Free A Fool's Alphabet by Sebastian Faulks Page A

equally primitive emotion, one of fierce protectiveness towards this invisible fusion and its mother, something the least threat might have provoked to violence. Then his own fear of death began to wane.
    Pietro went out with Coleman in his boat. He was intrigued by him and his strange accent, which stumbled on easy consonants, as though he had some East European past. Everything else about him was overpoweringly British, in idiom and reference.
    He wondered what his best friend Harry Freeman would make of him. At the age of thirty-three Harry was already on his third successful career and had an enviable ability to sum people up on first meeting them. He and his wife Martha returned to the house in Evanston the following week. It belonged to some cousins of Martha’s who had taken a year out. Coleman invited them all over to his place for dinner. Pietro explained that Hannah would just have arrived from London, but Coleman insisted she should come too.
    Pietro went to pick her up from the airport. She was five months pregnant and had found the flight uncomfortable. She was also worried about Mary, whom she had left with a friend in London. However, it was the first time for a year that she and Pietro had been away together, and her spirits quickly lifted after she had telephoned London and been reassured that Mary was all right. ‘To be honest,’ she told Pietro, with a glint in her eye, ‘it’s not Mary I’mworried about. I feel sorry for Jane having to look after her.’
    They drove past the stately campus of Northwestern University and got to Coleman’s house at seven-thirty, as instructed. It was large and imposing, with two huge oak trees either side of the damp front lawn. They could see the wire cage of a tennis court behind one side of the substantial building.
    Harry and Martha were already being given drinks in the front room with its fat, pink-upholstered sofas. Two girls, aged about eight and ten, opened the door to Pietro and Hannah. Both wore dresses with sashes at the waist and black patent leather sandals.
    Coleman gave them large drinks and sat them down in front of a glass-topped table that held small bowls of nuts and pretzels. His wife had reddish-brown curly hair. She was tall and had a baffled air that was increased by some defect in her eye which made her focusing uncertain. Coleman called her Pet or Petal, so they weren’t sure if she had another Christian name.
    She sat Martha, Harry’s wife, next to her and talked to her about children. Martha had a leaping vitality of movement and speech which was reined in by East Coast manners. Occasionally she would throw her head to one side and smile at the whole room, as though the single conversation couldn’t contain her delight. Her legs were drawn up neatly beneath a beige wool dress as she sat sideways on the edge of the sofa.
    They went through sliding doors into a heavily carpeted dining room. Rows of cutlery flanked the place mats on the teak table. Coleman moved around with a bottle of wine while an unsmiling Spanish woman in a blue pinafore brought in a tray of food.
    â€˜Now I want to talk to you guys about a little proposition,’ said Coleman.
    â€˜Not now, Paul,’ said Mrs Coleman in a dull voice.
    â€˜Ah, come on, I’m just going to float a little idea. Just sothey can think about it. They can hammer out the details later.’ When he talked about business, Coleman’s stumbling consonants became smoother as his voice took on an American burr.
    Pietro looked at Hannah, who was sitting opposite him. She glanced sideways at the melon that was being served to her and gave a momentary and conspiratorial grimace. Hannah’s habitually stern expression could be altered by the smallest dilation of her eyes into a look of pity or flirtation or suppressed humour. She reached up to take the proffered serving spoons.
    â€˜. . . and with Pietro’s visual experience and know-how, with