Upright Piano Player Read Online Free PDF Page A

she herself has no love for animals (the childhood rivals for her father’s time and attention) she has found her lame dog in Tom.
    She stands as he comes over the dune, hands full of shells for Hal.
    “I didn’t want to spoil your day,” she says, handing him an envelope.
    “There was a letter this morning, from Nessa. I’m afraid she’s getting worse.”

3
    His paper knife had been a parting gift from a grateful client. On the silver blade was the inscription “May I open naught but good news.” Contrarily, Henry used the knife only when he anticipated trouble. He used it on all envelopes with clear windows; on everything from the Inland Revenue; on the stiff white envelopes that came from his lawyer, and, now, on this unexpected letter from his ex-wife.
    Nessa’s handwriting, like everything else about her, was enthusiastic. Bold and inky, it whooshed across the page, letters almost tumbling over themselves in their haste to get the job done. This ebullience allowed her fewer words to the page, so she wrote as others telephoned—with economy. Henry once had been delighted to get a note from her at a dreary overseas conference they were attending together. “My door is ajar, and so am I,” she had written. This letter, if less seductive, showed no change of style.
        
Dearest Henry
,
    I read that you have quit at fifty-eight. I’m surprised. I
had you down for a lifer. Come and see me in Florida—in April—stay for as long as you like. I want to talk to you
.
    Love, Nessa
    The letter irritated Henry—its brisk tone adding insult to the injury he still felt. He resented Nessa’s assumption that they were on visiting terms. He replied curtly that he was not sure of his plans and could make no commitment and signed it “Regards, Henry.” (Having rejected “Love.”) Petty, he knew.

    In fact, Henry had no plans at all. He had arrived at Gate Retirement without itinerary, ticket, or passport. In the days that followed, he would flit from book to piano, from piano to window. He could not concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes. When Mrs. Abraham was in the house, he went for walks—walks that only increased his sense of dislocation.
    “Hey, what you up to?”
    He would turn to find someone at his heels on a mobile phone. London was full of people not wasting a moment and most of them, it seemed, had something to say. Everywhere, young people with big hearts and clipboards were waiting to accost him on behalf of cancer research, Alzheimer’s, or starving babies. They placed themselves at twenty-yard intervals on busy streets and Henry found it impossible to run their gauntlet of goodness. Signing up, he felt anything but charitable. A mugging in a good cause still felt like a mugging.
    If it wasn’t charities, it was time-shares or the Big Issue or a petition or a fake Gucci bag. He was living in a city of outstretched arms.
    One morning, rounding a bend in Grosvenor Crescent he had found himself standing next to a motorcycle ablaze at the curb—tidily parked, but shockingly alight, like a Tibetan suicide. He looked over his shoulder. The burning bike was outside the headquarters of the British Red Cross, but no one had come out with aid. He went in and found a security man, who eventually emerged with a fire extinguisher. There was just enough of the bike left to identify it as a Honda.
    “What do you think happened?” Henry said.
    “It’s London, isn’t it? Bloody madhouse.”

    Most afternoons, Henry was content to stay at home. Over the years, in addition to his photographs, he had built up a collection of twentieth-century British art, without ever owning a single first-rate painting. He had bought the works of Meninsky, Shephard, and the like, artists with talent, but no great originality—painters who had needed to teach to pay the rent.
    Henry was moved by their work. He admired their tenacity and was comfortable with their status. He viewed his walls with constant