The Possession of Mr Cave Read Online Free Page A

might
just see before me now, is the customer who sees an object
as the sum of the materials with which it has been made.
The customer who does not understand or acknowledge the
hands that went into its making, or the centuries-long affection
which various and long-dead owners have bestowed upon
said item. No, these people are ignorant of such matters.
They don't care for them. They see numbers where they
should see beauty. They look at the face of a brass dial clock
and see only the time.'
    The man stood there, almost as bemused as myself by
this outburst. 'I was going to buy this for my wife's birthday,'
he said, placing the art nouveau figure back where it came
from. 'But with service like this I think I'll take my custom
elsewhere.'
    After he left I had Cynthia to deal with. 'Terence, what on
earth has got into you?'
    'Nothing,' I said. 'I just didn't like the way he was talking
to you.'
    'Good God, Terence. I'm old and ugly enough to look after
myself. We just lost a sale there.'
    'I know, I'm sorry. It wasn't about him. I'm sorry.'
    She sighed. 'You know what you need, don't you?'
    I shook my head.
    'You need to get away. You and Bryony. A holiday. I could
look after the shop for a week.'
    A holiday. Even the word seemed preposterous. A dancing
jester at a wake, handing out picture postcards. It prompted
a fleeting blink of a memory. Heading south on a French
motorway with you and Reuben asleep in the back, your bodies
curved towards each other like closed brackets.
    'No, Cynthia, I don't think so,' I said, but all afternoon the
idea grew and grew.
    Maybe it wasn't so preposterous after all. Maybe this was
our opportunity to restore things. To pick up all the broken
pieces and put things back the way they once were. Yes, this
was the chance to heal our fractured souls.

Ever since the funeral I had been aware of slight changes to
your behaviour.
    Instead of the sombre strains of Pablo Casals, or your own
cello, I would hear a different kind of music coming from
your room. A violent and ugly kind of noise that I would ask
you to turn down almost every evening.
    You rarely practised your cello, now. You still went to
your lesson at the music college every week, but when I
asked how it went I'd get shrugs or small hums in return.
A friend I had never heard about – Imogen – suddenly
became someone you had to call every evening. Your
bedroom door would always be closed and I would sometimes
stand there behind it, trying to work out if you were
on your bed or at your computer. I noticed, once, when
you stepped out, that you'd taken your poster of Pablo Casals
down from the wall. The old cello maestro who had always
been such an inspiration.
    It seemed incredible. I thought that man was your idol.
    You had adored his interpretation of Bach's cello suites. You
had even ordered that old footage from the library. Pablo, aged
ninety-four, conducting a special concert at the United Nations.
The tiny old man, his time-creased face reflecting perfectly
the strain and emotion of the orchestral movements until there
seemed to be no difference between them, the man and the
music, so that each refrain heard in that grand hall seemed to
be a direct leaking of his soul.
    You had devoured his memoirs, and told me to read them
too. The story I remember now was when he and a few
companions walked up Mount Tamalpais near San Francisco.
Pablo was in his eighties, and had felt very weak and tired
that morning, but to the bemusement of his friends had
insisted that he still wanted to climb the mountain. They
agreed to go with him but then, during the descent, disaster
struck. Do you remember that story?
    A large boulder had become dislodged further up the mountainside
and was now hurtling towards them. The boulder missed
all of his companions but, having seen it, Pablo froze. As it
shot past, the giant rock managed to hit and smash Pablo's left
hand, his fingering hand. His friends looked with horror at the
mangled, blood-soaked fingers, but