Long Sonata of the Dead Read Online Free Page B

us spoke for a while. The kettle began to hiss quietly at first and then with steadily rising urgency. At last there was a click as it turned itself off.
    “I normally have green tea in the afternoon,” she said, as if this was a normal conversation on a normal day. “But there’s ordinary tea if you prefer, or herbal—”
    “Green tea’s fine,” I said.
    She picked up a packet of tea and a spoon. Then she stopped moving and the conversation wasn’t normal any more. “I made a mistake, Tony, didn’t I?” she said. “I wish …”
    “What do you wish?” My voice was little more a whisper.
    “I wish I could put time back,” Mary said. “To when it was just you and me in the garden. Do you remember? At that stupid party? It all seemed so simple then.”
    On Tuesdays, the London Library stays open until nine p.m. When I got back it was nearly six o’clock. The Burberry was still hanging in the cupboard. I hung my own coat beside it.
    I had asked Mary if I should take the phone back and leave it where I had found it. She told me not to bother. Adam often left his phone at home or mislaid it—he wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t find it in his coat. He was careless about his possessions, she said, just as he was careless about people.
    The library was much emptier than it had been. I liked the place especially on a winter evening, when the only people there seemed to be a few librarians and a handful of members like me. In the stacks—and most of the place consists of the stacks—each run of shelves has its own set of lights. Members are encouraged to turn off any lights that are not in use. So, on a February evening like this, most of the library consists of pools of light marooned in the surrounding gloom. Sounds are muted. The spines of the books stretch away into an infinity of learning.
    Adam wasn’t in any of the reading rooms. I guessed that he was either searching for books or working at one of the little tables scattered around the stacks. It didn’t matter because I didn’t want to find him. I didn’t want to see him ever again or hear his voice. I didn’t want to think of him.
    I sat down and tried to work, which was how I had always intended to spend this evening. But my mind was full of Mary and I couldn’t concentrate. I had a pencil in my hand and I wrote the words the long sonata of the dead on the inside cover of my notebook. I looked at them for a long time and wondered whether even Francis Youlgreave or Samuel Beckett had known what they meant.
    A little after eight-fifteen, I decided I’d had enough. I packed up my work and went downstairs. As I reached the issue hall I nearly bumped into Adam. He had come out of the catalogue room.
    We both pulled back at the last moment before a collision became inevitable. We muttered reciprocal apologies. But his words were no more than a polite reflex. He looked through me. I didn’t exist for him.
    He went over to the enquiries desk. I turned aside and pretended to study a plan of the library on the wall.
    “I found a book in the old printed catalogue but I can’t see it on the shelves,” he said to the librarian. “Can you check if it’s out?”
    “What is it?” the librarian asked.
    “It’s by Francis Youlgreave.” Adam spelt the surname. “It’s called The Voice of Angels .”
    A moment later the librarian said, “I’m afraid it’s out. Due back on March the sixth. Would you like to reserve it?”
    “Yes, please.”
    Afterwards Adam went upstairs, glancing at his watch. After a moment I followed him. I was wearing trainers and I made very little noise. He turned into one of the older stacks and walked steadily towards the back. I couldn’t see him because the lines of bookcases were in the way. But I heard his footsteps ringing on the iron gratings of the floor. You can look down at the floor below and up at the floor above. I suppose they had to make the floors of iron in order to bear the weight of all the