Page 89 - A Little Life: A Novel

He smiled back. “No,” he said, “the salary’s fine.” (It was. It wouldn’t
have been to Mr. Irvine, of course, nor to Malcolm, but it was more money
than he had ever dreamed he would have, and every two weeks it arrived, a

relentless accumulation of numbers.) “I’m just saving up for a down
payment.” He saw Malcolm’s face swivel toward him, and he reminded
himself to tell Willem the particular lie he had told Malcolm’s father before
Malcolm told Willem himself.
“Oh, well, good for you,” said Mr. Irvine. This was a goal he could
understand. “And as it happens, I know just the person.”
That person was Howard Baker, who had hired him after interviewing

him for fifteen distracted minutes to tutor his son in Latin, math, German,
and piano. (He wondered why Mr. Baker wasn’t hiring professionals for
each subject—he could have afforded it—but didn’t ask.) He felt sorry for
Felix, who was small and unappealing, and who had a habit of scratching
the inside of one narrow nostril, his index finger tunneling upward until he
remembered himself and quickly retracted it, rubbing it on the side of his

jeans. Eight months later, it was still unclear to him just how capable Felix
was. He wasn’t stupid, but he suffered from a lack of passion, as if, at
twelve, he had already become resigned to the fact that life would be a
disappointment, and he a disappointment to the people in it. He was always
waiting, on time and with his assignments completed, every Saturday at one
p.m., and he obediently answered every question—his answers always
ending in an anxious, querying upper register, as if every one, even the

simplest (“Salve, Felix, quid agis?” “Um … bene?”), were a desperate
guess—but he never had any questions of his own, and when he asked Felix
if there was any subject in particular he might want to try discussing in
either language, Felix would shrug and mumble, his finger drifting toward
his nose. He always had the impression, when waving goodbye to Felix at
the end of the afternoon—Felix listlessly raising his own hand before

slouching back into the recesses of the entryway—that he never left the
house, never went out, never had friends over. Poor Felix: his very name
was a taunt.
The previous month, Mr. Baker had asked to speak to him after their
lessons were over, and he had said goodbye to Felix and followed the maid
into the study. His limp had been very pronounced that day, and he had been
self-conscious, feeling—as he often did—as if he were playing the role of

an impoverished governess in a Dickensian drama.