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ch difference to。 except that at the back there was a large new extension； almost as large as the house itself； and taken up entirely with a kitchen。
‘my sanctuary；“ he said as he showed me in。
a massive stainless…steel oven； white walls； two vast fridges—it was a real kitchen for a real cook。
aurelius pulled out a chair for me and i sat at a small table by a bookcase。 the shelves were filled with cookbooks； in french； english； italian。 one book； unlike the others； was out on the table。 it was a thick notebook； corners blunt with age； and covered in brown paper that had gone transparent after decades of being handled with buttery fingers。 someone had written recipies on the front； in old…fashioned； school…formed capitals。 some years later the writer had crossed out the second i； using a different pen。
‘may i？“ i asked。
‘of course。“
i opened the book and began to leaf through it。 victoria sponge； date and walnut loaf； scones； ginger cake； maids of honor； bakewell tart； rich fruit cake… the spelling and the handwriting improving as the pages turned。
aurelius turned a dial on the oven； then； moving lightly； assembled his ingredients。 after that everything was within reach； and he stretched out an arm for a sieve or a knife without looking。 he moved in his kitchen the way drivers change gear in their cars： an arm reaching out smoothly； independently； knowing exactly what to do； while his eyes never left the fixed spot in front of him： the bowl in which he was bining his ingredients。 he sieved flour； chopped butter into dice； zested an orange。 it was as natural as breathing。
‘you see that cupboard？“ he said ”there to your left？ would you open it？“
thinking he wanted a piece of equipment； i opened the cupboard door。
‘you’ll find a bag hanging on a peg inside。“
it was a kind of satchel。 old and curiously designed； its sides were not stitched but just tucked in。 it fastened with a buckle； and a long； broad leather strap； attached with a rusty clasp at each side； allowed you presumably to wear it diagonally across your body。 the leather was dry and cracked； and the canvas that might once have been khaki was now just the color of age。
‘what is it？“ i asked。
for a second he raised his eyes from the bowl to me。
‘it’s the bag i was found in。“
he turned back to bining his ingredients。
the bag he was found in？ my eyes moved slowly from the satchel to aurelius。 even bent over his kneading he was over six feet tall。 i had thought him a storybook giant when i first set eyes on him； i remembered。 today the strap wouldn’t even go around his girth； yet sixty years ago he had been small enough to fit inside。 dizzy at the thought of what time can do； i sat down again。 who was it that had placed a baby in this satchel so long ago？ folded its canvas around him； fastened the buckle against the weather and placed the strap over her body to carry him； through the night； to mrs。 love’s？ i ran my fingers over the places she had touched。 canvas； buckle； strap。 seeking some trace of her。 a clue； in braille or invisible ink or code； that my touch might reveal if only it knew how。 it did not know how。
‘it’s exasperating； isn’t it？“ aurelius said。
i heard him slide something into the oven and close the door； then i felt him behind me； looking over my shoulder。
‘you open it—i’ve got flour on my hands。“
i undid the buckle and opened the pleats of canvas。 they unfolded into a flat circle in the center of which lay a tangle of paper and rag。
‘my inheritance；“ he announced。
the things looked like a pile of discarded junk waiting to be swept into the bin； but he gazed at them with the intensity of a boy staring at a treasure trove。 “these things are my story；” he said。 “these things tell me who i am。 it’s just a matter of… of understanding them。” his bafflement was intent but resigned。 “i’ve tried all my life to piece them together。 i keep thinking； if only i could find the thread… it would all fall into place。 take that； for instance—”
it was a piece of cloth。 linen； once white； now yellow。 i disentangled it from the other objects and smoothed it out。 it was embroidered with a pattern of stars and flowers also in white； there were four dainty mother…of…pearl buttons； it was an infant’s dress or nightgown。 aurelius’s broad fingers hovered over the tiny garment； wanting to touch； not wanting to mark it with flour。 the narrow sleeves would just fit over a finger now。
‘it’s what i was wearing；“ aurelius explained。
‘it’s very old。“
‘as old as me； i suppose。“
‘older than that； even。“
‘do you think so？“
‘look at the stitching here—and here。 it’s been mended more than nee。 and this button doesn’t match。 other babies wore this before you。“
his eyes flitted from the scrap of linen to me and back to the cloth； hungry for knowledge。
‘and there’s this。“ he pointed at a page of print。 it was torn from a book and riddled with creases。 taking it in my hands i started to read。
‘… not at first aware what was his intention； but when i saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it； i instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm—“
aurelius took up the phrase and continued； reading not from the page but from memory： “… not soon enough however； the volume was flung； it hit me； and i fell； striking my head against the door and cutting it。”
of course i recognized it。 how could i not； for i had read it goodness knows how many times。 “jane eyre； ” i said wonderingly。
‘you recognized it？ yes； it is。 i asked a man in a library。 it’s by charlotte someone。 she had a lot of sisters； apparently。“
‘have you read it？“
‘started to。 it was about a little girl。 she’s lost her family； and so her aunt takes her in。 i thought i was on to something with that。 nasty woman； the aunt； not like mrs。 love at all。 this is one of her cousins throwing the book at her； on this page。 but later she goes to school； a terrible school； terrible food； but she does make a friend。“ he smiled； remembering his reading。 ”only then the friend died。“ his face fell。 ”and after that… i seemed to lose interest。 didn’t re