David Szalay: All That Man Is

Cordelia is talking about Simon. Normally she talks about him a lot. This week she has made an effort not to. He is aware of that. Now she is talking about him, though.

He listens, his fingers on the stem of his wine glass.

She is touching on the aspects of her son that strike other people as odd and admitting, unusually, that she worries about them sometimes.

He tries to soothe her. It’s not exactly unheard of to be a bit strange at that age, he says, especially highly intelligent people, and Simon is undoubtedly one of those.

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he tells her, putting his hand over hers.

She nods.

It’s what she wants to hear. Whether it is true or not, who knows.

Only time will tell.

He pays and they leave, putting on their coats and scarves near the door. He puts on his new hat and looks at himself in the mirror: an old man.

With a definite effort he pulls open the door.

He lets Cordelia leave first, then follows her out.

The air is frigid, stings the skin of his face.

Via Maggiore is fading away in the dusk