The Palace of Curiosities by Rosie Garland

Author:Rosie Garland [Garland, Rosie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Classics
ISBN: 9780007492770
Google: 55qdc1JOrhwC
Amazon: B009JWCORC
Goodreads: 14624517
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

ABEL

London, February–March 1858

Every morning, I wake up on a broad new bed, in a broad new room. It is below stairs like the place I was before, but lacks the comforting fume of men’s bodies, the rolling murmur of their voices at all hours, the warm security of Alfred’s friendship in which I wrapped myself so tightly it gave me a sense of who I am. Who I was.

Here, I have a clean mattress that rests upon a frame with four legs, and there is a washing-day when the sheets are taken away and returned at night smelling hot and empty. In the wall there is a window with glass in it that gives out on to a well at the rear of the building, and if I look up through it I can see a square of sky. Light comes through at strange hours and troubles me. There are no constant smells, no constant sounds, no constant shadows in which to lose myself.

There are only two other men besides myself: a boy named Bill who whimpers in his sleep, a thin sound which peels the air raw; and George, who does not shake me awake in the mornings, nor suggest we breakfast together, nor visit public houses. I lie on my bed all day, staring at the lines of brick outside the window until someone yells down the stairs that there is food, or beer, or it is time to show myself to visitors. After I have eaten, drunk or displayed myself, I lie down once more. So the days pass.

I lie in the emptiness of this room, through the emptiness of the days. Eating takes up very little time before my belly is satisfied, and I find myself with a surfeit of hours lacking activity to fill up the time. When I mention this to George he calls me an idiot and tells me I had better keep such dangerous thoughts to myself.

‘I for one can find a wealth of things to divert me,’ he says.

I ask him what he finds to do when he is not showing his tattoos, and he laughs in a way that does not invite me to join him.

So I lie and read my document, there being nothing else to do. The paper is soft, the folds almost worn through. I am a slaughter-man. I was a slaughter-man. I had a job of work before I came here: it occupied me. When I think of it, I feel contentment: the carcases, swinging on shining hooks, each drained flawlessly, split into faultless halves by my hand. My friend is Alfred, reads the next line. My heart turns over, for I have lost that security. I move on swiftly. Before I came to London, I was a clock-mender in Holland. The pleasurable feeling returns briefly, but no-one brings watches any more.

I shake myself out of such self-pitying meanderings and chide myself sternly. Such lolling about will profit me nothing. If there is nothing with which to fill the hours, why then, I must create useful diversions.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.