Read Online The Weekend: A Novel by Peter Cameron - Free Book Online

first?” asked Marian. “I should think you’d like to freshen up.”
    “I’m feeling very fresh,” said Lyle.
    “What about you, Robert? Why don’t we bring your things inside and I can show you your room. And get you something cold to drink. You look parched.”
    “O.K.,” said Robert.
    “I’ll be right in,” said Lyle. “I just have to see this wall.”
     
     
    “Is the wall decorative or functional?” Lyle asked as he and John walked down the lawn.
    “Why?” asked John.
    “Why? What do you mean, why?”
    “Why do you ask that question?”
    “Because I want to know the answer,” said Lyle.
    “It’s neither,” said John. “As far as I can tell.”
    “Then what is it?”
    “Maybe I should show you the garden instead. I don’t think you’ll understand the wall.”
    “What’s there to understand?” asked Lyle.
    “That there is nothing to understand.”
    “It sounds very Zen,” said Lyle.
    “It’s this way,” said John. He turned from the lawn and pressed himself between the fir trees that bordered it. It was hot and fragrant and unpleasant in the midst of the trees. On the other side of them was a small meadow Lyle had never seen, with some sort of grass that had grown so tall and thick it all fell over, backward or forward, like church fainters. A stone wall, about three feet high, curved across the meadow in the shape of an imperfect S. It was tapered, with large stones at the bottom and small stones—almost pebbles—on the top.
    “See,” said John.
    Lyle began to walk around the wall. He picked some of the smaller, round stones off the top, palmed them, and returned them to their places. “Where did you get the idea for it?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” said John. “I just started building it and it happened this way.”
    “It reminds me of something,” said Lyle.
    “What?”
    “I can’t think. Something about its shape, and the way that it defines the space. I’d like to see it from the air. How long have you been working on it?”
    “Not long. Since the spring. March.”
    “It’s beautiful.” Lyle had returned to John’s side. “It’s very druidic. We should come down here at night and perform some sort of ceremony.”
    “What sort of ceremony?” asked John.
    “I don’t know,” said Lyle. “Something with candles and drums. We should be naked. I’m sure something would happen.”
    They were silent a moment, looking at it. “I should go find Robert,” said Lyle. “I think he’s a bit nervous.”
    “How long have you known him?” asked John.
    “Not long,” said Lyle.
    “How did you meet him?”
    “I met him at Skowhegan,” said Lyle. “He’s a painter.”
    “Oh,” said John.
    “We’re changing Tony’s study into a studio for him,” said Lyle. He knew he was saying too much too soon, but it was important, he thought, to mention Tony. For if Tony was talked about, included, he wouldn’t haunt them. “It seemed,” he continued, “stupid to let the room go to waste.”
    “Yes,” said John. “Is he a good painter?”
    “To tell you the truth, I’ve no idea, and I don’t really care. I’m not interested in being his mentor. Besides, didn’t you read my book? It’s my theory that there can be no more good painters, since we have experienced the death of painting.”
    “I suppose that makes your job as a critic easier.”
    Lyle was looking at the wall. It cast an odd, curved shadow on the ground. “Do you think I shouldn’t have brought him?”
    “No,” said John. “Of course not.”
    “Does Marian?”
    “No,” said John. “We’re both happy you did.”
    They were silent a moment.
    “How is Marian?” Lyle asked.
    “She’s good,” said John. “Ever since we moved here, she’s been fine. Well, except for Tony, of course.”
    “Yes,” said Lyle.
    “I don’t know,” said John. “How does she seem to you?”
    “Good,” said Lyle. “It’s wonderful to see her.”
    “Yes,” said John.
    “And how about