I ot say, but I found my o ty minutes earlier to attend. It    a problem.    better place to kill time t better o get to kment of books?

        My first impression    struck me by its marked difference from t of ted , sters at tall h solid oak shelves.

        It o floor; at ts alled. Fag tioo reflect tside, but tonigters. tended from to table. Apart from t ting, and it created soft, ion at ted into darkness.

        Sloer of taking a look to t a. After my first glances I found myself nodding. It ained library. Categorized, alpized and , it    as I es    number of rare and valuable volumes as    only Jane Eyre, uts, te, but tle of Otranto, Lady Audley’s Secret, tre Bride. I o e across a Jekyll and Mr.    my fats existence.

        Marveling at tion of volumes on Miss inter’s so t, one particular set of sood it even from some distance: Instead of displaying tly broripes t ack s decades. ter’s o titles at top of tad ;t novels at ttom, eaced in its many differeions and even in different languages. I saeen tales, titled book I    t in its otales of    t editions.

        I selected a copy of Miss inter’s most ret book. On page one an elderly nun arrives at a small reets of an uo seems to be in Italy; so a room o be Engliss ur paragrap as I ime I    meaning to, I began to read in ear.) t at first appreciate ands: t or    er is life io foresee. Sion and bears it patiently (I turen tten Miss inter, fotten myself) s y of indulged youth…

        And trated t of tion at the neck.

        Someone g me.

        I kno an unon p ime it o me. Like t many solitary people, my senses are acutely attuo to being to being spied upon. Noly t, but akable sensatioig me? I t back over t mirying to retrace t sio speak to to t moving a muscle,    over tiotried to remember.

        then I realized.

        I    it even before I picked up the book.

        Needing a moment to recover myself, I turinuing tense of reading.

        ‘You ’t fool me.“

        Imperious, declamatory, magisterial.

        to be do turn and face her.

        Vida inter’s appearance    calculated for cealment. S queen, sorceress oddess. iff figure rally out of a profusion of fat purple and red cusurquoise-and-green clot cloaked    soften ty of    copper o an elaborate fe of ts, curls and coils. ricately lined as a map, ick. In er of rubies, emeralds and ru ingruous note.    unnerved me more t er, o develop t; I    from beo my very soul.

        I drerality, hid behind appearance.

        For an instant I t I    transparent,‘t s see straig shan I had.

        ‘Very ly, and o business. Your letter gives me to uand t you ions about the ission I am    you.“

        “ell, yes, t is—”

        t    registered terruption. “I could suggest increasing tipend and the final fee.”

        I licked my lips, soug er’s dark saking in my flat br and navy cardigan. Sying smile and overrode my iion to speak. “But peiary i is clearly not in your nature. .” one en about people    I never expected to meet one.” S t ty s iy. People y.”

        S of my moutaking an aut t I    to exert trol over tent of t I ed biograp and are o you.”

        I opened my mouto protest but found noto say. S.

        ‘You see, you don’t knoo say, do you? Are you embarrassed to accuse me of ing to lie to you? People don’t like to accuse eac down.“

        I sat do accuse you of anyt immediately serrupted me.

        ‘Don’t be so polite. If t abide, it’s politeness.“

        cop    black arc bore ion to any natural brow.

        ‘Politeness. Noue if ever t’s so admirable about inoffensiveness, I so knoer all, it’s easily acicular talent to be polite. On trary, being nice is    ion don’t give a damn    t sleep    then he was a genius.“

        lessly on, recalling instaer instance of genius and its bedfelloeel, I t.

        Eventually sure to a close eness is a virtue I eem in ot    ourselves .” And , sopped.

        ‘You raised topic of lying,“ I said. ”t is somet    ourselves h.“

        ‘In ?“ t see ts of Miss inter’s lass body.

        ‘You een different versions of your life story to journalists in t t’s just there are many more. hundreds, probably.“

        S’s my profession. I’m a storyteller.”

        ‘I am a biograps.“

        Sossed iff curls moved as one. “ you tell’s trutter ory?”

        ‘Not in tories you old the world so far.“

        Miss inter ceded a nod. “Miss Lea,” sing a smoke s around my past, lose reasons, I assure you, are no longer valid.”

        ‘ reasons?“

        ‘Life is post.“

        I blinked.

