TheBookofLostandFound - (EPUB全文下载)

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The Book of Lost & Found
LUCY FOLEY
Dedication
To my grandmothers
CONTENTS
Dedication
The Portrait
Part One: The Work of a Master
1
2
3
4
5
Part Two: The Logic of a Fairy Tale
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Part Three: A Girl with a Secret
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
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60
61
62
Postscript, 2015
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Advance Praise for The Book of Lost and Found
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Portrait
She hangs in the National Portrait Gallery now. Her smile has not faltered through the years, and her hair still falls just above her jaw, as sleek as cat’s fur. She sits awkwardly: the pose of a moment held for eternity. Her eyes squint slightly, shielded from an invisible sun by her hand.
Who is she? The drawing bears no clue, nor the little square of text beside it.
A friend of the artist’s, circa 1929, pen and ink.
Friend is a difficult word – it can conceal so much. Who was she, really, to the young man who sat down and sketched her one afternoon, with the spoils of their picnic beside them? Even this most gifted of artists is restricted by his medium to work only in the realm of the visible. Some things must be lost to time.
PART ONE The Work ofa Master
1
Hertfordshire, August 1928
Already the gardens are thrumming with life. The air is scented with expectation; people are here to do reckless things, stupid things that they might later regret, though the point of it all is in not regretting. For the idea of the party is youth. Not all of the guests are young, but that does not matter – youth can easily be faked with the right attitude. It is this attitude that counts. It is there in the pale knees that flash beneath hemlines, the clink and spill of champagne, the jungle beat of the drums. Most of all it is in the dancing – fast, too fast to identify each of the individual movements, so that all one can make out is a sort of hysterical blur, seething, sweat-sheened.
Tom is not a dancer. Or, at least, not until he has had three or more glasses of champagne, the first of which he is drinking thirstily. The spindly stem and the wide saucer with its fragile glass lip were not designed for hasty gulping, and he manages to pour a good deal of it down the front of his shirt, where the material now sticks translucently to his skin.
Tom is somewhat out of his depth. He has never been to this kind of event before. It is the sort one reads about in ............

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