It     yet late, turned into Laundress Passage. Fatd closed tters; but so I    e o darkness    on t over tairs to t. t cast a foolscap regle of paleness onto t pavement, and it    regle, about to turn my key in t I first sater. Anote regle, it ep from ttom, .

        I closed t ts usual place bery. Poor Bailey. No one ed    gray book for ty years. Sometimes I ’s tiing.

        A letter. For me. t . ts tents,    man a certain amount of trouble. Altyle of ting    it ten by a cters seemed untrairokes eito notco tters t spelled out my name. Ea separately—M A R G A R E t L E A—as a neierprise. But I kne is the hand of an invalid.

        It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or t my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person—

        some stranger—o trouble of marking my o t ed a thing?

        Still in my coat and , I sank onto tair to read tter. (I never read    making sure I am in a secure position. I ting on a er Babies, I ions of underer life t I unsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being field buoyant by ter t so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to t. I    still feel the ;car under my fringe now. Reading    be dangerous.)

        I opeer and pulled out a sten in t. to my    manuscripts. t secret to it. Patiend practice are all t is required. t and to cultivate an inner eye.    t er, fire, lig to study not just tters but otion. t relax. til you ao a dream self oucig your surface. t. tention of ter, s, ations,    illuminating t.

        Not t tter    began    “Miss Lea”; ter to cers, tences.

        t I read:

        I once did an intervie look it out one e c me. A boy, really. As tall as a man, but    of yout. t    for a muc, t    buy for a boy leaving sc job, imagining t o it. But boys do not leave their school uniform.

        tensity. t I set eyes on , “A’s er?”

        I’ve not people    from t t t so long as t start on about storytelling and y, turally t annoys me. But provided t    them.

        My gripe is not rut rut succor, ion is truto a story?    good is trut midnigning strikes saps at ts long fingernails? No. atue of you in your bed, don’t expect ruto e running to your aid.    you need are ts of a story. ty of a lie.

        Some ers don’t like intervie cross about it. “Same old questions, ” t do t? Reporters are ers are t because tions, it doesn’t mean ? I mean, making t’s ervieo be locked a of sigo t so frail a t it coy fingers of the neermen.

        In to try to catc. ttle piece of trut, dra out at an opportune moment and o startle me into revealing more. I o be careful. In I ed to take, use my bait to draly, imperceptibly, totier story te operation. tart to stle crutil it dropped from t never failed. A good story is alruth.

        Afterer intervie of rite of passage for journalists. t to expect, o leave    tory. A quick run tions ( your inspiration? Are your cers based on real people? er is you?) and ter my a. (Inside my    ting for, tant look stole across ttle c bedtime. And you, Miss iell me about yourself.

        And I told. Simple little stories really, not muco t a ferands, ogetty pattern, a memorable motif tom of my ragbag. s from novels and stories, plots t never got finisillborn cers, picturesque locations I never found a use for. Odds and ends t fell out in ting. t’s just a matter of ening titc’s done. Another brand-new biography.

        t as at ty. It o tell t Vida inter, and sold me a story.”

        Aell me trut kind of appeal is t? I’ve ratagems to trick me into telling, and I    spot t t? Laugever did ?

        A good question.    did ? eni fever. cer somete specific, I . ion. Perell me truth, he said.

        I felt a strange sensation inside. Like t ing to life. tery stirring of a previous life turning in my belly, creating a tide t rose in my veins a cool s to lap at my temples. tly excitement of it. tell me truth.

        I sidered . I tur over in my mind, h his pale fad his burning eyes.

        “All right, ” I said.

        An er , absentminded good-bye and no backward glance.

        I didn’t tell rutold ory. An impoveristle t a fecacked toget frayed. tory t looks like real life. Or o be, ’s not easy for someone of my talent to produce a story like t.

        I creet, sep a . All t energy, t. Not t I take all tter to believe me.

        I never saw him again.

        t feeling I    in my stomacemples, my fiips—

        it remained e a ell me trut it    be still. It raore t, it    yet.” It sig fidgeted, but eventually it fell quiet. So quiet t I as good as fot about it.

        a long time ago t y years? Forty? More, perime passes more quickly think.

        tely. tell me trutely I    again t strange iirring. tiplying. I    feel it, in my stomac t. It sucks t of my lungs and gna. From being a meek and biddable t    refuses all iation, blocks discussion, insists on its rig    take no for an ansrut ecer tg back. And t turns to me, tigs grip on my innards, gives a t. e made a deal, remember?

        It is time.

        e on Monday. I o meet you from t four arrival at e Station.

        Vida inter on tairs after reading tter? I don’t kno    ed deftly, take you prisoner. ind t move, ter your blood, numb your ts. Inside you t last o myself, I could only guess er doo me?

        I kle about Vida inter. I urally of ts t usually came attaco -loved er; our tury’s Dis; t famous living aut ser researcill came as a surprise. Fifty-six books publisy-six years; translated into forty-nine languages; Miss inter y-seven times t borroeeure films erms of statistics, t disputed question is t sold more books ty es less from    aining solid figures for tever oa are notoriously unreliable. t migerested me t, as I sat t ttom of tairs, y-t of information, or lack of encement, or after is or ts from Miss inter o give up trying to discover trut    I kistid it    seemed relevant: er    Lea, read? None.

        I sairs, yareting to myself, I found t my ts ems in particular ed out of tritus t is my memory and placed for my attention.

        t tle se involving my fate library clearancludes a number of Vida inters. At t deal in porary fi. “I’ll take to ty s before t, to a priest, oo a cartograpo a military orian. Our ts’ faces, omary outo lig ter luncaloging and tomers,    reading as usual. It is late autumn, it is raining and ted up. In ter; oget, we are deep in our books. “Sea?” I ask, surfag. No answer.

        I make tea all t a ext to er toucea is cold. I make a fres and put moteaming cup beside o my ;very movement.

        Gently I tilt t I    see t is ter. I return to its inal position and study my fat    see me. .

        t    memory.

        ter profile, carved massively out of ligoers unted, be is only an advertising pograped on a bill-board in a railation, but to my mind’s eye it ten queens aies carved into rock faces by a civilizations. to plate te arc of tions of to marvel t tion    produeturally perfect as ts of ture, ifact, a produot of blunt-tooled nature but of tistideavor. t embellisy of alabaster; it appears paler still by trast e ts and coils of copper    are arraemples and d, elegant neck.

        As if travagay    enougensified by some pograp of o an ins, t over ters    in-expression. I ’t say    day felt t ture; t perspective on t for me, looking into t    onplace expression about teo t    have a soul.

        Suc of tter, tent of my kno Vida inter. It    mu per er—kneime nobody kneery.

        Noter o be believed, Vida inter ed to tell trut self, but curiouser still    t:    to tell it to me?
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