“What a curious idea,” said Alice, trying to imagine what one of his paintings must look like.
“Perhaps. But you have to admit, it beats a plate of fruit. What could possibly happen, apart from some mold? Yesterday, for example, I set up my easel in Trafalgar Square. It was difficult to find a vantage point where I wasn’t constantly being jostled, but I’ve got a knack for finding the right spot. There was a woman, panicked at being caught in a sudden rain shower, and who was probably trying to find shelter for her hair, which had just been done. She started across the street without looking, and the driver of a dray had to swerve to avoid her. It gave her a terrible fright, but she was fine. The kegs of beer on the back of the cart, however, rolled off into the street. A bus coming from the other direction hit one of them, and it exploded upon impact. It was a scene straight out of A Tale of Two Cities, complete with a couple of old vagrants ready to lie on the ground and lap up the damages! Of course, there was an altercation between the driver of the dray and the bus conductor, not to mention the passersby who got mixed up in it. And in spite of the fact the police were in attendance, a pickpocket still managed to steal what looked like a day’s earnings off the rubbernecks. Meanwhile, the woman whose distraction caused the whole disaster just crept away in shame.”
“And you painted all that?”
“No. For the time being I’ve just painted the intersection. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me. But I can still see the entire scene, that’s the important part.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever noticed so much . . .”
“I’ve always had a fascination with detail, for the little, almost invisible events that are always happening around us. Don’t turn now, but at the table behind you there’s an old woman. I want you to get up and take my seat as though it were normal.”
Alice traded seats with Daldry.
“Now,” he said, “look at her carefully and tell me what you see.”
“A woman of a certain age eating alone. She’s rather well dressed and she’s wearing a hat.”
“Be more observant. What else?”
“Nothing in particular. She’s wiping her mouth with the napkin. Why don’t you just tell me what I’m not seeing? She’s going to think I’m staring.”
“Well, she’s wearing make-up, isn’t she? Not much, but her cheeks are powdered, there’s a bit of kohl around her eyes, and she’s wearing lipstick.”
“Yes. Well, I think so anyway.”
“Look at her lips now. Are they still?”
“No, you’re right,” said Alice, surprised at Daldry’s powers. “They’re moving ever so slightly. Maybe it’s a tic? Old age?”
“Not in the least! That woman is a widow. She’s speaking to her dead husband. She’s not eating alone—she’s continuing to talk to him as though he were still sitting across from her. She’s made up her face because he’s still part of her life. Isn’t it incredibly touching? Imagine the kind of strength it takes to constantly reinvent the presence of a loved one. And she’s right to do so. Just because somebody is gone doesn’t mean they don’t exist anymore—with a little imagination, you’re never alone. When it’s time to pay, she’ll push her money over to the other side of the table because it was always her husband who paid. When she gets up to leave, you’ll see that she waits a few moments on the pavement before crossing because her husband was always the first to step out into the street. I’m sure that she talks to him every night before she goes to bed and every morning when she wakes up, no matter where he might be now.”
“And you saw all that in just a few minutes?”
Daldry smiled knowingly, and as he did so, an old drunk staggered into the café. He went over to the woman and made a sign that it was time to go. She paid her bill and followed her husband out of the door, no doubt to Wimbledon for the greyhound racing. Daldry, his back to the scene, saw nothing.
“You’re right,” said Alice. “She did exactly what you said she would. She pushed the money across the table, got up, and left. I saw her thank an invisible man for holding the door for her as she went out.”
Daldry beamed with satisfaction and continued to eat with relish. “Great stuff, isn’t it? The porridge, I mean.”
“Do you believe in fortune-tellers?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you believe that it’s possible to predict the future?”
“That’s a complicated question,” he said, signaling to the waitress for a second serving. “Imagine how boring that would be if the future was already written! What about our own free will? I think that fortune-tellers are just extremely intuitive people. But apart from the real charlatans, the sincere ones have a certain talent. Maybe they just manage to see what people are aspiring to, the things that they will try to do one day, sooner or later. Why not? Take my father, for example. He’s got perfect eyesight but sees nothing. My mother, on the other hand, has terrible vision, yet she sees things that my father would be incapable of noticing. She knew ever since I was a child that I would become a painter. But she also imagined that my paintings would be hanging in the greatest museums, and I haven’t sold a thing in five years, so what can I say? I’m a sorry excuse for an artist. But I’m just going on about myself without really answering your question. What makes you ask?”
“Something strange happened to me yesterday, the sort of thing I would never have paid any attention to before. Yet, ever since, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it—to the point that I’m beginning to feel obsessed.”
“That’s rather vague. Why don’t you tell me what happened yesterday, and I’ll tell you what I think?”
Alice leaned in and told Daldry about her day in Brighton and her encounter with the fortune-teller. Daldry listened without interrupting. Once she reached the end of the fortune-teller’s strange predictions, Daldry turned to ask the waitress for the bill. He suggested they go outside and get some fresh air.
As they walked back to the house, he asked with false consternation, “So, if I understand you correctly, you have to meet six other people before you’ll meet this important man?”
Alice corrected him. “‘The man who will matter most in my life.’”
“Nearly the same thing, I suppose. And you didn’t ask any questions about who that man might be or where he might be found?”
“No. She just told me that he had walked behind me while we were talking.”
“And she spoke of a journey?”
“Yes, I think so, but it’s all so absurd. I’m terribly silly for telling you such a ridiculous story.”
“A ridiculous story, as you call it, which seems to have kept you awake for a good part of the night.”
“Do I look that tired?”
“Your pacing made the floor creak.”
“I’m sorry if I bothered you.”
“Well, I can only think of one solution for us to get a normal night’s sleep. I’m afraid the ducks’ Christmas will have to wait until tomorrow.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Alice as they reached the house.
“Go upstairs and put on something warmer and I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes.”
“What an odd day,” Alice said to herself on her way up the stairs. Christmas Eve wasn’t at all panning out as she had imagined. First breakfast with her crabby neighbor, a man she could barely stand but who now didn’t seem so bad, and then her unexpected confidences . . . Why had she gone on for so long about something she herself found absurd and insignificant?
She opened her wardrobe and had a terrible time finding a jumper and a scarf that went together. She hesitated between a navy-blue cardigan that showed off her figure and a heavier wool coat.
She looked in the mirror, fixed her hair, and decided to forgo make-up. She was, after all, just going on this walk out of courtesy.
When she returned to the street in front of the house, Daldry was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had changed his mind. He was an odd man.