The Figures of Beauty Read Online Free PDF Page A

stood at the opening of the hedge, her right hand resting on the gate. She was taking everything in.
    “Dio,”
she exclaimed.
    The pool was a surprise. The pool was a surprise for everyone, the first time they saw it.
    But she was not going to be distracted—not even by green water, and marble statues, and flagstones, and a stone bathing pavilion, and a graceful, antique fountain that looked, she happened to know, exactly like a swimming pool that had once been on the terraced grounds of a villa in the northwest corner of Tuscany in the hills between the town of Pietrabella and the village of Castello. She had only recently studied photographs in an archive in Lucca.
    Because that wasn’t why she was here. Because now she was walking toward him.
    Had Oliver been given time to make several dozen guesses, and had he been given a lot of hints, he might eventually have been able to figure out who she was. Her eyes were very much her mother’s. So was her penchant for drama. She could have warned him.
    “I believe I am your daughter,” she said.
    He was looking into the pretty face of a woman he’d never seen in his life. He’d never considered the possibility of her existence.
    “My name is Teresa.”
    “My daughter?” Oliver’s voice rose precipitously.
    She said nothing. A good ten seconds passed in silence.
    “Teresa?” he eventually squeaked, mostly because he couldn’t think of what else to say.
    He groped for his plastic tumbler.
    He took two fast, large gulps. He paused momentarily, and then took a third. He’d always liked the combined effect of gin, tonic, and hot sun, and it was good to know that not even his present state could entirely withstand its warming, happy way.
    He wondered: Was there a response that could appropriately address this surprising young woman’s announcement? He concluded there wasn’t. He had no idea what to say. But it was slowly becoming clear to him that the orange-haired, impish-looking figure—now waiting for him to speak—could not have been more miraculous had she been hovering above him.
    He considered things.
    “Well,” he said, finally. He looked into the blank air and took a deep breath. “It certainly is a lovely day.”
    The cicadas were buzzing. The water from the fountain at the end of the pool went
splash, splash, splash
.

Part Two

THE FLAT CHISEL
    And clenching your fist for the ones like us who are oppressed by the figures of beauty …
    —L EONARD C OHEN , “C HELSEA H OTEL #2”
     
    Delivered by Hand
    C ATHCART , O NTARIO . A PRIL 2010.
    I am writing this in the hope that you won’t start anything with it. Although there is an argument in favour, I admit. You are my daughter—a woman who has come to know her father belatedly, mostly through letters. Almost a year’s worth, so far. So using one might be forgiven. But I don’t advise it. Your mother would not be thrilled.
    Furthermore. Beyond reading it, beyond remembering some of what it contains, and beyond filing it among the childhood drawings, school essays, and old photographs that families never know what to do with, I would not encourage any further use of something you will receive after my death. Such a document will involve my lawyers—as you are, by now, aware—and that would get things off to a misleading start. I have nothing to reveal to you. It’s not that kind of letter.
    It was my solicitor—the handsomely bespoke Robert Mulberry (LLD)—who suggested this addendum. He “strongly advised” that I compose a note “of a personal nature” to be included in the estate-related material you have now received. “The swallows will return to Capistrano before lawyers anticipate everything,” he cautioned.
    Robert works at an old Cathcart firm. In fact, he is the grandson of one of the original partners. But his slight build, livid eyeglass frames, and fashionably tight suits do not immediately suggest the wisdom of the ages. If I didn’t know he was a lawyer I’d guess he was