The Liar's Dictionary полностью

Halfway through the interview for the internship I noticed this shallow ceramic bowl had TITS written on it. David – then just Mr Swansby for the interview’s sake – followed my line of sight.

‘Short for Titivillus,’ he said. He came around the desk and began talking to the cat. ‘Isn’t it, Tits? Tits Tits Tits.’ He reached for Tits’s ears and gave them a scratch. My job-hungry brain kicked in and I recognised the cat had been transformed into a conduit for diplomacy so I put my hand onto a tuft above its cat-shoulder. As Mr Swansby worked his thumb around to Tits’s jaw, finding the sweet spots there that make cats smile, I focused on its withers. If that’s the right word. Maybe this was all unconnected, but Tits purred at our teamwork and I got the job.

As David mopped up the coffee with what appeared to be a spare pair of socks, I felt I needed to say something mild, to dissipate the mood. God knows why I always feel driven to do this.

‘You know, you never fully explained the cat’s name,’ I said.

‘Strictly speaking,’ David said, not looking up, ‘all the cats at Swansby’s have been called that, ever since the very first mouser kept down in the printing press. Rats make nests out of the discarded galley papers, you know. Dynasty stuff. Eighteen Tits. Would you like some tea? Coffee? Water?’

‘No, thank you.’ I rubbed a thumb down Tits’s nose.

‘I thought Titivillus was a bit too long for collars so I shortened it to the inevitable,’ David said. ