The Moslem Wife and Other Stories by Mavis Gallant, Mordecai Richler Read Free Book Online Page B

deeper. She might have been dispatched by ghosts. He knew everything about her, all in a moment: he saw the ambition, the terror, the dry pride. She was the true heir of the men from Scotland; she was at the Start. She had been sent to tell him, “You can begin, but not begin again.” She never opened the Bible, but she dusted it asshe dusted her desk, her chair, and any surface the cleaning staff had overlooked. And Peter, the first days, watching her timid movements, her insignificant little face, felt, as you feel the approach of a storm, the charge of moral certainty round her, the belief in work, the faith in undertakings, the bread of the Black Sunday. He recognized and tasted all of it: ashes in the mouth.
    After five days their working relations were settled. Of course, there was the Bible and all that went with it, but his tongue had never held the taste of ashes long. She was an inferior girl of poor quality. She had nothing in her favor except the degree on the wall. In the real world, he would not have invited her to his house except to mind the children. That was what he said to Sheilah. He said that Agnes was a mole, and a virgin, and that her tics and mannerisms were sending him round the bend. She had an infuriating habit of covering her mouth when she talked. Even at the telephone she put up her hand as if afraid of losing anything, even a word. Her voice was nasal and flat. She had two working costumes, both dull as the wall. One was the brown suit, the other a navy-blue dress with changeable collars. She dressed for no one; she dressed for her desk, her jar of flowers, her Bible, and her box of Kleenex. One day she crossed the space between the two desks and stood over Peter, who was reading a newspaper. She could have spoken to him from her desk, but she may have felt that being on her feet gave her authority. She had plenty of courage, but authority was something else.
    “I thought – I mean, they told me you were the person …” She got on with it bravely: “If you don’t want to do the filing or any work, all right, Mr. Frazier. I’m not saying anything about that. You might have poor health or your personal reasons. But it’s got to be done, so if you’ll kindly show me about the filing I’ll do it. I’ve worked in Information before, but it was a different office, and every office is different.”
    “My dear girl,” said Peter. He pushed back his chair and looked at her, astonished. “You’ve been sitting there fretting, worrying. How insensitive of me. How trying for you. Usually I file on the last Wednesday of the month, so you see, you just haven’t been around long enough to see a last Wednesday. Not another word, please. And let us not waste another minute.” He emptied the heaped baskets of photographs so swiftly, pushing “Iran – Smallpox Control” into “Irish Red Cross” (close enough), that the girl looked frightened, as if she had raised a whirlwind. She said slowly, “If you’ll only show me, Mr. Frazier, instead of doing it so fast, I’ll gladly look after it, because you might want to be doing other things, and I feel the filing should be done every day.” But Peter was too busy to answer, and so she sat down, holding the edge of her desk.
    “There,” he said, beaming. “All done.” His smile, his sunburst, was wasted, for the girl was staring round the room as if she feared she had not inspected everything the first day after all; some drawer, some cupboard, hid a monster. That evening Peter unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and took away the application form he had stolen from Personnel. The girl had not finished her search.
    “How could you not know?” wailed Sheilah. “You sit looking at her every day. You must talk about
something
. She must have told you.”
    “She did tell me,” said Peter, “and I’ve just told you.”
    It was this: Agnes Brusen was on the Burleighs’ guest list. How had the Burleighs met her? What did they see in