By Javier Marías
At excessive desk in an Oxford collage, the beautiful younger teach Clare Bayes attracted all eyes, no longer least to her fetching decollettage. No one's eyes have been sharper, in spite of the fact that, than these of the traveling Spanish lecturer, invited as a visitor in this party, and at last the 2 youth have been enthusiasts, unbeknown to Clare's husband. And if the Spaniard used to be at pains to hide their tracks, his loved left facts of adultery with homosexual abandon - and all this in a college that was once a forcing condo of gossip and intrigue, a spot the place "at each be aware a name dies".
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At excessive desk in an Oxford university, the gorgeous younger show Clare Bayes attracted all eyes, no longer least to her fetching decollettage. No one's eyes have been sharper, notwithstanding, than these of the traveling Spanish lecturer, invited as a visitor in this celebration, and finally the 2 children have been fans, unbeknown to Clare's husband.
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Whenever I see Mr. Hardy’s buffalo, I feel the same way. Mostly too close, says Mrs. Hardy. They raise their drinks to each other. Bessie takes her ﬁrst sip then reaches into the bottom drawer next to the sink and pulls out cigarettes and matches. The buffalo reminds me, she says. I dreamt last night. My dream is so real I wake up. I feel that way about the buffalo. Too real. She lights both their cigarettes. I woke up too but not dreaming. Mrs. Hardy inspects the dishtowel over Bessie’s arm for holes.
Hardy. Want some olives? Remember the time you dreamt I should check the dry cleaners again for my coat? Mrs. Hardy smiles. And there it was. My dream didn’t say, Dig here in the ﬁeld, or anything. Bessie picks up a dishrag and rinses out her glass. Just—he is a god. Blasphemy. The mind releasing what it can’t say, says Mrs. Hardy, sucking on the last ice cube. Face down he was, in water, says Bessie. I’m afraid of water. I’m home, shouts Mr. Hardy from the front door. A chair creaks in the hall when he sits and leans over to pull off his boots.
He didn’t shout. It was unseemly to shout. Really, he couldn’t. He was out. 7. The horse bore a cross, man-size, and that is what he had been adjusting in its sling and falling behind about, that cross, and that is what anybody would have seen, borne above the horse’s head if he himself had been in the place of the last man before him and looked back, having heard the surprised horse 8. but the last man coughed 9. and his nearly empty saddlebag jingled with knife and ﬂint 27 28 10. and of course the wind howled across his ears 11.
All Souls by Javier Marías