then,” said Grabowski. “But just one question.” He should at least try to meet that woman. So what if she knocked him back? You never knew unless you tried and maybe, just maybe, he would get lucky. He’d put on a little weight recently, all the stress, but he was a decent-enough-looking guy. “One question—who was that you were talking to outside this morning? She had a little spaniel with her.”
Mrs. Jackson forgot about potty for Otis. She told him what she knew about Lydia Snaresbrook—little enough, but she plumped down on the end of the bed and spun it out for as long as she could.
Chapter Seven
23 January 1998
Had to stay in bed yesterday. Nothing too alarming—copious vomiting into a bucket, an almighty weariness. It’s good that I can’t smell a thing. The bucket sat by the bed until this morning and didn’t bother me at all. While I’m in the mood for counting my blessings I shall offer up thanks that the tumor is not on the left side of my brain, my “dominant hemisphere,” the one that controls language and writing. And I am, in truth, pathetically grateful for that.
I have been feeling so much better in recent days that yesterday really knocked me down. Hope is a sly old dog; it creeps up with a shy little wag of the tail and lodges its muzzle in your crotch, trying to worm its way back into your affections. I should know better. I do know better. If the tumor didn’t respond to chemo and radiotherapy it is not going to respond to “positive thinking,” as it is termed by the self-help brigade. All that “brave fight” nonsense. What is it that I should be fighting? Fight cancer with a smile?
The Macmillan nurse looked in, and she’ll be back again later today. She’s rather wonderful, Gloria. She has big square hands, a shapeless dress, and gray hair that looks as if it could be used for polishing pans. She’s warm and thorough and competent, and she can tell a filthy joke. At no point has she suggested that I battle the tumor with willpower and a winning personality. Instead she checks and counts my medications, takes a blood sample, inquires about pain control.
Yesterday she did ask about my book and I confessed to her that I have become a little too absorbed in the byway of a New York Times article from the 1898 archive, discussing Chamberlain’s speech in Birmingham from the perspective of German diplomats and journalists.
It was something of a false confession. Compared to the time I’ve spent dwelling on Belo Horizonte, my doodlings in the margin of fin de siècle history have been of microscopic proportions. The irony of the situation has not escaped my notice. An historian who is at pains to conceal a moment of history. That appears to be my fate.
24 January 1998
When I prepared the house in Belo Horizonte, or Beaga, as it is familiarly known, I fussed and fretted about how sterile it seemed. Naturally it was no palace but that wasn’t my concern. Her informal drawing room and bedroom at KP were not grand, they were homely, filled with cushions and keepsakes, the children’s artworks and photographs. I did my best. It was, perhaps, what is termed in pop psychology “displacement activity.” I went shopping for soft furnishings, vases, and—my pièce de résistance—a menagerie of stuffed toy animals. I lined them up at the bottom of the bed, as she did in KP, and how baleful they looked, especially the elephant—I had to turn him around so I couldn’t see those sad little eyes, that furrowed brow.
I chose a “safe” suburb, of course, and within that a gated and security-patrolled enclave. I am, though I say it myself, a diligent researcher and meticulous planner. It was better not to have too grand a residence (there were budgetary considerations as well), and I wanted someplace with a fluid demographic of internationals as well as locals, where a newcomer would attract little attention. Belo Horizonte has a significant business population among the
Mrs. Jackson forgot about potty for Otis. She told him what she knew about Lydia Snaresbrook—little enough, but she plumped down on the end of the bed and spun it out for as long as she could.
Chapter Seven
23 January 1998
Had to stay in bed yesterday. Nothing too alarming—copious vomiting into a bucket, an almighty weariness. It’s good that I can’t smell a thing. The bucket sat by the bed until this morning and didn’t bother me at all. While I’m in the mood for counting my blessings I shall offer up thanks that the tumor is not on the left side of my brain, my “dominant hemisphere,” the one that controls language and writing. And I am, in truth, pathetically grateful for that.
I have been feeling so much better in recent days that yesterday really knocked me down. Hope is a sly old dog; it creeps up with a shy little wag of the tail and lodges its muzzle in your crotch, trying to worm its way back into your affections. I should know better. I do know better. If the tumor didn’t respond to chemo and radiotherapy it is not going to respond to “positive thinking,” as it is termed by the self-help brigade. All that “brave fight” nonsense. What is it that I should be fighting? Fight cancer with a smile?
The Macmillan nurse looked in, and she’ll be back again later today. She’s rather wonderful, Gloria. She has big square hands, a shapeless dress, and gray hair that looks as if it could be used for polishing pans. She’s warm and thorough and competent, and she can tell a filthy joke. At no point has she suggested that I battle the tumor with willpower and a winning personality. Instead she checks and counts my medications, takes a blood sample, inquires about pain control.
Yesterday she did ask about my book and I confessed to her that I have become a little too absorbed in the byway of a New York Times article from the 1898 archive, discussing Chamberlain’s speech in Birmingham from the perspective of German diplomats and journalists.
It was something of a false confession. Compared to the time I’ve spent dwelling on Belo Horizonte, my doodlings in the margin of fin de siècle history have been of microscopic proportions. The irony of the situation has not escaped my notice. An historian who is at pains to conceal a moment of history. That appears to be my fate.
24 January 1998
When I prepared the house in Belo Horizonte, or Beaga, as it is familiarly known, I fussed and fretted about how sterile it seemed. Naturally it was no palace but that wasn’t my concern. Her informal drawing room and bedroom at KP were not grand, they were homely, filled with cushions and keepsakes, the children’s artworks and photographs. I did my best. It was, perhaps, what is termed in pop psychology “displacement activity.” I went shopping for soft furnishings, vases, and—my pièce de résistance—a menagerie of stuffed toy animals. I lined them up at the bottom of the bed, as she did in KP, and how baleful they looked, especially the elephant—I had to turn him around so I couldn’t see those sad little eyes, that furrowed brow.
I chose a “safe” suburb, of course, and within that a gated and security-patrolled enclave. I am, though I say it myself, a diligent researcher and meticulous planner. It was better not to have too grand a residence (there were budgetary considerations as well), and I wanted someplace with a fluid demographic of internationals as well as locals, where a newcomer would attract little attention. Belo Horizonte has a significant business population among the
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