"David Garnett - Still Life" - читать интересную книгу автора (Garnett David)

happened.
"I haven't changed, Robert." Corinne said.
Robert stared at her, his brow creased, his eyes studying her face. He
opened his mouth slightly, as if to speak, then closed it again. He shook his
head once. Looking down at where his hand clutched her bare arm, he
squeezed his fingers against her flesh for a moment before letting go.
"No," he said slowly, as his eyes widened, "you haven't, have you? I'm
the one who's changed." He stood up abruptly, his chair toppling to the
ground, and he turned his back on Corinne. "Tell me it isn't true."
"What?" Corinne glanced at him as he clenched his fists by his side. He
couldn't know, he couldn't possibly know. He was only guessing wildly.
"Tell me it isn't true!" He spun around, his eyes meeting hers.
Corinne blinked, then looked away.
"I see," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"What's the matter, Robert?"
"Come on! Don't play games. You can't pretend anymore."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Corinne. Then she looked
away, searching for the butterflies, but they had disappeared.
Robert went back into the house. He left an hour later, and she never
saw him again.



Lying on a towel, a huge parasol protecting her from the sun's glare,
Corinne stared out across the white sand toward the turquoise ocean.
"There's a letter for you," said Kurt, as he sat down next to her and set
the tray of iced bottles and chilled glasses on the low table.
Corinne raised her sunglasses and peered at the envelope as Kurt held it
toward her. It had been a long time since she'd received a letter. This one
had followed her around the world, judging by the number of changes to
the address.
"Open it," she said.
Kurt did so, and she took the single sheet of paper from him and
unfolded it. The letter was handwritten, and she glanced at the signature
first, not recognizing it. Juliet Merchant. Then she looked at the date.
"What's the date today?" she asked.
Kurt told her; the letter had been written three months ago. She began
reading.



Dear Corinne Dewar:
You probably do not remember me, but we met many years ago when
you came to visit my parents. My mother, Louisa, was Robert Coogan's
sister. I will never forget meeting you. In fact, it was probably because I
met you that I went to art college. I studied fine art, but was not good
enough to become a full-time painter. I did, however, meet my future
husband at college, and we now have three children and four
grandchildren.
The reason I am writing is to give you the sad news that Robert died