The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt Page B

have to—” I couldn’t get it out, not quite, but my mother wanted me to go home, immediately, I was supposed to meet her there, that was the one thing she had made very clear
    “Take it with you!” Pressing it on me. “Go!” He was trying to sit up. His eyes were bright and wild; his agitation frightened me. “They took all the light bulbs, they’ve smashed up half the houses in the street—”
    A drip of blood ran down his chin.
    “Please,” I said, hands flustering, afraid to touch him. “Please lie down—”
    He shook his head, and tried to say something, but the effort broke him down hacking with a wet, miserable sound. When he wiped his mouth, I saw a bright stripe of blood on the back of his hand.
    “Somebody’s coming.” Not sure I believed it, not knowing what else to say.
    He looked straight into my face, searching for some flicker of understanding, and when he didn’t find it he clawed to sit up again.
    “Fire,” he said, in a gargling voice. “The villa in Ma’adi. On a tout perdu. ”
    He broke off coughing again. Red-tinged froth bubbling at his nostrils. In the midst of all that unreality, cairns and broken monoliths, I had a dreamlike sense of having failed him, as if I’d botched some vital fairy-tale task through clumsiness and ignorance. Though there wasn’t any visible fire anywhere in that tumble of stone, I crawled over and put the painting in the nylon shopping bag, just to get it out of his sight, it was upsetting him so.
    “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll—”
    He had calmed down. He put a hand on my wrist, eyes steady and bright, and a chill wind of unreason blew over me. I had done what I was supposed to do. Everything was going to be all right.
    As I was basking in the comfort of this notion, he squeezed my hand reassuringly, as if I’d spoken the thought aloud. We’ll get away from here, he said.
    “I know.”
    “Wrap it in newspapers and pack it at the very bottom of the trunk, my dear. With the other curiosities.”
    Relieved that he’d calmed down, exhausted with my headache, all memory of my mother faded to a mothlike flicker, I settled down beside him and closed my eyes, feeling oddly comfortable and safe. Absent, dreamy. He was rambling a bit, under his breath: foreign names, sums and numbers, a few French words but mostly English. A man was coming to look at the furniture. Abdou was in trouble for throwing stones. And yet it all made sense somehow and I saw the palmy garden and the piano and the green lizard on the tree trunk as if they were pages in a photograph album.
    Will you be all right getting home by yourself, my dear? I remember him asking at one point.
    “Of course.” I was lying on the floor beside him, my head level with his rickety old breastbone, so that I could hear every catch and wheeze in his breath. “I take the train by myself every day.”
    “And where did you say you were living now?” His hand on my head, very gently, the way you’d rest your hand on the head of a dog you liked.
    “East Fifty-Seventh Street.”
    “Oh, yes! Near Le Veau d’Or?”
    “Well, a few blocks.” Le Veau d’Or was a restaurant where my mother had liked to go, back when we had money. I had eaten my first escargot there, and tasted my first sip of Marc de Bourgogne from her glass.
    “Towards Park, you say?”
    “No, closer to the river.”
    “Close enough, my dear. Meringues and caviare. How I loved this city the first time I saw it! Still, it’s not the same, is it? I miss it all terribly, don’t you? The balcony, and the…”
    “Garden.” I turned to look at him. Perfumes and melodies. In my swamp of confusion, it had come to seem that he was a close friend or family member I’d forgotten about, some long-lost relative of my mother’s.…
    “Oh, your mother! The darling! I’ll never forget the first time she came to play. She was the prettiest little girl I ever saw.”
    How had he known I was thinking about her? I started to ask him