Free A Closed Book by Gilbert Adair

that. What about the ties?’
    â€˜Quite an array of them here.’
    â€˜Yes, all right. But is the Cerruti among them?’
    â€˜Sorry. Describe it to me again.’
    â€˜Velvet. With a motif of coloured squares. And the label’s Cerruti. Or Cerruti 1880. Or 1885. Something like that, I forget. That’s C, e, r, r, u, t, i.’
    â€˜I’ll go through them one by one, shall I? No. No. No. No. No. No. Oh, here’s a Cerruti! No, this one has a spiral design. Nice tie, though.’
    â€˜Really, John, I wish you’d keep your mind on the job.’
    â€˜I am keeping my mind on the job.’
    â€˜No, you aren’t. And I understand. But what
you
must understand is that the tie itself isn’t ultimately what matters. Since the accident – I mean, since I began to get my act together, as they say – I’ve learned to manoeuvre myself through the labyrinth of the world – because, you know, for me the world
is
a labyrinth – without either of my eyes. But if for anyreason that world is tampered with, I simply cannot function. I simply can’t. So, for example, Old Ma Kilbride knows that whenever she does the cleaning she’s got to put every chair, every lamp, every bloody toothpick, back precisely where she found it. Not a centimetre to the left or right. Otherwise, you see, I really
am
blind.’
    â€˜Well, Paul, I’m sorry to say that, while you’ve been talking, I’ve examined all the ties in the wardrobe and the only Cerruti is the one I mentioned already. I’m sorry.’
    â€˜Why, that’s – that’s really most extraordinary. I don’t know what to believe.’
    â€˜Could Mrs Kilbride have taken it to the laundry without telling you?’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve just told you. She won’t touch anything, anything at all, without first getting my permission.’
    â€˜Well then, could it have been stolen?’
    â€˜Stolen? A Cerruti tie? Preposterous. Who would have stolen it? No one ever comes here except Mrs Kilbride and – you’ve yet to meet him, I know – but the mind fairly boggles at the notion of Joe Kilbride mucking out his byre in a Cerruti tie. Of course it hasn’t been stolen. Not on the wardrobe floor, is it?’
    â€˜I’ve already looked.’
    â€˜Or else slipped behind – behind I don’t know what?’
    â€˜Nope.’
    â€˜Extraordinary, really extraordinary. Really rather unsettling. I feel as though I’ve tried to cash one of God’s cheques and it’s bounced.’
    *
    â€˜Oh, and John, don’t bother jotting that one down. I’ve used it before. I’ve used it many times before.’

 
     
    Where is that tie?
    Where is that tie? Where is it? It’s absurd to be unnerved by something so insignificant, but if just one brick is removed I have the impression the whole edifice is about to collapse on top of me. I simply can’t bear not knowing things. It forces me to realize that, for all my boasting and bragging, I was not observant at all. It forces me to realize how little I ever did look about me, how heartrendingly little of the world I ever truly saw. I didn’t have to look at things, I didn’t have to see them, they were there. Now nothing at all is there unless and until I know it’s there, and this one trivial enigma makes me wonder how much I think is there that no longer is. Oh God.

 
    Â 
    â€˜Here you are, Paul’
    â€˜Here you are, Paul.’
    â€˜Neat?’
    â€˜Naturally.’
    â€˜Chin chin.’
    â€˜Chin chin.’
    â€˜You know, John.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Having you here is just about the best thing that could have happened to me.’
    â€˜Nice of you to say so.’
    â€˜I mean it. Even aside from the work.’
    â€˜Well, thank you. I appreciate that.’
    â€˜And you? Do you enjoy being here? Please be honest.’
    â€˜Yes, I