The Secret History - Donna Tartt [64]
“He draws well,” I said.
“I think so, too. He certainly has no gift for scholarship. They should’ve apprenticed him to a painter when he was young instead of sending him to all those expensive schools for learning disabilities.”
“He sent me a very good cartoon of you and he standing by a statue of Caesar Augustus.”
Henry made a sharp, exasperated sound. “That was in the Vatican,” he said. “All day long he made loud remarks about Dagos and Catholics.”
“At least he doesn’t speak Italian.”
“He spoke it well enough to order the most expensive thing on the menu every time we went to a restaurant,” said Henry curtly, and I thought it wise to change the subject and did.
On the Saturday before school was to begin, I was lying on Henry’s bed reading a book. Henry had been gone since before I woke up. Suddenly I heard a loud banging at the front door. Thinking Henry had forgotten his key, I went to let him in.
It was Bunny. He was wearing sunglasses and—in contrast to the shapeless, tweedy rags he generally wore—a sharp and very new Italian suit. He had also gained about ten or twenty pounds. He seemed surprised to see me.
“Well, hello there, Richard,” he said, shaking my hand heartily. “Buenos días. Good to see ya. Didn’t see the car out front but just got into town and thought I’d stop by anyway. Where’s the man of the house?”
“He’s not home.”
“Then what are you doing? Breaking and entering?”
“I’ve been staying here for a while. I got your postcard.”
“Staying here?’ he said, looking at me in a peculiar way. “Why?”
I was surprised he didn’t know. “I was sick,” I said, and I explained a little of what had happened.
“Hmnpf,” said Bunny.
“Do you want some coffee?”
We walked through the bedroom to get to the kitchen. “Looks like you’ve made quite a little home for yourself,” he said brusquely, looking at my belongings on the night table and my suitcases on the floor. “American coffee all you have?”
“What do you mean? Folger’s?”
“No espresso, I mean?”
“Oh. No. Sorry.”
“I’m an espresso man myself,” he said expansively. “Drank it all the time over in Italy. They have all kind of little places where you sit around and do that, you know.”
“I’ve heard.”
He took off his sunglasses and sat down at the table. “You don’t have anything decent in there to eat, do you?” he said, peering into the refrigerator as I opened the door to take out the cream. “Haven’t had my lunch yet.”
I opened the door wider so he could see.
“That cheese’ll be all right,” he said.
I cut some bread and made him a cheese sandwich, as he showed no inclination of getting up and making anything himself. Then I poured the coffee and sat down. “Tell me about Rome,” I said.
“Gorgeous,” he said through his sandwich. “Eternal City. Lots of art. Churches every which way.”
“What’d you see?”
“Tons of things. Hard to remember all the names now, you know. Was speaking the lingo like a native by the time I left.”
“Say something.”
He obliged, pinching his thumb and forefinger together and shaking them in the air for emphasis, like a French chef on a TV commercial.
“Sounds good,” I said. “What does it mean?”
“It means ‘Waiter, bring me your local specialties,’ ” he said, going back to his sandwich.
I heard the slight sound of a key being turned in the lock and then I heard the door shut. Footsteps went quietly toward the other end of the apartment.
“Henry?” bellowed Bun. “That you?”
The footsteps stopped. Then they came very rapidly towards the kitchen. When he got to the door he stood in it and stared down at Bunny, with no expression on his face. “I thought that was you,” he said.
“Well, hello to you, too.” Bunny, his mouth full, reared back in his chair. “How’s the boy?”
“Fine,” said Henry. “And you?”
“I hear you’ve been taking in the sick,” said Bunny, winking at me. “Conscience been hurting you? Thought you’d better rack up a couple good deeds?”
Henry didn’t say anything, and I’m sure that at that moment he would have looked perfectly impassive to anyone who didn’t know