L (and Things Come Apart) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Looking.”
    â€œYou should be happy the job is done, no?”
    â€œSure, but I didn’t do it. I knocked the wall out, yes; that I did. I had a vision of what this space could be, but that was all.”
    â€œMaybe it was the owner.”
    â€œImpossible. The owner is a cripple.”
    â€œHe must be quite happy.”
    â€œShe is,” agreed the builder, “but now she wants me to do the whole house. I’m an honest builder. I can’t take more than what I said it would cost.”
    â€œBut the cost of the supplies—”
    â€œThe cost is the same because none of the supplies I bought were used.”
    â€œLook at the money you saved.”
    â€œAt this point I don’t care about the money. The construction baffles me. If I were a sleepwalker, sure, but the supplies had to come from somewhere. And who can install marble fittings in a night and not wake anyone?”
    The builder sighed, took a long sip and sighed again. Then, lowering the glass in a way that signalled to Henry the need for another, the builder drank the second in silence. Henry moved to the other side of the counter where Lachaise was staring out the window.
    â€œWant to hear an interesting story, Lachaise?”
    â€œHeard it already.”
    â€œNever mind then.”
    â€œCan’t say I’m surprised.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œStranger things have happened.”
    â€œLike?”
    â€œLast night I dreamt I was a chair.”
    The builder, with a missing thumb and one leg slightly longer than its match, thanked Henry and walked out, as one would with one leg longer than the other.

13
    THE NEXT DAY HENRY CLOSED EARLY AND ASKED L if she would join him for a walk. He told her he knew the best view of the city; she told him she knew the best place to sit.
    They walked to the square.
    L held Henry’s arm, shielding her face from the wind in his shoulder.
    In the middle of the square there was an empty fountain and everywhere the trees were bare and grey. In summer the place was colourful. Wooden crates overflowing with produce from the countryside that rested at the feet of men in tweed vests, faces in shadows beneath the brim of their hats as people passed by inspecting the fruit and vegetables while old men sat on benches smoking cigarettes and patting their foreheads with handkerchiefs. Women sat on the grass next to their bicycles, raising cold bottles to the skin beneath unbuttoned blouses. But now there was none of that. No vendors, no fruit, no colours. Only greys. Only skeletons.
    For L, summers were the white lines drawn in the pond by the wake of passing ducks. Behind them, a row of black lampposts. These were the colours that comprised the seasons beneath an overcast sky and spelled summer on days when it was hot. She would sit on the wooden benches along the banks running her fingers over the surface of the seat, occasionally scratching her name into the wood to leave her mark, to prove that she was there, to prove, at least to herself, that she existed. She knew the park well. Too well. Knew every corner of it, but did her best to enjoy it anyway.
    Henry and L passed the damaged frame of an abandoned bike. Henry too kept a bicycle he never rode, but he kept air in the tires and grease on the chain. It sat mostly undisturbed and locked to a gate outside his place and he watched as it aged over the seasons, accumulating rust and gradually fading. He marked the summers not on a calendar, but by the colours and textures of the square, and the arc or absence of water cascading from the fountain.
    Henry could recall the sound of the fountain and other familiar summer sounds of the square. The pop of a wine bottle being uncorked, laughter. A brass band playing in the shade. Someone practicing their instrument under a tree. But now it drew only Henry and L, and a man and a woman sitting at the other end of the square. The woman was rocking an empty stroller while a small child knelt