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Chapter 426
The Last MorningHe woke before the alarm.January second. The first ordinary day of the new year, the particular quality of the morning after the holiday has released its hold and the week is simply a week again. The Christmas and the New Year’s Eve and the particular suspended quality of the days between them were done. The week was the week. The Tuesday was the Tuesday. The alarm would be at seven.He lay in the pre-alarm dark for thirty seconds.Then he reached across and silenced the alarm before it sounded. The same gesture as the book’s first sentence. The same dark. Sophia not stirring beside him, her sleeping recognising that the alarm was his and not hers, the trained discrimination of the physician who knew which sounds belonged to her and which did not.He dressed in the dark and went downstairs.The kitchen in January had a different quality from the kitchen in October. Colder at the window, the January cold having settled into the room in the way the established cold set
Chapter 425
They spent New Year’s Eve at home.James started cooking at three in the afternoon, the dinner he made once a year, the one that required the time. Not the efficient cooking of the weekday kitchen but the cooking as a form of care, the afternoon given to the preparation in the way that the preparation of the important meal required the afternoon rather than the hour. He moved through the kitchen with the particular attention of the cook who is making something that matters, the attention that was different from efficiency.Sophia set the table in the dining room.The good dishes, the ones that lived in the cabinet used for the occasions that required marking without the formal weight of the ceremony. The candles. The particular arrangement of the table that said this is the dinner we are eating tonight rather than the dinner we eat every night, the small deliberate making of an occasion without requiring the occasion to be large.They ate.The dinner was good. The wine was the wine Ja
Chapter 424
They woke at eight.Not from an alarm. The particular waking of the day that had no requirement attached to it, the body finding its own pace without the alarm’s confirmation, the particular quality of the Christmas morning that was different from every other morning of the year not in its physical properties but in its absolute freedom from the obligation to be anywhere or to do anything at any particular time.James made breakfast.He made it in the way he made breakfast when the morning had time for the making, the full breakfast rather than the weekday breakfast which was the efficient breakfast, the meal assembled and eaten in the time available before the office. The Christmas breakfast was the other kind, the eggs and the toast and the particular attention given to the making of something that would be eaten slowly rather than quickly, the cooking as a form of care rather than a form of efficiency.Sophia read at the kitchen table while he cooked.She had come downstairs with t
Chapter 423
He arrived at the office at eight-thirty on the twenty-third.The building was in the particular quality of the last office day before the holiday, the quiet that was not the ordinary weekday quiet but the holiday-approach quiet, the specific register of a workplace that has committed to the closure and is now in the final hours before it. Half the offices were already dark, the people who had taken their leave a day or two early, the remainder doing the particular work of the last day.He sat at his desk and began.The particular ritual of the last office day before Christmas was its own kind of work, different from the ordinary case work. It was the work of the suspension, the cases brought to a state that would hold across the two weeks of the break, the emails answered and the outstanding matters documented and the desk cleared of the accumulated material of the year in the specific way that the desk needed to be cleared for the new year to begin with the full professional attenti
Chapter 422
She told him on a Wednesday evening in the second week of December.They were in the sitting room after dinner, the usual configuration, she in the reading chair with the notebook and he in the chair across from her with the novel, the December evening doing its ordinary work outside the curtained window. He had been reading for forty minutes and she had been writing for the same duration and the room had the comfortable silence of the two separate works proceeding in the same space without requiring anything of each other.She set the pen down.He looked up.She did not open the notebook or look at the current page. She looked at him with the quality of someone who has been inside the writing and has come out the other side of it and has something to say that is not the reading of what she has written but the accounting of it, the shape of the thing described without the thing itself being shown.“I want to tell you what the new section is about,” she said.He set the novel down.“No
Chapter 421
December arrived the way December arrived.Not suddenly. Not as the dramatic transition from one month to the next, the calendar page turned and the character of the days changed overnight. It arrived with the accumulated evidence of the season, the cold that had been building since November now settled into its proper form, the particular cold of December that was different from November’s cold not in temperature but in its quality of commitment, the cold that had stopped arriving and had simply arrived, the season in its established register.The Christmas preparations began in the city.The particular transformation of the shops and the streets, the decorations that appeared in the windows and on the lamp posts and in the particular way the city organised itself around the approach of the holiday, the Christmas music in the shops and the particular smell of the season in the cold air outside and the quality of the crowds on the Saturday streets, the shopping crowds with the specifi
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