        ‘You t a strao say, but it’s true. All my life and all my experies t asies, everyt o t ime it ted doo a dark, rireizable. Ot tion. I t as a post en I take an idea, plant it in t, and . It feeds on t black stuff t used to be a life, takes its energy for its o germiakes root. Produces ss. And so on and so fortil one fine day I ory, or a novel.“

        I nodded, liking the analogy.

        ‘Readers,“ tinued Miss inter, ”are fools. t-; is autobiograp is, but not in ter’s life ime to rot a    be used to nourision. It must be alloo decay. t’s rieving bits and pieces of it, preserving it in to e my books I needed my past left in peace, for time to do its work.“

        I sidered    o gs now?”

        ‘I am old. I am ill. Put ts toget do you get? tory, I think.“

        I bit my lip. “Ahe book yourself?”

        ‘I    it too late. Besides, en.“

        ‘Do you io tell me truth?“ I asked.

        ‘Yes,“ s I atio lasted only a fra of a sed.

        ‘And o tell it to me?“

        Sion for t quarter of an    w kind of a person are you, Miss Lea?”

        I fixed my mask in place before replying. “I am a sant. I iquarian bookseur biographers? ”

        ‘It’s not muco go on, is it? If o ogeto knotle more about ime to a person of    yourself.    are your favorite books?    do you dream about? hom do you love?“

        On tant I oo affroo reply.

        ‘ell, anser living under my roof? A stranger    is not reasoell me ts?“

        Governed by ser than reason, I rose from my chair.

        ‘ever are you doing? !“

        I took oep after an not to run, scious of t rapping out on to me in a voice t tained an edge of panic.

        ‘e back!“ so tell you a story—a marvelous story!“

        I did not stop.

        ‘Once upon a time ted house—“

        I reache handle.

        ‘Once upon a time there was a library—“

        I ope to step into its emptiness opped me in my tracks.

        ‘Once upon a time twins—“

        I ed until topped te    rose, trembling, to ted face.

        tentatively I took a step bato t t, turned.

        I u as glass and as real, looked to me    I simply stared back. t you please sit do Vida inter’s.

        Drarol, I moved to down.

        ‘I’m not making any promises,“ I said wearily.

        ‘I’m not in a position to exay,“ came the answer in a small ice.

        truce.

        “ime she answered.

        ‘Because of your    siblings.“

        ‘And ell me truth?“

        ‘I ell you truth.“

        t I remor t determi to tell me trut doubt it. So tell. Pered to tell. Only s quite believe t sy    its    as clearly as I did.

        And so I made a suggestion. “I    are a matter of public record. o c you tell me. If I find you old me trut t the ission.”

        ‘Arials before ted to talking fiss Gruff. Miss Lea, if you ions or four I migo lie, but three…“

        I slid my pencil from the cover.

        ‘ is your real name?“

        Se sure t o proceed? I could tell you a g story—a rat migter ting to t of things…”

        I sell me your name.”

        ted in ones glo.

        ‘My name is Vida inter. I    to be able to call myself by t name legally and ly.    you    to knoo t name was—“

        So overe some obstacle    iceable rality, an utter absence of intonation, as t    name was Adeline March.”

        As to cut s even tion tinued ratartly, “I    going to ask my date of birt o ten it.”

        ‘I    manage , if you give me your place of birth.“

        Sated sigell you mucter, if you o tell it my way…”

        ‘t we s on public record.“

        S is a matter of record t Adeline Marc Bartal, London. I    ed to offer any personal guarantee of ty of t detail. tional person, I am not so exceptional t I    remember my oh.”

        I    down.

        Noion. I    must be admitted, no particular tion prepared. S    to tell me e of birtory and te of    book, s be less ty-to judge by ered t    tainty didn’t matter; e out for myself any tions, I already ion I needed in order to ascertain t a person by tually existed.    to ask, t o er tell a story, but ion as a .

        ‘tell me,“ I began sloories    everytrously snatcell me somet o you in ts a public record.“ Educational successes, I ing acs. triump are recorded for proud parents and for posterity.

        In t folloer seemed to drao o absent o uand     earlier I o see c ty of knohe surface.

        And then she emerged.

        ‘Do you know why my books are so successful?“

        ‘Freat many reasons, I believe.“

        ‘Possibly. Largely it is because t order. Of course all stories    is    order t matters. t is why people like my books.“

        Sed o ansion. I am going to tell you somet myself, s a public record. It is t important t o me. But I did not expect to find myself telling it to you so soon. I so break one of my rules to do it. I so tell you tory before I tell you the beginning.”

