Auraria: A Novel by Tim Westover Read Free Book Online Page B

thoughts. Why had he fled at something so preposterous as … nothing? The absence of a player piano?
    These were the improper workings of a wearied mind; he himself was going out of tune. Somewhere, there was a trick whose explanation, for the moment, eluded him. It wouldn’t be proper to keep on with his mission in this state. He should find his correct quarters and make it an early night. If he tried too hard to solve the matter now, on a depleted constitution, it would pollute his dreams. A sober, fresh morning would give him back his reason, and with reason he could sort out the strange events of the day.
    He opened the front door at the guesthouse that he now knew to be McTavish’s. He was greeted by an immense globe of a woman. Her head, feet, and arms were undifferentiated from the purple sphere of her body.
    “You’re Mr. Holtzclaw, yes? X. T. left off your trunk earlier this afternoon, and I made him haul it up to your room. I’m glad you made it here safe; I was fixing to worry about you, and I wouldn’t have felt right to charge you for a room you weren’t to sleep in, but I guess since your trunk’s already up there, you are occupying it. What brings you to Auraria?”
    An excellent lie occurred to him. “I am a dealer in scrap metal. You have a great deal of it in your old mines, and I would like to buy and remove the larger pieces for better purposes.” He was quite pleased by this story; it would excuse his behavior and wouldn’t inflame too many suspicions.
    “As good a call as any,” said Mrs. McTavish. “Most folks come to dig for gold too. Figure you’ll be doing that at some point? You could hardly say you’d seen Auraria unless you looked up at it while kneeling in the sand of the river!” Mrs. McTavish made this remark from memory. She had perfected the melody of the joke while neglecting this meaning. Still, Holtzclaw performed his duty of issuing a slight chuckle.
    “Now, are we going to be getting you some supper?” she said.
    Holtzclaw confessed to his blunder and that he had already eaten at the Old Rock Falls Inn.
    “Why would you trust a skinny innkeeper?” said Mrs. McTavish.
     
    #
     
    When Holtzclaw awoke, it was midmorning. The claret had been too fragrant, the sweet potato stew too heavy, the wear on his feet and mind too taxing. He’d fallen into the feather bed at McTavish’s and had not stirred until a chickadee at his window began tapping in an unintelligible code.
    It was a rotten start to a day that was burdened with tasks. If he didn’t make at least six visits today, from the Strickland’s through to the Sky Pilot at some place called the Terrible Cascade, he might as well surrender the project; he would be too far behind schedule. Procrastination would make the prices go up, perhaps too high to overcome.
    Holtzclaw put on the shoes that he had not found time to polish the night before and ate an unsatisfying breakfast in McTavish’s parlor. She offered hard rolls, garnished with marmalades imported at great distance and expense, and a glass of buttermilk. Holtzclaw first tried to eat the buttermilk with a spoon, as though it were some breakfast custard, before her glare corrected him. He took a glass of water instead, and this was the only restorative part of the meal. The water was cool and sweet and fresh.
    Before leaving town to make his first visit of the day, Holtzclaw decided to purchase a few needed effects from local stores. In hi s trousseau de voyag e , he had mirrors, ablution bowls, shavers, basins, ewers, powders, pill cases, and an array of bottles, sprinklers, and spritzers, in addition to a gentleman’s wardrobe—none of it was useful. He needed a pair of boots and a walking stick so he could cover the terrain before nightfall; a hat in the local fashion might help prevent townsfolk from instantly marking him as an outsider.
    Holtzclaw walked from McTavish’s to the center of town. Around the open lot that constituted the square of