Page Turner Pa by David Leavitt Read Free Book Online Page B

first moved into the building, twenty-five years ago now, it had amazed Joseph that people could be paid just to push revolving doors. Of course he hadn't understood then about unions. (Now he understood all too well about unions.) A certain grasping cynicism underlay the mechanics of New York luxury, he reflected, as the smooth and oiled gyre took him in, its brushed undersides scraping softly against the polished marble, ushering him through a multiplicity of reflections—like Alice through the looking glass, he sometimes thought. Then he was in the lobby. Ghosts of perfumes collided amid the dark wood veneers, the hard little pink sateen sofas and chairs that no one ever used—indeed, that seemed designed to repel use. And how many times had he passed through this lobby with Sophie, or with Kennington and Sophie, on the way back from the park?...but he didn't want to conjure Kennington right now. Funny that because Sophie had died, Joseph should find himself grieving Kennington's absence, when he was merely in Europe, as he'd been dozens of times before; would be coming back soon, very soon, in time for their anniversary. Twenty years, they told people, not mentioning, for the sake of discretion, the first five, during which Kennington had been underage. Meanwhile a second doorman, this one elderly, was ringing for the elevator, which was an old-fashioned one, with a little velvet bench on which Joseph had never once seen anyone sit.
    "Afternoon, Sam," Joseph said.
    "Afternoon, Mr. Mansourian."
    "I'm afraid my dog has passed on, Sam."
    "Has he, now?"
    "She. Sophie was a she."
    "A real crying shame," Sam said—a little mockingly, Joseph thought—and he opened the doors for Joseph to step through.
    Silently the doors closed on Joseph's face.
    Almost as soon as the elevator started moving, he felt faint again, so much so that for the first time in twenty-five years, he actually sat down on the little velvet bench. This turned out to be more trouble than it was worth, as the ride took all of forty seconds. Up onto his feet he hoisted himself, before continuing into the cramped corridor, where he undid the double doors with their triple locks. In the front hall a black-and-white checkerboard of tiles stretched to the shadowed living room. He smelled cooking, heard Mozart—both from other apartments.
    Once safe in his bedroom, he changed out of his suit; checked his e-mail (there was none), checked his voice mail (there was none). And what next? He wasn't sure. A planless evening stretched ahead of him. Of course he knew better than to go into the kitchen, where on the other side of the swinging door Sophie's bright red dishes still sat, one half filled with kibble and the other with water in which little bits of kibble floated, bloated, disintegrated. Her toys lay idle in the dog bed. He'd noticed the blood when he'd picked her up to take her to Dr. Wincote. And then, in the taxi on the way downtown, she had died without drama. No, he decided, in the end it was better to steer clear of the kitchen tonight; better, in the morning, to let Maria remove "the effects" with that harrowing efficiency that was her hallmark, so that when Joseph returned from the office the next afternoon the apartment would be scraped clean of all signs of canine life; except from photographs, no one would be able to tell that for years a dachshund named Sophie had lived here.
    Still shaking a little, he went into the living room, where he mixed himself a drink and put on a CD: the adagietto from Mahler's Fifth Symphony. Then he sat down. He was wondering whether he should tell Kennington about Sophie. It was one-thirty in the morning in Rome, which meant Kennington would either be asleep, or out walking, or out at the bars; if he went to the bars, that is; if he did anything along those lines. And anyway, did the expected death of an old, sick dog really constitute enough of an emergency to justify a phone call in the middle of the