The Black Orchard and Other Stories by McIntyre Harry

Author:McIntyre, Harry [McIntyre, Harry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

Trace

R oy Buchman sat bolt upright with his legs crossed at the ankle. A brass ashtray stand stood on the floor just at the full reach of his arm. Each time he went to knock the ash from his cigarette he uncrossed his feet and sat forward with them placed flat on the thick, pea green carpet. Each time he sat back he hitched his pants at the knees and crossed his ankles once more. The crease in his grey trousers was as sharp as any line on the wood panelling, he observed, and pulled at his cigarette with satisfaction.

At the desk in front of him was Donovan’s secretary. She wore a sleeveless, green dress dotted with a pink flower pattern. Her auburn bob was as smooth as a mushroom cap. Her eyes were down on the typewriter before her. Roy watched them flick back and forth like tiny birds flitting between telephone wires. He gauged how quickly they moved and found it agreeably human. The intercom on the desk buzzed and she flicked the receiver on, barely skipping a beat at the typewriter keys.

“Valery, Mr. Buchman is waiting I assume?” said the voice from the intercom.

“Yes, Mr. Donovan.” She said it without looking up.

“Send him in,” said the voice.

Roy smiled at Valery who continued to rattle out words on the typewriter without looking back at him. He cleared his throat gently and was afforded a little more time to wait as his reward. The sound of typing slowed down like a train chugging into a station. As the return key was stuck and the typewriter chimed, Valery’s face broadened into a sweet smile. She looked up and aimed it at Roy.

“Mr. Donovan will see you now, Mr. Buchman,” she said.

Buchman was getting to his feet as her arm appeared from behind the grand, engine-like typewriter to gesture towards the door. His eyes followed the line of slender, pink flesh to where it abruptly junctioned into a burnished copper claw. He froze, half risen. The hand turned slowly upward from the pivot at the wrist. The tiny bronze pistons and silver levers shone in the light of the office. Roy stood up fully and smiled back at Valery as her other hand reached, very slowly, from behind the desk and came to rest on its edge. The metallic fingers, like the links in a bicycle chain, drummed lightly on the wood.

Facing the door, his hand on the knob, he heard the typing strike up again. The speed at which the keys rattled sent a little chill down between his shoulder blades. It sounded like a Tommy gun.

“Roy, good to see you! Have a seat.”

“Mr. Donovan.”

“How many times? Mr. Donovan was my old man, call me Art.”

“Sorry, Art.”

“Ah, have a seat.” A segmented metal pipe of an arm, ending in a steel pincer, motioned Buchman to sit down.

The couch facing Donovan was ice cold calfskin leather. Buchman perused the framed drawings that adorned almost every inch of the wood panelled walls. All Art’s work, or so he would say.

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