“I’m here to see Pearce,” he said.

“He’s not well.”

“Oh dear,” said Israel. “Shall I call back at a more convenient time?”

“There’ll be no more convenient time,” said Joan, and she turned her back on Israel and made off through the house.

Israel closed the big oak door behind him and hurried to catch up with her. The house, always huge, always echoing, but usually somehow full and present with energy, some how felt today as though it had been drained of life, like an abandoned theater, as though the theatrical impresario had already left, packing up in a hurry and moving on to his new home. It felt like Kane’s Xanadu: a vast, complex, empty puzzle.

Usually on his Sunday visits Israel would sit in the drawing room with Pearce, who would insist on plying Israel with wine-“Into the old sluicery,” he would say, and into the old sluicery it would be, and “Don’t be such a silly prawn,” he would say, when Israel refused another glass, or “Tosh!” he would say to anything he disagreed with, which was most things-and he taught Israel how to open bottles of champagne with nutcrackers, and how to decant, and the difference between a good Lafite and a fine Latour and an acceptable Margaux. Pearce’s hand did not stint, nor in old age had his appetites wearied: just a couple of months ago, during one of their Sunday afternoon sessions, they’d polished off between them a nice half bottle of Sancerre, and a pinot noir from the Salgesch, and a pinot noir from Yvorne, all the while discussing the meaning of life, and art, and the pros and cons of the Futurist Manifesto, and the war in Iraq.

Over time, the arrangement had become more formalized, and Israel would arrive and read from one of Pearce’s favorite books-Madame Bovary (“Incomparable!” Pearce would exclaim. “Sans pareil!”) or some George Eliot (“The best-looking English novelist”) or Dickens (“The great farceur!”)-and then they would drink and eat Madeira cake. They had become their own miniature literary salon, a twenty-nine-year-old-soon-to-be-thirty-year-old mobile librarian, and an eighty-two-year-old Anglo-Irish aesthete. Israel had found it a most curious and refreshing experience, reading out loud to Pearce, the complete opposite of reading out loud to the children at Tumdrum Primary, where the real challenge was keeping order and hanging on to his dignity. Reading to the elderly Pearce was for Israel like becoming a child again, being able to become absorbed and enfolded in a book. Israel found that, as he read, his mind would often wander in a kind of dreaming concentration, and he’d find himself somehow with Madame Bovary, romanticizing, or with Magwitch swimming with his heavy chains, or Maggie Tulliver cerebrating. It had something to do with the rhythm of the language: he would find himself breathing with the books.

“The sound of an English voice,” Pearce would say when Israel read, and “Controversy,” he would say when Israel said “con-troversy.” “You’re not American, are you?” And “Canine,” he would say. “People do insist on calling it ‘cay-nine.’” It reminded Israel of being a child, when his father had told him stories-fairy tales and Irish legends, the story of Finn McCool, which is why he’d arrived in Ireland in the first place, he was sure, because of the fantasy of Irishness, and now he was living its reality. Pearce Pyper’s was an oasis.

Sometimes when Israel was reading, Pearce would fall into a deep sleep and Israel would let the housekeeper know, and he’d creep out of the house and walk down the lane back to the Devines’ with a curious sense of peace and terrible sadness, the very feeling he’d associated with reading as a child, a sense of great possibilities and endless disappointments. Pearce had tried to insist on paying Israel for his time and trouble, but Israel had steadfastly refused. Reading out loud to Pearce was not a job; it was a joy. And then Pearce had hit upon the idea of paying him in kind.

“What sort of a palate do you have?” he’d asked Israel one Sunday afternoon, after they’d drunk their sherry and eaten their slice of cake.

“Erm.”

“I’ve a Spanish palate myself, I’m afraid.”

“Right,” said Israel.

“I find the Italian reds and French very high in tannins.”

“Ah. Yes. Uh-huh.”

“So I have my supplier in London-Moreno, do you know them?”

“Erm. No.”

“Excellent. Been with them for years. I find you have to spend so much to get a good drinking claret these days.”

“Right.”

“Anyway. I have them send me mostly New World and Spanish. Which I hope you’ll be able to enjoy.”

“Sorry?”

“I doubt you’ll need more than a case a month, will you?”

“A case of wine?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging it to be delivered to you at the Devines’. I do hope it’s convenient.”

“A case of wine?”

“Riojas, mostly. But some New World. As a small token of my-”

“Oh, no, Pearce, I couldn’t possibly…”

“You could, definitely,” said Pearce. “And you shall. No arguments, thank you!”

“No. I couldn’t, really.”

“Next chapter, please,” said Pearce, with a flourish of his arm from the chaise longue. “Where were we?”

“Charles is about to perform the operation on the club-footed man.”

“Ah!” said Pearce. “Quel dommage! Read on! Read on!”

They were special times together.

But things had changed.

Pearce wasn’t in the drawing room today, and there was no wine and no craic. He was in the library, which was decorated in the Edwardian style, by Edwardians, with a stenciled frieze running around the tops of the shelves, and large, threadbare Persian rugs on the dark stained floorboards, heavy furniture highly polished, and windows draped with thick red velvet curtains. He lay stretched out on an old leather chaise longue by his writing desk, eyes closed, his hands folded on his lap, a black shawl draped around his shoulders. Even from a distance you could see that he wasn’t well, that something had gone wrong: his skin looked tight and luminous and pale, like a veil drawn across his face. He looked like a very sick and very weak Whistler’s mother; he had that peculiar childlike, otherworldly grace about him that only the very old acquire, as though life were just one long, wasting, harrowing journey back toward home. His eyes had sunk far into his face, but his hair had been cut short and neat, as though ready for an important occasion: a birthday, perhaps, or an anniversary.

“He’s wandering,” whispered Joan as she ushered Israel into the library. “You have to be patient. And don’t let him give you anything,” she warned. “He’s giving people things at the moment.”

“I see.”

“If he gives you anything, just leave it behind when you go.”

“Has he seen a doctor?”

“Doctor’s been.”

“And?”

“Exhaustion. Flu. On top of everything else,” she said disapprovingly, adding, “He’s going to go into a home.”

“No?” said Israel. “You’re not serious? You can’t make him leave here and-”

“Yes,” said Joan. “We can.”

“But…What about his family?”

“There is no family.”

“But to take Pearce from here would be…He’ll…And what if he gets better?”

“He’s not going to be getting any better now.”

“Why? What do you mean? Isn’t he just-”

“This is it now,” said Joan forcefully.

“No. He’s fine,” protested Israel. “He’s just-”

“He has vascular dementia,” said Joan.

“Oh. Well.” Israel didn’t know what to say. “I knew he wasn’t…What is that?”

“It’s like Alzheimer’s.”

“Is it curable?”

“No.”

Israel and Joan stood facing each other at the door leading into the library.

“Anyway, you’ll see for yourself,” said Joan.

“Well, what about…” Israel was struggling to take it all in. “Is there no one else who could help look after him here?”

“Are you volunteering?”

“Erm.” Israel looked down at the floor. “Well. I’d like to be able to-”