Read Online The collected stories by Paul Theroux - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Theroux
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smiled.
'Like my madder,' Mr Momma said.
Sir Charles was breathless when I met him on the landing.
'I should have warned you about those stairs,' I said.
But his breathlessness helped. He was panting, as if he had been cornered after a long chase and he could do nothing but smile and gasp his thanks as he was introduced to Tanya. He found a chair and propelled himself backward into it and sighed.
'Wine?' I said.
'That would be lovely.'
I poured him a glass of Montrachet, gave him its pedigree (but omitted the fact that I had got it at a staff discount from Arcade Off-License) and left him to Tanya.
'- it's not generally known, but there were a fantastic number,' Tanya was saying, and she was off: women pirates. Sir Charles was captivated.
'Do you know,' said Virginia Byward when she arrived, glancing around the flat and relaxing at the sight of two copies of her books, 'this is only the second time in my life I've been to Clapham? I'd rather not talk about the first time. I came a cropper that night!' She spoke to Sir Charles: 'It was during the war.'
'Something for your biographer,' said Sir Charles.
We all laughed at this. But I thought then, and I continued to think throughout the evening, that I was now a part of their lives and that the time they were spending with me mattered. Each great writer seems to me to contain a posthumous book, the necessary and certain biography. Writers carry this assurance of posterity around with them. This was a page of that book.
This: my chaise, on which Miss Byward was sitting; my brass Benares ashtray with a smoldering thimble shape of Sir Charles's pipe tobacco in it; my tumbling tradescancia; my gate-legged dining table on which one of Ronald's dents was still visible; my footstool with its brocade cushion; my crystal sugar bowl; the wine glass Miss Byward was holding; the pillow Tanya was hugging; my basketwork fruit holder; me.
I excused myself and went into the kitchen. Mr Momma was
WORLD S END
putting the finishing touches to his salad. He had made a little hill of chopped lettuce leaves and sprinkled it with olives and pimentoes and drips of dressing.
'You love it?'
I said it was perfect.
'It is a woman's tee-tee,' he said, and made a knob-turning gesture with his hand.
In the parlor, my other guests were engrossed in conversation. I thought they were talking about an author they all respected; a name seemed to repeat {Murray? Gilbert Murray?). I pretended to straighten the leg of the table so I could get the drift of their conversation, but I quickly grasped that they were talking about money. (And I heard myself saying on a future occasion, / thought they were talking about an author they all respected . . . )
'I don't know how some people manage,' said Sir Charles. 'I really don't. By the way, Michael, this wine is superb. You didn't tell me you had a cellar.'
'I have an attic too,' I said.
'Isn't he a poppet!' said Virginia.
Mr Momma brought out his salad.
'Bravo,' said Virginia, and hearing Mr Momma's accent, she asked him where he was from. His mention of Cyprus had Virginia asking him which particular village was his and brought a long very practiced-sounding story from Sir Charles about a hotel in Limassol. Throughout the meal we talked intimately about Lawrence Durrell and I even found myself chipping in every now and then. I could see that it was considered quite a coup to have Mr Momma on hand.
'And what is our friend from Cyprus doing in London?' asked Virginia.
'I am a painter.'
Mr Momma did not have the English to amplify this. He was quickly taken to be a tormented artist in exile rather than the hard-working house painter he was. We talked about the Mediterranean sense of color, and afterward Mr Momma ran upstairs for his Cypriot records. He played them, he danced with Virginia, and he told her he loved her. Then he sat down and sobbed into his handkerchief.
'I've been admiring this wine glass,' said Virginia over Mr Momma's muted
'Like my madder,' Mr Momma said.
Sir Charles was breathless when I met him on the landing.
'I should have warned you about those stairs,' I said.
But his breathlessness helped. He was panting, as if he had been cornered after a long chase and he could do nothing but smile and gasp his thanks as he was introduced to Tanya. He found a chair and propelled himself backward into it and sighed.
'Wine?' I said.
'That would be lovely.'
I poured him a glass of Montrachet, gave him its pedigree (but omitted the fact that I had got it at a staff discount from Arcade Off-License) and left him to Tanya.
'- it's not generally known, but there were a fantastic number,' Tanya was saying, and she was off: women pirates. Sir Charles was captivated.
'Do you know,' said Virginia Byward when she arrived, glancing around the flat and relaxing at the sight of two copies of her books, 'this is only the second time in my life I've been to Clapham? I'd rather not talk about the first time. I came a cropper that night!' She spoke to Sir Charles: 'It was during the war.'
'Something for your biographer,' said Sir Charles.
We all laughed at this. But I thought then, and I continued to think throughout the evening, that I was now a part of their lives and that the time they were spending with me mattered. Each great writer seems to me to contain a posthumous book, the necessary and certain biography. Writers carry this assurance of posterity around with them. This was a page of that book.
This: my chaise, on which Miss Byward was sitting; my brass Benares ashtray with a smoldering thimble shape of Sir Charles's pipe tobacco in it; my tumbling tradescancia; my gate-legged dining table on which one of Ronald's dents was still visible; my footstool with its brocade cushion; my crystal sugar bowl; the wine glass Miss Byward was holding; the pillow Tanya was hugging; my basketwork fruit holder; me.
I excused myself and went into the kitchen. Mr Momma was
WORLD S END
putting the finishing touches to his salad. He had made a little hill of chopped lettuce leaves and sprinkled it with olives and pimentoes and drips of dressing.
'You love it?'
I said it was perfect.
'It is a woman's tee-tee,' he said, and made a knob-turning gesture with his hand.
In the parlor, my other guests were engrossed in conversation. I thought they were talking about an author they all respected; a name seemed to repeat {Murray? Gilbert Murray?). I pretended to straighten the leg of the table so I could get the drift of their conversation, but I quickly grasped that they were talking about money. (And I heard myself saying on a future occasion, / thought they were talking about an author they all respected . . . )
'I don't know how some people manage,' said Sir Charles. 'I really don't. By the way, Michael, this wine is superb. You didn't tell me you had a cellar.'
'I have an attic too,' I said.
'Isn't he a poppet!' said Virginia.
Mr Momma brought out his salad.
'Bravo,' said Virginia, and hearing Mr Momma's accent, she asked him where he was from. His mention of Cyprus had Virginia asking him which particular village was his and brought a long very practiced-sounding story from Sir Charles about a hotel in Limassol. Throughout the meal we talked intimately about Lawrence Durrell and I even found myself chipping in every now and then. I could see that it was considered quite a coup to have Mr Momma on hand.
'And what is our friend from Cyprus doing in London?' asked Virginia.
'I am a painter.'
Mr Momma did not have the English to amplify this. He was quickly taken to be a tormented artist in exile rather than the hard-working house painter he was. We talked about the Mediterranean sense of color, and afterward Mr Momma ran upstairs for his Cypriot records. He played them, he danced with Virginia, and he told her he loved her. Then he sat down and sobbed into his handkerchief.
'I've been admiring this wine glass,' said Virginia over Mr Momma's muted
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