The Merchants of Zion by William Stamp Read Free Book Online

realer than a child pounding on a hardwood floor with her tiny hands and feet?
    We reached a compromise; she didn't have to do the lessons, but we would read for an hour every day. Her tablet had an enormous library, but every single book was the first in a series with an additional volume published in the past six months. If we read books from it and she wanted to continue the series, one of us would have to buy the sequel. I didn't get paid enough to supplement the already lavish expenses heaped upon Elly, and if I invoiced it our scheme would soon be uncovered. So I gave her my battered copy of  Watership Down,  which we took turns reading aloud. It soon replaced  The Confectioner's Tales  as her favorite book of all time, ever. True, the novelty of paper pages caused her endless delight, but I like to think that the life-or-death struggles of anthropomorphic rabbits captured her attention better than a series cynically written to appeal to her demographic cross-section.
    Of course, the software would snitch on us if we abandoned her reading lessons entirely, so I completed them myself. The stellar scores I received answering questions designed for eight-year-olds no doubt played a role in Helen's ideas of the value I added to her daughter's education.
    I saw Elly more than either of her parents, and spent many late nights watching cartoons before putting her to bed, after which I would sit in the kitchen reading and waiting for a parent to return. It was invariably Helen, who would promise that soon Le Flaneur would take care of itself and she'd be home at a more reasonable hour. Soon, always soon. The word is nothing but the palest shade of never.
    I always told her I didn't mind. Which was the truth—I had nothing better to do, so what did it matter to me if I stayed until ten three or four nights a week? With the solitary pseudo-autonomy came familiar comfort. The distant, hovering adults and a refrigerator well-stocked with gourmet food made me feel like I was back in high school all over again. Except the homework was easier, and I was getting paid to do it.
    Sometimes Helen would ask if I wanted to stay and chat. And sometimes I would, lending a sympathetic ear over a cup of coffee spiked with brandy. While on paper I was a tutor—a sort of professional, really, if you think about it, with all the detachment and unearned self-esteem that entails—in truth I was a nanny, which meant that while tending to the material needs of the child was important, satisfying the emotional wants of her parents was essential. In short, I knew who it was that kept my internet fast and my data plan unnecessarily large.
    One Friday Helen didn't get back until after eleven. I was in the kitchen, struggling with a biography of the twentieth century physicist Richard Feynman. Dimitri had suggested the 700 page tome as an introduction to quantum physics for people who didn't know any math. It was essential reading if I wanted the ability to have the most basic conversations about his day without him losing all faith in humanity. He had described it as light and non-technical. I would have used the words gibberishtic and incomprehensible.
    The front door opened, slammed shut, and a few seconds later Helen stumbled into the kitchen and over to the wine fridge. She grabbed a bottle from the bottom shelf.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    “Oh my God. Cliff, you scared me,” she said, fluttering a hand over her heart. “Robert isn't home yet?”
    “No.”
    Her hands were shaking as she grabbed two glasses, and her aim with the corkscrew was off. It kept deflecting off the lip and down the glass neck. On her fourth try it slipped from her hands and fell to the floor. Using the table to steady herself, she leaned down and picked it up, then gave it to me.
    “Will you please open this for me?” she asked softly.
    “Sure thing, Mrs. Felkins.”
    “Thank you, Cliff.”
    I popped the bottle open and poured half a glass, which I slid