March’s End by Daniel Polansky

Author:Daniel Polansky
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781915202505
Publisher: Angry Robot
Published: 2023-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-FOUR

“P is for the prosopon,” Julian said, “who wear their truth for all to see.”

Evie ran her fingers over the stiff paper of the book, along a group of masked figures, each visage its own perfect articulation of some essential passion, the characters smiling, frowning, snarling in fury, gasping in fear. “If they’re so honest, why don’t they show their faces?”

“Their masks are their faces,” Julian explained, though he didn’t really understand either.

“Everyone wears a mask,” John explained, “but at least with the prosopon, you know that the mask is the truth.”

They were on the front patio, the children in their usual spot on the porch swing, John leaning against the railing and drinking a cup of black coffee.

“How do you know so much about the prosopon, Uncle John?” asked Julian.

“That was my book, back when I was your age. Or our book. Actually, your mother never really let me touch it, and by the time it was my turn I’d already memorized the thing, so in practice it was mostly their book. But the point remains.”

Julian was a good-natured child who liked to smile and was slow to anger and had cheerily accepted his long-lost-Uncle’s return. Evie, though some three years his junior, was a tougher sell. “What’s C for, then?” she asked.

“Cthulhu.”

Julian giggled. “That’s not right!”

“Are you sure? Double check.”

But Julian set aside the book, more interested in his uncle than he was in his homework. “What’s New York like?”

“It’s like living inside of a gigantic castle, with moats and bridges, where everyone looks different and talks different and eats different things. Also, it smells.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Especially in the summer.”

Julian thought hard on this. “I don’t think I could ever live in a place like that.”

“You’d get used to it,” John promised with a smile.

“What do you do?” Evie asked.

“I cook.”

“Mom cooks,” said Evie.

“Yeah,” said Julian, “but you never eat it.”

“Shut up!” said Evie.

“It’s true – you only eat pasta with butter on it and chicken nuggets, but I eat salmon and arugula and last week I even tried some of Mommy A’s pesto.”

“Your mother’s a pretty good cook,” interrupted John, “but I’m better.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Even better than your grandmother.”

“No one’s a better cook than Nanny,” corrected Julian with the sublime self-certainty of childhood, the boundaries of which are perfect and absolute and extend just beyond the walls of one’s house.

Sophia appeared out the front door just then to settle the matter in John’s favor. “Your Uncle John is the best cook in the family. He’s had special training. He attended a very prestigious cooking academy when he was only nineteen.”

“But I didn’t graduate.”

“So?”

“It doesn’t count if you don’t graduate.”

“No darling, it counts if you learn.”

“I might be the best cook,” John said, “but your grandmother still knows everything.”

Sophia was summoning a clever retort when her phone rang from her pocket. She took it out, saw who was calling, swallowed a frown, then went inside. John watched her retreat even as Julian turned to the next page of the book.

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