        ‘tory?    be, if it arted ing? “

        ‘Quite simply because my story—my oory—ended before my ing began. Storytelling ime since everything finished.“

        I ed, and sh like a chess player who finds his key piece ered.

        ‘I    tell you. But I    I? t’s unavoidable. t beg t to make a t er, but to grant it because it is in tory. You asked me to tell you trut t, because of t let me first ask you someturn.“

        ‘?“

        ‘After t in tory. From tomorroell you my story, beginning at tinuing    ts proper plao eating. No looking aions. No sneaky gla t page.

        Did s to place ditions on our deal, ed it? Not really. Still, I nodded.

        ‘I agree.“

        S quite look at me as she spoke.

        ‘I lived at Angelfield.“

        rembled over tc ure.

        ‘I een.“

        ilted; fluency deserted her.

        ‘there was a fire.“

        t ones.

        ‘I lost everything.“

        And top it, “Oh, Emmeline!”

        tures in    a name tains all a person’s mystical po a name so God d to t and to very feo pronounce suvite jeopardy. t seemed, was such a name.

        Miss inter pressed ogetoo late. A tremor ran roughe skin.

        o tory. I umbled upon t tale t I o tell. It    exclamatio bereavement? In a flase makeup and tic aperies. For a fe seemed to me t I could see rigo Miss inter’s , rigo s. I reized to, for    not the essene?

        e ion, tory tigs, and my excitement    th fear.

        ‘rying not to let my perturbed feelings show in my voice.

        ‘the Banbury herald.“

        I nodded, made a note in my pad and flipped the cover closed.

        ‘Alt kind t I    show you now.“

        I raised an eyebrow.

        ‘e nearer.“

        I rose from my cook a step, aween us.

        Sloo me a closed fist t seemed ters precious stones in ttings. In a movement t spoke of great effort, surned , as t cealed and    to offer it tome.

        But t. tself.

        ts ion to t ted by fire, o airely unreizable landscape, like a se left permaly altered by t lie open but o a claigissue. In t of esque mark. It    very deep in c    o t s made sense of t of t t, t seemed to ending from it, in tion of t line.

        t it no t at time, in ted and painful act of revealment, it y, and it disturbed me by t and unreadable language.

        A suddeigo took hold of me and I reached behind me for my air.

        ‘I’m sorry,“ I s so used to one’s oo other people.“

        I sat do the edge of my vision receded.

        Miss inter closed o    and dreed fist bato ective gesture s.

        ‘I’m sorry you didn’t    to    story, Miss Lea.“

        ‘I’ll    anotime.“

        Our interview was over.

        On my o my quarters I t of tter s me. trained and painstaking    I    it doo illness. Artis perood. From t book and tire career, Miss ien erpieces    hand.

        In my study t curtains ermark tin covered te t    c stood uc t    o start a ook from my bag o t t directly underh.

        On impulse I climbed onto te valao tain pole. My fingers groped for tops of tains, and I felt for titc attac erlined, and t, flung over my s after a fees, first oain ood in ter of t of my work.

        ter of it, my g, darkly transparent, aring in at me.    unlike my oline of a desk on ttoned armc cast by a standard lamp. But he.

        togettle ritual of preparing our desks. e divided a ream of paper into smaller piles and flicked to let turning tco t pencil o a fine point,    put it do kept .

        ‘to her. ”Ready for work.“

        So speak to me. I couldn’t    she was saying.

        I ervieed dos of keye up our intervieely aftero jog my memory. And from t first meeting, it    my notebook from time to time, I filled ter of my ss of foolscap er’s    aking dictation from ter in my head.

        I left -ed any mannerisms, expressions aures t seemed to add someto her meaning.

        t- blank. Later, rereading, it er my os, ents, questions.

        I felt as to make myself a cup of cocoa, but it ime suspended and did not disturb tion; I returo my erruption.

        ‘Os so used to one’s oo ote at last in t I added a note describing t of the damaged one.

        I dre line of script, and stretcretcook ts shem one by one.

        So o    it er of er. Anot greer and faster. In a fe seemed, had deposed.

        But it    t ed rain.

        I ope my er over my eyes and face. I sime for bed.

        I left t I could listen to t tio fall ness. I     apanied my dreams like a poorly tuned radio left on t, broadcasting a fuzzy es.
请记住本书首发域名：966xs.com。966小说手机版阅读网址：wap.966xs.com