Part 13 (2/2)

I was still standing just inside the door. My companion turned and pointed at me, and the enormous man boomed out, ”Come know me better, man,” and beckoned me to the table.

I was going to say that I needed to order first, but the old woman behind the counter-Mama Montoni?-had disappeared into the back. I went over to the table. ”How do you do?” I said. ”I'm Edwin Grey.””Delighted to meet you,” the enormous man said heartily. ”Sit down, sit down. My friend tells me you work together.”

”Yes.” I sat down. ”At Harridge's.”

”He tells me you are hiring additional staff in your department. Is that right?”

”Possibly,” I said, wondering how Sir Spencer Siddon would feel at being confronted with half the characters from A Christmas Carol. Would he think he was meant to be Scrooge? ”It would be only temporary, though. Just the three days till Christmas.”

”Till Christmas,” he said, and the old woman emerged from the back with a fistful of silverware and two plates of congealed-looking spaghetti.

”I'll have what they're having,” I said, ”and a paper cup of tea to take with me.”

The old woman, who was clearly related to Yet to Come, didn't answer or even acknowledge that I'd spoken to her, but she disappeared into the back again.

”I didn't know this cafe was here,” I said, so he wouldn't bring up the topic of job openings again.

”Excellent choice of books,” he said, pointing at my Christmas Carol, which was protruding from my coat pocket.

”I should imagine it's your favorite,” I said, laying it on the table, smiling.

He shook his s.h.a.ggy brown head. ”I prefer Mr. d.i.c.kens's Little Dorrit, so patient and cheerful in her imprisonment, and Trollope's Barchester Towers.”

”Do you read a good deal?” I asked. It's rare to find anyone who reads the older authors, let alone Trollope.

He nodded. ”I find it helps to pa.s.s the time,” he said. ”Especially at this time of year, 'When dark December glooms the day/ And takes our autumn joys away. When short and scant the sunbeam throws/ Upon the weary waste of snows/A cold and profitless regard . . .'

Marmion. Sir Walter Scott.”

”Fourth canto,” I said, and he beamed at me.

”You are a reader, too?” he said eagerly.

”I find books a great comfort,” I said, and he nodded.

”Tell me what you think of A Christmas Carol,” he said.

”I think it has lasted all these years because people want to believe it could happen,” I said.

”But you don't believe it?” he said. ”You don't believe a man might hear the truth and be changed by it?”

”I think Scrooge seems quite easily reformed,” I said, ”compared with the Scrooges I have known.”

Mama Montoni emerged from the back again, glaring, and slapped down a plate of lukewarm spaghetti and a crockery cup half full of tea.

”So you have read Marmion?” the Spirit of Christmas Present said. ”Tell me, what did you think of the tale of Sir David Linde-sey?” and we launched into an eager discussion that lasted far too long. I would be late getting back for the meeting with Scrooge's secretary.

I stood up, and my a.s.sistant did, too. ”We must be getting back,” I said, pulling on my coat. ”It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. ... ?”

He extended his huge hand. ”I am the Spirit of Christmas Present.”

I laughed. ”Then you're missing your third. Where's Christmas Past?”

”In America,” he said quite seriously, ”where he has been much corrupted by nostalgia and commercial interests.”

He saw me looking skeptically at his socks and sandals. ”You do not see us at our best,”

he said. ”I fear we have fallen on hard times.”

Apparently. ”I should think these would be good times, with any number of Scrooges you could reform.””And so there are,” he said, ”but they are praised and rewarded for their greed, and much admired. And”-he looked sternly at me-”they do not believe in spirits. They lay their visions to Freud and hormonal imbalance, and their therapists tell them they should feel no guilt, and advise them to focus further on themselves.”

”Yes, well,” I said, ”I must be getting back.” I pointed at my a.s.sistant, not knowing whether Present would expect me to address him as the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come. ”You can stay and talk to your friend if you wish,” and made my escape, glad that at least I hadn't suggested he come speak to Mr. Voskins about being taken on, and wondering what Mr.

Voskins would do when he found out he had hired a lunatic.

Mr. Voskins wasn't on the floor, and neither was the secretary. I looked at my watch, expecting it to be well past one, but it was only a quarter till. I rang up Margaret. The line was engaged.

My a.s.sistant was there when I got back, waiting on a customer, but there was still no sign of Mr. Voskins. He finally came up at two to tell us the secretary had phoned to change the schedule.

”Of the autographing?” I said anxiously. ”No, of the meeting with us. His secretary won't be here till half-past.”

I took advantage of the delay to try Margaret again. And got Gemma.

”Mummy's downstairs talking to the doorman about our being gone,” she told me.

”Do you know what she wanted to speak to me about?” I asked her.

”No . . . o,” she said, thinking, and added, with a child's irrelevance, ”I went to the dentist.

She'll be back up in a minute.”

”I'll talk to you in the meantime, then,” I said. ”What shall we have to eat for Christmas Eve?” ”Figs,” she said promptly. ”Figs?”

”Yes, and frosted cakes. Like the little princess and Ermengarde and Becky had at the feast. Well, actually, they didn't have it. Horrid Miss Minchin found out and took it all away from them. And red-currant wine. Only I suppose you won't let me have wine. But red-currant drink or red-currant juice. Red-currant something.” ”And figs,” I said distastefully.

”Yes, and a red shawl for a tablecloth. I want it just like in the book.”

”What book?” I said, teasing. ”A Little Princess.” ”Which one is that?”

”You know. The one where the little princess is rich and then she loses her father and Miss Minchin makes her live in the garret and be a servant and the Indian gentleman feels sorry for her and sends her things. You know. It's my favorite book.”

I do know, of course. It has been her favorite for two years now, displacing both Anne of Green Gables and Little Women in her affections. ”It's because we're just alike,” she'd told me when I asked her why she liked it so much.

”You both live in a garret,” I'd said.

”No. But we're both tall for our age, and we both have black hair.”

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