Tom Rachman - The Rise & Fall of Great Powers

“All I know is that Humphrey was the great friend of your childhood. An utter darling!”

“Can you answer my question, please?”

“You should thank me for Humph. I always made sure he kept you company.”

“Kept me company? Humphrey had nowhere else to go. I kept him company, if anything. He was a hanger-on.” She thought of his reading material, little snacks on the Ping-Pong table. “Maybe that’s not the right word, but I—”

“Very fond of you, Humphrey was,” Sarah said. “He and I tried everything to help you. Even in New York, we tried. But you wouldn’t come with me. You wanted things a certain way, and there was no shifting you. Just like always. Just like it was you who decided how things ended up with Paulie.”

“We’re not discussing him,” Tooly reiterated. “Can we stick to the topic?”

“Oh, I’m sure Humphrey told you everything already.”

“He told me nothing; that’s why I came here.”

“And how nice that you did! Having such a lovely time, Matilda.”

“I’m not. You might be. I’m not.”

“Give some thought to dinner. That restaurant is supposed to be fab.”

“This is absurd.” Tooly stood and fetched her bag. “I’m going back.”

“I’ll try not to look too gloomy,” Sarah responded. “If I frown too much, I could get wrinkles one day. Keep your face in a state of permanent immobility — that’s my advice. I try not to have any expression whatsoever. Which is easier when you’re on your own.”

Tooly boarded the next express for Rome. In the carriage, a group of ratty teenagers played music from a cellphone; a man clipped his fingernails. As the train prepared to depart, she glimpsed a fiftyish woman hobbling along the platform. It was Sarah, in fresh makeup, scrutinizing each window in turn, hoping to be spotted, and that her guest might rethink. She paused at Tooly’s window. But without glasses she saw nothing, and continued past.

The train chugged into a pelting rainstorm, its hydraulic doors sighing open at each shabby station on the Roman periphery. Tooly repeated to herself that she’d been right to leave. Nothing to learn from Sarah, nothing owed to her. Yet the image remained: Sarah looking blindly at her. She’d be returning to the apartment now, probably soaked from the downpour, flicking on lights in the spare bedrooms, plumping the cushion on the kitchen chair, still indented from her departed guest.

Sarah had sculpted her own past so vigorously in the retelling that her memories had chipped loose from the events themselves, detaching her from others who’d also been there. It had never occurred to Tooly that dishonesty had the consequence of isolation.

Unfortunately, Sarah’s isolation cut off Tooly, too: Who else was there to consult about that time? Was there any point in trying again with Humphrey? He might remember something. Even just a clue to what had happened. It was no surprise that he’d deteriorated this much, confined to that armchair, without conversation or reading. But she could rouse him — she’d always had that effect.

Tooly gazed out the rain-streaked window, drenched countryside rushing by. Returning to Wales was impossible now.

PAUL STOOD, then sat, then stood, then went to his room, then returned, and told her. His father, Burt, had passed away. Paul knelt before the VCR, pressing buttons. “I should have been there.”

Tooly was unsure what to say. “If you try hitting Play and Record at the same time, that’s what I—”

“I know how to operate a video machine.”

The next morning, she got up two hours late for the microbus — Paul hadn’t woken her. Nor had he turned on the air-conditioning in the living room, which was sweltering. The apartment had a strange desolation. She crept into his room, found a long lump in his bed.

He turned to face her.

“It’s late on the bird clock,” she whispered.

He nodded.

In the kitchen, the housekeeper, Shelly, was in a frantic state. “Everybody sleeping!” She asked if they would be at home all day — they hadn’t warned her! She didn’t have lunch supplies! It wasn’t fair to do that!

Tooly climbed for the cereal boxes, poured a bowl for Paul, overfilling it with milk. She delivered it to his bedside, but he had no interest. “Don’t you have your job today?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you going?”

He stared at the ceiling.

“Can I pour cold water on you?”

“Why would you?”

“To wake you up.”

He flipped over, giving her his back.

She opened his curtains, parting them in stages, as he did when waking her. Paul rose and went into the bathroom, stood before the medicine-cabinet mirror.

She clambered onto the closed toilet seat with a can of shaving cream and sprayed a white whoosh onto his face, then ran the safety razor down his cheek, as she’d seen in television commercials. But she did it too softly, drawing only a puff of foam, no stubble. She tried more firmly. A crimson dot of blood rose through the white. Terrified, she glimpsed his face in the mirror. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, and ran into her room.

He did not emerge that day. She tried reading in the living room, but couldn’t finish a single page. She stood outside his door — she should do something, but didn’t know what.

Mr. Priddles had once told her class that, whenever they encountered problems at home, they should talk to him. The idea — him invading her life even more, glimpsing how things were here — outraged her nearly to tears. Why did she have to see him ever again? But there Mr. Priddles was, every single day, at the front of class, smiling to himself as he cued up the music.

Later that week, the name Matilda Zylberberg boomed over the school speakers. Tooly leaped up from her desk. Even if she was in trouble again, she could at least waste some time slow-walking to the admin offices. When she arrived, someone awaited her.

“So sorry, darling.”

Before Tooly could respond, the woman picked her up like a bundle and hugged her. “I completely forgot my things at home. You’ll vouch for me, won’t you? Or are you going to turn Mommy in to the authorities?”

Bewildered, she glanced at the woman, then at the receptionist, who responded with a smile. “You guys good to go?”

“Apologies for being such a ditz with the ID.”

“No problemo. Just sign here, Mrs. Zylberberg.”

“You’re a gem,” Sarah told the secretary, and led Tooly outside, pointing to the front gate.

Holding the girl’s hand, she whispered, “I hate schools. They give me the creeps.”

“Where are we going?” Tooly asked.

“Wherever you like, Matilda. Sorry I vanished — got so busy. But I’ve been aching to see you.”

“I’m not allowed to leave.”

“Is this a prison? Course you can go. What were you even doing that was so important?”

“The hypotenuse.”

“Don’t even know which subject that is!” She slipped on white Ray-Bans and offered her hand, bangles clinking. Uncertainly, Tooly took it. “I’m here to see if I like you,” Sarah said. “But I have to say, I think I adore you already. I really do. Ready? Off we go!”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I …”

A tuk-tuk waited outside the gates, engine belching, frame shuddering.

“I’m not supposed to get in those. They’re dangerous.” Paul had always said that. “Aren’t they?”

“Not if I’m here. Come on, you!” She tickled Tooly’s arm, making the girl giggle, then drew her into the cab, arm around her shoulder, tugging her closer along the vinyl seat. Sarah said something to the driver, squeezed the nine-year-old around the middle again, kissed her cheek. “What fun!”