The Chemistry of Tears by Carey Peter

Author:Carey, Peter [Carey, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780307958396
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2012-05-14T20:00:00+00:00

THERE WOULD BE NO discussion of blue cubes metaphorical, spiritual or physical. Indeed there would be little talk at all. I went to work with a pencil and paper, attempting to picture how the parts of the fish mechanism—the tracks on which the fish sat, mounts, levers, cam and rollers—might all work successfully together.

It took me almost two days to realize it was the swan’s neck which must directly control the motion of the fish. This connection, as I had previously understood and then discounted, was achieved by a series of small levers. I had assumed that the fish would swim either clockwise or anticlockwise and I wasted a lot of mental effort deciding which of these it was. But of course the strange Herr Sumper had not been interested in anything this simple, which was why seven of the rollers were double-action rollers. The fish had been designed to swim in two directions. That is, there were two “teams”: four fish would swim clockwise, three anticlockwise. They would, as Amanda Snyde put it, when I finally allowed her an opportunity to speak, give the appearance of “sporting about.” So ingenious was this mechanism that when the automaton’s neck turned and the head lowered (when the “swan” appeared to dart at them) the fish would hastily retreat. When she grasped this, my assistant jumped in the air and I dared to like her once again.

Then we had our usual visitor and my assistant took her micrometer away into a corner. Crofty had never quite got the hang of the Blenheim Bouquet Aftershave which was now gleaming from a recent application. This aftershave cost “twenty-five quid a pop”—it always gave him a rather sharp-toothed sort of glee to tell me this, but this morning he was odd and querulous. I expected this bad mood would evaporate the moment he understood my sketch.

“What’s this?” he demanded, referring to the bruise on my forearm.

“What an extraordinary question,” I said. “What sort of man asks a woman about her bruises?”

“Are you all right?” he insisted, all lemony, right in my face.

I did not like what “all right” was code for.

“I slipped in the shower, is that sufficient information?”

“How did you slip?”

“I slipped … in … the … shower … Eric.” Amanda seemed to be staring at her Frankenpod. Her pretty neck was pale and still.

I had no exact idea how I got my bruise, except I had been completely trolleyed. When I woke next morning I found my shower curtain all pulled down. I had only the vaguest memory of the fall, but it appeared that I had also emptied a vodka bottle and placed three wind-up clocks inside the fridge.

“You should get one of those rubber mats.”

“Quite,” I said.

He was still not paying attention to my drawing.

“Don’t you want to see what we’ve worked out?” I said. “It’s rather splendid.”

“Of course. I’ll drop in later in the afternoon. I’m just on my way to the dentist.” At this Amanda Snyde looked sharply up and Eric said, “Good morning.

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