looked up to see his father standing in the doorway of the study. He scrambled to his feet and tucked Pendleton's thumb bone quickly in his shirt pocket, next to the lure he had meant to return. "Sorry!"
Dr. Ratkay allowed himself a faint smile. "No problem at all." He ambled over and tapped with one finger on Gray's massive Anatomy. "Heavy, isn't it? More than twelve hundred pages, and all the writing extremely small."
They stood side by side. His father hadn't had the grace to go bald yet, Dante noted with a twinge of envy, though since last Christmas his salt-and-pepper hair had become mostly salt. Looking down at the top of his father's head, Dante was struck by how Anton Ratkay had begun to shrink: his shoulders were curling and his chest was thinner. In the bulky brown sweater Aunt Sophie had knit for him he selemed oddly old and frail, as if bundled against a cold only he could feel.
Stooping over his desk, Dr. Ratkay coughed repeatedly—but into his hand, like a gentleman.
"You shouldn't smoke so much."
Father laughed, digging out his trusty briar and a pouch of Amphora. "Your mother says my face is turning into a tobacco leaf: all wrinkled and leathery. I try to tell her it's been pickled in aftershave, but she won't listen."
He tapped the Anatomy with the stem of his pipe. "'Life is short, the art long, opportunity fleeting, experience treacherous, judgment difficult.' Hippocrates said that. It's still true, every word."
He dropped into the Radetzky swivel chair before his desk. As a rule he preferred to live with the furniture he had inherited from his parents, but he was a pragmatist. A few years after the new contouring synthetics came out, his back had begun to give him problems. Mother convinced him to give the Radetzky a try. "Think of it as research into the effectiveness of a new therapy for back pain," she said crisply. "If it works, you can suggest it to your patients."
"And warn them off the damn things if it doesn't," he'd grumbled, but the argument had been good enough. (And as Mother tartly observed, it hadn't hurt that Radetzky himself was Hungarian on his father's side.)
Ruminatively Dr. Ratkay pulled a fingerful of shredded tobacco from the pouch of Amphora. "Things change in medicine, of course, but not the central thing." Dante raised his eyebrows. "People die," his father answered, with a small rueful smile.
Dante shelved the Book, feeling a stab of pain from his abdomen, like a bad stitch. "I guess they do."
Dr. Ratkay frowned at the pipe mug, puzzled. "Hum. I wonder what happened to—"
Hastily Dante pulled the lure from his shirt pocket. "I took it out yesterday, to fish. I was just going to put it back."
Dr. Ratkay's eyebrows rose. "Quite a catch you made with it, too. That ring." He tamped down his wad of tobacco and struck a match. Shredded leaves flamed, blackened, burned. He sucked pleasurably and exhaled a cloud of blue-gray smoke.
Dante couldn't help grinning. I should get him a Chinese lounging robe, he thought. He would make a perfect scholar-dragon, a gently steaming mandarin lazing amid his hoard of books. Behind the smoke those eyes, still as bright as blue sky in winter.
His father examined him. "You know," he began, releasing the pipe with a small pop and a puff of smoke, "you are the same age now I was when you were born."
They pondered this in silence for a moment, Dante standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, his father seated, with his legs crossed and two fingers over the black briarwood bowl of his pipe. "I guess I don't measure up," Dante said lightly. "No wife, no kid, no degree. Hardly a job."
"True," his father conceded with a smile, "but not what I was thinking."
"Enlighten me."
Dr. Ratkay drew on his pipe. He blew a long slow stream of smoke into the air. Where it crossed the sunlight falling through the narrow window, it shone.
"When you have a child," he said at last, "it brings a lot of grief." He held up a hand. "Not the child's
Dr. Ratkay allowed himself a faint smile. "No problem at all." He ambled over and tapped with one finger on Gray's massive Anatomy. "Heavy, isn't it? More than twelve hundred pages, and all the writing extremely small."
They stood side by side. His father hadn't had the grace to go bald yet, Dante noted with a twinge of envy, though since last Christmas his salt-and-pepper hair had become mostly salt. Looking down at the top of his father's head, Dante was struck by how Anton Ratkay had begun to shrink: his shoulders were curling and his chest was thinner. In the bulky brown sweater Aunt Sophie had knit for him he selemed oddly old and frail, as if bundled against a cold only he could feel.
Stooping over his desk, Dr. Ratkay coughed repeatedly—but into his hand, like a gentleman.
"You shouldn't smoke so much."
Father laughed, digging out his trusty briar and a pouch of Amphora. "Your mother says my face is turning into a tobacco leaf: all wrinkled and leathery. I try to tell her it's been pickled in aftershave, but she won't listen."
He tapped the Anatomy with the stem of his pipe. "'Life is short, the art long, opportunity fleeting, experience treacherous, judgment difficult.' Hippocrates said that. It's still true, every word."
He dropped into the Radetzky swivel chair before his desk. As a rule he preferred to live with the furniture he had inherited from his parents, but he was a pragmatist. A few years after the new contouring synthetics came out, his back had begun to give him problems. Mother convinced him to give the Radetzky a try. "Think of it as research into the effectiveness of a new therapy for back pain," she said crisply. "If it works, you can suggest it to your patients."
"And warn them off the damn things if it doesn't," he'd grumbled, but the argument had been good enough. (And as Mother tartly observed, it hadn't hurt that Radetzky himself was Hungarian on his father's side.)
Ruminatively Dr. Ratkay pulled a fingerful of shredded tobacco from the pouch of Amphora. "Things change in medicine, of course, but not the central thing." Dante raised his eyebrows. "People die," his father answered, with a small rueful smile.
Dante shelved the Book, feeling a stab of pain from his abdomen, like a bad stitch. "I guess they do."
Dr. Ratkay frowned at the pipe mug, puzzled. "Hum. I wonder what happened to—"
Hastily Dante pulled the lure from his shirt pocket. "I took it out yesterday, to fish. I was just going to put it back."
Dr. Ratkay's eyebrows rose. "Quite a catch you made with it, too. That ring." He tamped down his wad of tobacco and struck a match. Shredded leaves flamed, blackened, burned. He sucked pleasurably and exhaled a cloud of blue-gray smoke.
Dante couldn't help grinning. I should get him a Chinese lounging robe, he thought. He would make a perfect scholar-dragon, a gently steaming mandarin lazing amid his hoard of books. Behind the smoke those eyes, still as bright as blue sky in winter.
His father examined him. "You know," he began, releasing the pipe with a small pop and a puff of smoke, "you are the same age now I was when you were born."
They pondered this in silence for a moment, Dante standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, his father seated, with his legs crossed and two fingers over the black briarwood bowl of his pipe. "I guess I don't measure up," Dante said lightly. "No wife, no kid, no degree. Hardly a job."
"True," his father conceded with a smile, "but not what I was thinking."
"Enlighten me."
Dr. Ratkay drew on his pipe. He blew a long slow stream of smoke into the air. Where it crossed the sunlight falling through the narrow window, it shone.
"When you have a child," he said at last, "it brings a lot of grief." He held up a hand. "Not the child's
Similar Books
