The Other Side of Silence Read Online Free PDF Page A

from Babylon with a head for heights. The semi-rusticated pink stucco house had a round corner tower and an elegant first-floor terrace with an awning. There was a pool and a clay tennis court and a guest villa and a caretaker’s house with an empty dog kennel that was only a little smaller than the place where I lived. I took one look at the basket and the dog bowl and thought about applying for the vacancy. We sat on the terrace that faced the floodlit, aquamarine pool and she handed me a bottle of Tavel that matched the color of the stucco and helped take away the taste of my cologne.
    Inside, the place was full of books and art of the kind that takes a lifetime to collect, or paint, depending on whether it’s taste or talent you have, and since I have neither, I just stood infront of it all and nodded, dumbly, careful not to admit that I thought it was all a bit like Picasso, and which she might reasonably have taken as a compliment but for the fact that I can’t stand Picasso. These days all his faces look as ugly as mine and it seemed unlikely that my face should be of any interest to a woman who was at least ten years younger than I am. I wasn’t sure what she was up to; at least not yet. Perhaps she really did want me to teach her bridge, but there are schools for that, and teachers, even on the Riviera. Maybe I’m just being cynical, but she showed no real interest in the book when I gave it to her and it stayed unopened on the table for as long as it took us to finish one bottle and open another.
    We talked about nothing in particular, which is a subject on which I am something of an expert. And after a while she went into the kitchen to prepare us some snacks, leaving me alone to smoke and go inside the house to snoop among her books. I brought one back to the terrace and read it for a while. But finally she came out and soon after that, to the point.
    â€œI expect you’re wondering why I’m so keen to learn the game of bridge,” she said.
    â€œNo, not for a minute. These days I try to do as little wondering as possible. The guests tend to prefer it that way.”
    â€œI told you I’m a writer.”
    â€œYes, I noticed all the books. They must come in handy when you’re thinking of something to write.”
    â€œSome of them belonged to my father.” She picked the book I’d been reading off the table for a moment and then tossed itback. “Including that one.
Russian Glory
, by Philip Jordan. What’s it about?”
    â€œIt’s a sort of panegyric about Stalin and the Russian people, and the evils of capitalism.”
    â€œWhy on earth were you reading that?”
    â€œIt’s like meeting a rather naïve old friend. For a while during the war it was the only book that was available to me.”
    â€œThat sounds uncomfortable.”
    â€œIt was. But you were telling me about why you’re so keen to learn the game of bridge.”
    â€œHow much do you know about William Somerset Maugham? The writer.”
    â€œEnough to know that he wouldn’t be interested in you, Mrs. French. For one thing you’re not young enough. And for another, you’re the wrong sex.”
    â€œThat’s true. Which is why I want to learn bridge. I was thinking it might provide me with the means of getting to meet him. From what I’ve heard, he plays cards almost every night.”
    â€œWhy do you want to meet him?”
    â€œI’m a big fan of his writing. He’s perhaps the greatest novelist alive today. Certainly the most popular. Which is why he can afford to live down here in such splendor at the Villa Mauresque.”
    â€œYou’re not doing so bad yourself.”
    â€œI’m renting this place. I don’t own it. I wish I did.”
    â€œWhat’s the real reason you want to meet him?”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean. Maybe you didn’t notice it, but I have an entire collection of his