It   yet late, turned into Laundress Passage. Fatcs and closed tters; but so I  come o darkness  on t over tairs to t. t cast a foolscap rectangle of paleness onto t pavement, and it  rectangle, about to turn my key in t I first sater. Anote rectangle, it ep from ttom, .

    I closed t ts usual place bery. Poor Bailey. No one ed  gray book for ty years. Sometimes I ’s tiny er  ting.

    A letter. For me. t . ts tents,  man a certain amount of trouble. Altyle of ting  it ten by a cters seemed untrained. trokes eito notco tters t spelled out my name. Eacaken separately—M A R G A R E t L E A—as a neing enterprise. But I kne is the hand of an invalid.

    It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or t my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person—

    some stranger—o trouble of marking my name onto t ed a thing?

    Still in my coat and , I sank onto tair to read tter. (I never read  making sure I am in a secure position. I ting on a er Babies, I ions of underer life t I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being field buoyant by ter t so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to t. I can still feel the ;car under my fringe now. Reading can be dangerous.)

    I opened tter and pulled out a sten in t. to my  manuscripts. t secret to it. Patience and practice are all t is required. t and to cultivate an inner eye.  t er, fire, lig to study not just tters but otion. t relax. til you ao a dream self oucickling your surface. t. tention of ter, s, ations,  illuminating t.

    Not t tter  began  “Miss Lea”; ter to cers, tences.

    t I read:

    I once did an intervie look it out one of trange c me. A boy, really. As tall as a man, but  of yout. t  for a muc, t  buy for a boy leaving sc job, imagining t o it. But boys do not leave their school uniform.

    tensity. t I set eyes on , “A’s er?”

    I’ve not people  from t t t so long as t start on about storytelling and y, turally t annoys me. But provided t  them.

    My gripe is not rut rut succor, ion is truto a story?  good is trut midnigning strikes saps at ts long fingernails? No. atue of you in your bed, don’t expect ruto come running to your aid.  you need are ts of a story. ty of a lie.

    Some ers don’t like intervie cross about it. “Same old questions, ” t do t? Reporters are ers are t because tions, it doesn’t mean ? I mean, making t’s ervieo be locked a of sigo t so frail a t it coy fingers of the newspapermen.

    In to try to catc. ttle piece of trut, dra out at an opportune moment and o startle me into revealing more. I o be careful. Incion I ed to take, use my bait to draly, imperceptibly, totier story te operation. tart to stle crutil it dropped from t never failed. A good story is alruth.

    Afterer intervie of rite of passage for journalists. t to expect, o leave  tory. A quick run tions ( your inspiration? Are your cers based on real people? er is you?) and ter my anster t. (Inside my  ting for, tant look stole across ttle c bedtime. And you, Miss inter, tell me about yourself.

    And I told. Simple little stories really, not muco t a ferands, ogetty pattern, a memorable motif tom of my ragbag. s from novels and stories, plots t never got finisillborn cers, picturesque locations I never found a use for. Odds and ends t fell out in ting. t’s just a matter of neatening titc’s done. Another brand-new biography.

    t as at ty. It o tell t Vida inter, and sold me a story.”

    Anyer, tell me trut kind of appeal is t? I’ve ratagems to trick me into telling, and I can spot t t? Laugever did ?

    A good question.  did ? ening ent fever. cer somete specific, I . ion. Perell me truth, he said.

    I felt a strange sensation inside. Like t coming to life. tery stirring of a previous life turning in my belly, creating a tide t rose in my veins and sent cool s to lap at my temples. tly excitement of it. tell me truth.

    I considered . I turned it over in my mind, h his pale face and his burning eyes.

    “All right, ” I said.

    An er , absentminded good-bye and no backward glance.

    I didn’t tell rutold ory. An impoveristle t a fecacked toget frayed. tory t looks like real life. Or o be, ’s not easy for someone of my talent to produce a story like t.

    I creet, sep a . All t energy, t. Not t I take all tter to believe me.

    I never saw him again.

    t feeling I  in my stomacemples, my fingertips—

    it remained e a ell me trut it  be still. It raction. More t, it  yet.” It sig fidgeted, but eventually it fell quiet. So quiet t I as good as forgot about it.

    a long time ago t y years? Forty? More, perime passes more quickly think.

    tely. tell me trutely I  again t strange inner stirring. tiplying. I can feel it, in my stomac t. It sucks t of my lungs and gna. From being a meek and biddable t  refuses all negotiation, blocks discussion, insists on its rig  take no for an ansrut ecer tcing back. And t turns to me, tigs grip on my innards, gives a t. e made a deal, remember?

    It is time.

    Come on Monday. I o meet you from t four arrival at e Station.

    Vida inter on tairs after reading tter? I don’t kno  ed deftly, take you prisoner. ind t move, ter your blood, numb your ts. Inside you t last o myself, I could only guess er done to me?

    I knetle about Vida inter. I urally of ts t usually came attaco -loved er; our century’s Dickens; t famous living aut ser researcill came as a surprise. Fifty-six books publisy-six years; translated into forty-nine languages; Miss inter y-seven times t borroeen feature films erms of statistics, t disputed question is t sold more books ty comes less from  aining solid figures for tever one ta are notoriously unreliable. t migerested me t, as I sat t ttom of tairs, y-t of information, or lack of encouragement, or after inducements or ts from Miss inter o give up trying to discover trut  I kneatistic, and it  seemed relevant: er  Lea, read? None.

    I sairs, yaretcurning to myself, I found t my ts ems in particular ed out of tritus t is my memory and placed for my attention.

    t tle scene involving my fate library clearance includes a number of Vida inters. At t deal in contemporary fiction. “I’ll take to ty s before t, to a priest, one to a cartograpo a military orian. Our clients’ faces, omary outo lig ter luncaloging and tomers,  reading as usual. It is late autumn, it is raining and ted up. In ter; oget, we are deep in our books. “Sea?” I ask, surfacing. No answer.

    I make tea all t a cup next to er toucea is cold. I make a fres and put moteaming cup beside o my ;very movement.

    Gently I tilt t I can see t is ter. I return to its original position and study my fat  see me. .

    t  memory.

    ter profile, carved massively out of ligoers unted, beneat is only an advertising pograped on a bill-board in a railation, but to my mind’s eye it ten queens and deities carved into rock faces by ancient civilizations. to contemplate te arc of tions of to marvel t tion can produce someturally perfect as ts of ture, ifact, a product not of blunt-tooled nature but of tistic endeavor. t embellisy of alabaster; it appears paler still by contrast e ts and coils of copper  are arranged  temples and dorong, elegant neck.

    As if travagant beauty  enougensified by some pograp of o an ins, t over ters  in-expression. I can’t say  day felt t ture; t perspective on t for me, looking into t  commonplace expression about teo t  have a soul.

    Suc of tter, tent of my kno Vida inter. It  mucion per er—kneime nobody kneery.

    Noter o be believed, Vida inter ed to tell trut self, but curiouser still  t:  to tell it to me?