The Listener Read Online Free PDF

speaking to, and when she undressed at night she did it almost absentmindedly. The house was like her, its eyes were wide open, and sometimes he worried that someone might look in on them from the darkness. But the garden was surrounded by a wall, and the gates were locked.
    They often entertained. In the summer, they hung lanterns in the trees and Stella’s house resembled an illuminated seashell in the night. Happy people in strong colours moved within this picture in groups or in twos and threes, some of them inside the glass walls and some outside. It was a lovely pageant.
    He was an illustrator. He worked mostly for magazines; now and then he did a book jacket.
    The only thing that bothered him was a mild but persistent pain in his back, which may have resulted from the excessively low furniture. There was a large black bearskin in front of the fireplace, and sometimes he wanted to lie on it with outstretched arms and legs, bury his face in the fur and roll around like a dog to rest his back. But he never did. The walls were glass, and there were no doors between the rooms.
    The large table by the fireplace was also of glass. He was in the habit of laying out his drawings on it in order to show them to Stella before sending them on to the client. These moments meant a great deal to him.
    Stella came and looked at his work. “It’s good,” she said. “Your use of line is perfect. All I’m missing is a dominant element.”
    “You mean it’s too grey?” he said.
    “Yes,” she said. “It needs more white, more light.”
    They stood at the low table and he saw his drawings from a distance. They really were very grey.
    “I think what it needs is black,” he said. “But you need to look at them up close.”
    Afterwards he thought for a long time about black as a focus. He was uneasy, and his back was worse.
    The commission came in November. He went in to his wife and said, “Stella, I’ve been given a job that really intrigues me.” He was happy, almost excited. Stella put down her pen and looked at him. She was always able to interrupt her work without annoyance.
    “It’s a terror anthology,” he said. “Fifteen stories, with black-and-white illustrations and vignettes. I know I can do it. It suits me. It’s my kind of thing, don’t you think?”
    “Absolutely,” said his wife. “Are they in a rush?”
    “Rush!” he burst out, and laughed. “This isn’t some two-bit assignment, this is a serious piece of work. Full pages. They’re giving me a couple of months.” He rested his hands on her work table and leaned forwards. “Stella,” he said gravely, “I’m going to use black as a dominant element. I’m going to do darkness. Grey, well, I’ll only use grey when it’s like holding your breath, like when you’re waiting to be afraid.”
    She smiled. “It’s so nice you’ve got something you find interesting.”
    The text arrived, and he lay down on his bed and read the first three stories, no more. He wanted to begin work believing that the best material would come further on and so retain his expectations as long as possible. Thethird story gave him an idea, and he sat down at the table and cut himself a piece of thick, chalk-white, rag paper with an embossed maker’s mark in the corner.
    The house was quiet and they weren’t expecting guests.
    It had been very hard for him to get used to this paper, because he couldn’t forget how much it cost. Drawings on less expensive paper tended to be freer and better. But this time it was different. He loved the feel of the pen as it ran across the elegant surface in clean lines and at the same time he relished the barely discernible resistance that brought the lines to life.
    It was midday. He closed the curtains, turned on the lamp, and began to work.

    They ate dinner together, and he was very quiet. Stella asked no questions. Finally he said, “It’s no good. There’s too much light.”
    “But can’t you close the curtains?”
    “I