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Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector
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‘Fun House Mirrer,’ a small note card read, written in careful, childish writing. Lower down, by the china figurines, was another.
‘Nick Naxs.’
And on top of the collection of snuffboxes, ‘Brick a Brack.’
She turned round.
Little cards were everywhere!
‘Sette.’
‘Pouff.’
‘Half a table.’
‘My God!’ Simon gasped. ‘Your home has been vandalized! Shall I call the police?’
Olivia didn’t answer.
She was staring at the photographs in the silver frames.
‘A bunch of total strangers,’ it said.
A bunch of total strangers!
Who could’ve done such a thing?
What did it mean?
Still, she couldn’t escape the bizarre feeling that she was seeing her relations clearly for the first time.
‘Another fucking chair …’ she murmured, reading the cards out loud. ‘Secret Panel?’ The breath caught in her chest. ‘His and Hers Thrones!’
How ghastly!
How intrusive!
How accurate!
Simon was right: it was vandalism. But it was also something more.
Here was the room, just as she’d left it except for the mysterious cards. Nothing had really changed. And yet suddenly her perspective was irrevocably altered. It was offensive, shocking; subtle.
Simon tried unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. ‘Look at this one!’ He pointed to the Helmut Newton. ‘That’s hysterical!’
‘I’ve always hated that book.’
‘Really?’ He leafed through it surreptitiously. ‘I think it’s kind of sexy.’
Olivia gripped his arm. ‘This is extraordinary!’
‘Yes. The spelling is atrocious and the handwriting!’
‘You said Mona was sending someone?’
‘Yes …’
‘Do you think?’
His eyes widened. ‘No!’
‘What else could it be?’
‘An installation! My God! How remarkable! The absurdity – like Dadaism!’
‘I’ve never encountered anything like it,’ she agreed.
A small figure was slumped in a corner.
‘My God, the artist,’ Olivia pointed. ‘She’s so young!’
They approached.
‘Hello!’ Olivia smiled brightly.
The girl nodded.
‘What do you call this piece?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The name of this piece,’ Simon spoke slowly, clearly. ‘Does it have a name?’
A large tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. ‘I just don’t see … I mean, what’s the point in carrying on?’
Her words cut through Olivia like a blade.
‘“What’s the Point in Carrying On”,’ she repeated.
Only a few times in her life had anything struck her so forcibly. A terrible feeling of transparency flooded her.
Here it all was; the world she struggled to create, her public face in all its desperate grandeur and ostentatiousness. How could this stranger, little more than a teenager, really, have guessed so accurately at the emptiness beneath the surface?
What was the point indeed?
Olivia crouched down next to the girl. ‘I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done.’
The girl blinked.
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Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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