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.That was more than a year ago.I really don’t know what he was up to.He always had some sort of project going.”They moved into the library.It was a magnificent room, the walls lined with arch-topped fruitwood bookcases, the spaces in between hung with fantastic oil paintings of medieval battle scenes done by long-forgotten artists.There was a wrought iron chandelier hanging from the dark oak coffered ceiling, and the floor was covered with a gigantic tree of life-pattern Persian carpet done in shades of rose and deep blue.There was a functional desk set at an angle in one corner, several comfortable old fan-backed club chairs upholstered in faded velvet that had once been red but that had worn down through the years to a faded pink, a small couch, and Henry’s personal chair, a giant green leather monstrosity that looked as though it had been spirited out of a nineteenth-century English men’s club.There was a conveniently placed pole lamp with a fringed shade and a side table at the chair’s right hand, just the perfect size for a book and a late-night tipple of sherry, or perhaps a small tumbler of Henry’s favorite single malt.The chair stood just beyond the hearth of the plain, practical fireplace.Above the fireplace was a signed mezzotint by the apocalyptic British artist John Martin, showing the fall of Babylon in desperate, murderous detail, complete with a tiny Assyrian priest being scorched by bolts of divine lightning descending from boiling, wrathful thunderheads above the ancient temple.There was a quotation in Italian printed within the frame.Holliday quoted it from memory; it had been Uncle Henry’s credo:“Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terratraffito da un raggio di sole:ed č subito sera.”“Which means?” Peggy asked.“Every one of us stands alone on the heart of theearth,Transfixed by a beam of sun;And suddenly it is evening.”“Easy for you to say,” quipped Peggy.“It’s from a poem called ‘It Is Now Evening’ by Salvatore Quasimodo.”“The hunchback?”“The Italian poet.He won the Nobel Prize, if I remember correctly.Henry met him in Rome after the war.”“Sad,” said Peggy, staring up at the print above the fireplace.“Not to Uncle Henry.” Holliday shrugged.“To him it was a caution: your time on earth is brief, don’t waste it.Death comes to us all.Every day is a gift.”“And it came to Grandpa in the end,” sighed Peggy, slumping down into the big green chair.Holliday went to the desk and sat down in Uncle Henry’s old-fashioned wooden swivel chair.The desk was a massive oak rectangle, the twin pedestals roughly carved with trails of ivy and shapes of birds and small forest animals.There was a large, leather-edged blotter on the top surface and a green-shaded brass banker’s lamp to light it.The wood was dark, worm-eaten, and polished by time, the edges of the pedestals worn and chipped.Holliday had always assumed that the desk had been made from the remains of a shipwreck, although he’d never asked about it and now regretted not doing so.The desk looked Spanish, perhaps fifteenth century.He had no idea how it had come to be in a house on the shores of Lake Erie, but like many things in Uncle Henry’s life there was almost certainly a story behind it.There were three drawers in each pedestal and another drawer in between.Holliday went through each drawer carefully and methodically.The drawers on the left were filled with personal files relating to Uncle Henry’s bills, banking, old tax returns, receipts, and the general maintenance of the house.The drawers on the right were filled with more files, these mostly relating to his years at the university and his professional correspondence.There was one marble-sided cardboard accordion file filled with incomprehensible notes on scraps of paper, written in at least three languages that Holliday could decipher, including what appeared to be Hebrew.He also found several maps, including one of La Rochelle on the Bay of Biscay coast of France.The map was small, the paper fragile and yellowed.It looked as though it had been torn out of an old Michelin guidebook [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.That was more than a year ago.I really don’t know what he was up to.He always had some sort of project going.”They moved into the library.It was a magnificent room, the walls lined with arch-topped fruitwood bookcases, the spaces in between hung with fantastic oil paintings of medieval battle scenes done by long-forgotten artists.There was a wrought iron chandelier hanging from the dark oak coffered ceiling, and the floor was covered with a gigantic tree of life-pattern Persian carpet done in shades of rose and deep blue.There was a functional desk set at an angle in one corner, several comfortable old fan-backed club chairs upholstered in faded velvet that had once been red but that had worn down through the years to a faded pink, a small couch, and Henry’s personal chair, a giant green leather monstrosity that looked as though it had been spirited out of a nineteenth-century English men’s club.There was a conveniently placed pole lamp with a fringed shade and a side table at the chair’s right hand, just the perfect size for a book and a late-night tipple of sherry, or perhaps a small tumbler of Henry’s favorite single malt.The chair stood just beyond the hearth of the plain, practical fireplace.Above the fireplace was a signed mezzotint by the apocalyptic British artist John Martin, showing the fall of Babylon in desperate, murderous detail, complete with a tiny Assyrian priest being scorched by bolts of divine lightning descending from boiling, wrathful thunderheads above the ancient temple.There was a quotation in Italian printed within the frame.Holliday quoted it from memory; it had been Uncle Henry’s credo:“Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terratraffito da un raggio di sole:ed č subito sera.”“Which means?” Peggy asked.“Every one of us stands alone on the heart of theearth,Transfixed by a beam of sun;And suddenly it is evening.”“Easy for you to say,” quipped Peggy.“It’s from a poem called ‘It Is Now Evening’ by Salvatore Quasimodo.”“The hunchback?”“The Italian poet.He won the Nobel Prize, if I remember correctly.Henry met him in Rome after the war.”“Sad,” said Peggy, staring up at the print above the fireplace.“Not to Uncle Henry.” Holliday shrugged.“To him it was a caution: your time on earth is brief, don’t waste it.Death comes to us all.Every day is a gift.”“And it came to Grandpa in the end,” sighed Peggy, slumping down into the big green chair.Holliday went to the desk and sat down in Uncle Henry’s old-fashioned wooden swivel chair.The desk was a massive oak rectangle, the twin pedestals roughly carved with trails of ivy and shapes of birds and small forest animals.There was a large, leather-edged blotter on the top surface and a green-shaded brass banker’s lamp to light it.The wood was dark, worm-eaten, and polished by time, the edges of the pedestals worn and chipped.Holliday had always assumed that the desk had been made from the remains of a shipwreck, although he’d never asked about it and now regretted not doing so.The desk looked Spanish, perhaps fifteenth century.He had no idea how it had come to be in a house on the shores of Lake Erie, but like many things in Uncle Henry’s life there was almost certainly a story behind it.There were three drawers in each pedestal and another drawer in between.Holliday went through each drawer carefully and methodically.The drawers on the left were filled with personal files relating to Uncle Henry’s bills, banking, old tax returns, receipts, and the general maintenance of the house.The drawers on the right were filled with more files, these mostly relating to his years at the university and his professional correspondence.There was one marble-sided cardboard accordion file filled with incomprehensible notes on scraps of paper, written in at least three languages that Holliday could decipher, including what appeared to be Hebrew.He also found several maps, including one of La Rochelle on the Bay of Biscay coast of France.The map was small, the paper fragile and yellowed.It looked as though it had been torn out of an old Michelin guidebook [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]