The Figures of Beauty Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought she was right. But now I am beginning to think the dream was even sadder.
    There are retirement homes in Cathcart. I’m not ready for one—not for a long while yet. But they aren’t going to go away. They can wait for me to get old enough to come back. That’s my plan, anyway. Beyond that, I don’t have a lot to say on the subject. Certainly not a letter’s worth. And anyway, I’m going to break off here.
    It’s odd. However carefully I rake in the fall, there are always wet leaves to be dealt with when the snow disappears.
    Robert Mulberry is fond of quaint, cautionary aphorism—a stratagem that he uses, I’m sure, to appear older to his clients than he is. It was Robert who negotiated, on my behalf, with NewCorp Development Ltd., the eventual purchaser of my Cathcart property. When, finally, it appeared that they would agree to both our hefty asking price and our unusual conditions of sale, he looked up from their offer and said to me, “Well. I think we can start counting our chickens.” And when we met a few weeks later to discuss my estate planning, and when I said I didn’t think a letter such as this was necessary, Robert looked at me with the sad expression those who plan ahead reserve for those who don’t.
    His gaze fell with what I took to be concern on the miniature marble replica of Michelangelo’s
David
that I had just given to him. I guessed that the lengthening pause was his search for an old-fashioned commonplace.
    I’d prepared a few words of thanks before handing Robert the statue that morning. While he had listened, obviously pleased, I pointed out that while
David
remains one of themost popular reproductions of Carrara’s long-established souvenir industry, this model came from an earlier period. It had been carved by someone who obviously respected the beauty being copied.
    “This,” so I’d explained to Robert as I passed the little statue carefully into his hands, “was created by a nameless artisan among the legions of nameless artisans in the region. But this was carved with skill and pride. It comes from a tradition established before memento became cheap.”
    Robert had placed the six-inch
David
amid the files on his desk. I could see that he had been touched by my little speech, and by the gift—which may have been why I felt so chastened by the expression that crossed his face when I told him that I wasn’t sure a letter to you would be necessary.
    “There’s many a slip between cup and lip,” he finally said. I took this to mean I shouldn’t assume what I’m assuming.
    My expectation is that these documents will be handed to you years from now, and that the new and unknown chapter of my life on which I am now embarking will, by then, be old and known. The question that occupies me—Will your mother so much as give me the time of day when I see her again?—will be long resolved. Time will have passed.
    You’ll probably hear from an official calling you from Cathcart—from an institution of assisted living called something like Meadow Vale or Pine Croft. You’ll be told that I shall be greatly missed by my friends at bingo night. Although such a prediction is impossible, I’ll predict anyway: the estate will sustain itself however long I live. As you see, I have made the necessary arrangements.
    But Robert Mulberry is professionally obligated to consider calamity. “Hope for fair skies, plan for storms,” he advised. And so, I agreed that I would think about what I’dlike to say to you now—under these unusual circumstances. Unusual for me, that is. It’s so bright, I am going to have to go down to the house in a moment to get my sunglasses. The weather this April has been unseasonably warm in Cathcart. I’m writing this up at the pool.
    By the look of it, the cover won’t last another winter. But that’s not my problem. Not anymore.
    I have pulled out an old chaise from the bathing pavilion and opened it near the deep end. There are no leaves on the