeps.â A Roman copy made of soft marble, seven inches high,- her lips full, her belly round and navel deep. Her
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