Intimacies(32)

He remained there, his body propped against the door, I was aware that I was staring. He nodded, as if I had confirmed something, either about himself or about myself. No doubt in the wake of the assault he had grown used to people staring. His face was a version of Eline’s face in the way that a photographic negative is a version of the photograph itself. I thought this would have been the case even before the assault, he had none of her beauty, on some level his features simply registered as a coarsened version of hers. And yet they had a quality that was in some way primal, as if his was the originating mold. If it was lacking in beauty his face nonetheless had some dark charisma, it was memorable in a way that Eline’s was not. As I stood before him, I could feel myself forgetting what Eline looked like, I began only to recollect her face as a distant echo of his.

With some visible effort he at last pushed himself upright and stepped aside, bidding me enter. You’re Eline’s friend, he said, and I nodded and said hello. He turned and I saw that he moved with the aid of a cane, an ornate and lacquered instrument that was old-fashioned, entirely unlike the rubber and aluminum braces that are more common now. The effect was to make his injuries seem more inherent to his character, less temporary and more integral. As I followed him through the well-appointed foyer with its large mirrors and neutral hues, I saw that he was walking with a marked limp, dragging one leg heavily behind him. He wore expensive dress shoes, polished to a meticulous gleam, I wondered if he did that himself or if someone else did, a butler or a manservant, a figure as anachronistic as his cane. The sole on the side that dragged was thicker, the shoe had been outfitted with a lift, and I thought then that the limp must have been part of a long-standing condition, predating the attack.

I followed him until we at last reached a large and airy kitchen, where Eline stood at the counter. She looked up and made a sound of annoyance, You should have told me, I didn’t hear the bell, she said. She smiled apologetically at me, as her brother made his way to the kitchen table. He sat down, leaning back into his chair and gazing at her. I watched in fascination as he pushed his tongue out of his mouth, so that it lolled against his lips, a gesture that was at once obscene and playful. She made a sound of quiet exasperation and then turned to me. Welcome, she said. You met my brother, Anton.

Yes, I said, although he had not in fact introduced himself. I thought it was surprising that Eline had not opened the door herself, she did not exactly fuss over her brother (no doubt he was the type of man who would have batted away such ministrations), but she treated him with visible concern. He reached for the bottle of wine that sat on the table, I saw that it was already near empty. Eline resumed chopping some herbs, she glanced at him several times before she abruptly asked, Are you supposed to be drinking on those painkillers? I thought the doctor said not. He ignored her, I was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, perhaps it was not too late to quietly back out of the room and leave the house unnoticed.

Sit down, Anton suddenly said to me, as if he had intuited the thought. He gestured with his wineglass to the chair beside him. I would rather have joined Eline behind the counter, but he was not a man whose injunctions were easily ignored. I sat down obediently. He exchanged glances with Eline, then reached for an empty glass and poured me some wine.

Anton is in a bad mood, Eline said. She said this in a manner that was entirely matter-of-fact, as if it were neither unusual nor particularly serious. A deal gone bad? she asked. She was no longer really paying attention, she had turned back to the stove. He shrugged and watched me as he sipped from his glass. Just trying to clean up the mess made in my absence, he said. That idiot Vincent let go of some good firsts for next to nothing, and the inventory’s in total disarray. I work in books, he added to me, by way of explanation. Anton has a beautiful shop in the Old Town, Eline said.

Yes, I said automatically, I’ve been there. I felt Anton’s eyes slide toward me. Did you buy anything? he asked casually. Yes, I said. In fact I spent more than I intended. I was looking for a gift for someone. I laughed, too loud and nervously. He nodded. Most of the sales are online, of course, he said. But the storefront is more important than you might think. Just the other day, a man walked in and asked for forty meters.

Eline looked up. Forty meters of what?

Leather and gilt, he said. Old-fashioned. Classic.

Ah, she said. An interior designer.

He could only speak in the language of his mood board, it was really quite extraordinary. Tobacco. Royal blue. Plush. Traditional. I asked him if he was interested in a particular author, or a particular genre. But no. These books aren’t for reading, he explained. They’re for—creating a look, an atmosphere. Anton waved a hand before his face as if to evoke a delicate perfume. He dropped his hand. Of course, we were happy to oblige. Forty meters of books is a great many books, tens of thousands of euros’ worth of books. And he truly didn’t care in the least what was inside them, a kind of Jay Gatsby if you see what I mean.

Goodness, murmured Eline, I could see that she had lost interest in the story.

But that’s not all, he added hurriedly. That’s not the end. She looked up, he had her attention again. We sold him a lot of worthless junk, subscription editions, encyclopedias, remaindered monographs, that kind of thing—the prices only very slightly inflated, of course. He grinned, so that we knew the opposite was true, and I saw Eline glance at me, perturbed. And the point is, she murmured.

The point is, the point is—you’re always hastening toward the denouement, Eline, he said irritably. It’s very tedious of you.