Sparrow Nights by David Gilmour Read Free Book Online Page B

little glances at my new neighbour’s house, and finally he asked me what I made of it. I asked, of what? “Those fucking dogs,” he replied.
    This was good, but it was also important to play it right. I paused theatrically and then, as if I had just caught a faint sound, a sound as remote as electricity passing through the wires overhead, I said agreeably, “Oh yes, you’re right.”
    Right about what? It was intended to flatter, but he looked mildly irritated with me. “Come on,” he said, pleasantly unpleasant. “You must have heard them.” He sounded rather peevish and for a second I thought I saw what the voters had seen when they tossed him out of office.
    “I’m sure they’re just getting used to the neighbourhood,” I said.
    This expression of exasperating—and idiot—goodwill struck entirely the right note. It was succinct and easy to remember. When I turned the corner at the foot of my street, I caught a glimpse of my neighbour, his arms crossed, glaring at the house next door.
    I drove north. It being a Friday, the traffic was heavy until I cleared the city and then a sad, golden light spread over the farmhouses and the gorgeous fields. The air smelt clean and young, and I remembered taking Emma out to these fields once just after we’d met and snuggling in a sleeping bag under the bright sky. “I don’t give a shit about Verlaine,” she said. “I just want to pump your cock till you faint.” Quite the nature girl, my Emma. But it was so lovely out there. Particularly after the fireworks, after Satan had withdrawn and she’d become human again. You could smell the damp earth that night and the air and Emma’s saliva-wet face; you could hear the night sounds of a farmer’s field. It was so raw , it seemed as if a finger passed through your chest and touched you in some humming place.
    It was after dark when I heard the stones crackle under the wheels of my car as I left the highway and followed a gravel lane for a quarter of a mile, a slow, curving route, the trees rising on each side, hundreds and hundreds of little circular leaves glimmering like coins in the headlights. After gliding to a stop in a dark parking lot, I turned off the car lights and the radio and found myself thinking, quite incongruously, of a waitress who had served me years ago on an outdoor patio. She had the oddest name, Constance something. Someone had phoned, I gathered, a customer, claiming to have left behind a handbag under my table, and she had come over and while searching the floor had rested her hand very gently on my shoulder to keep her balance. There was something about her touch, a combination of absolute lightness and at the same time familiarity, as if she had touched me many times, knew me well, was very comfortable doing it. I flushed with pleasure and desire, like a cat stroked by his master. Moreover, I had the sensation that only someone who loved me could touch me like that. Constance Guitar , that was her name. I’m sure she never gave me another thought, not from the moment she turned her back on my table, but now, out in the parking lot, I experienced a ghostly longing for her. The hotel rose up before me, floodlit and purring with people, and I caught myself daydreaming that she was with me, that the two of us were coming here for the weekend together. How happy that would be. What fun. With her turned-around baseball cap and that curiously theatrical voice, she’d have enjoyed this place.
    I checked in and took a table for dinner, which overlooked a fast-running river and, downstream, an abandoned mill, whose facade was illuminated like a movie set by a bank of lights. From where I sat, you could hear the water sluicing over the dam. I treated myself to an overpriced Pinot Noir, Oak Knoll ’92, and just the expectation of its arrival cheered me up. After a glass and a bit the fireflies came out. The candle flames wavered like caramel. The dining room seemed warmer, the people pleasant and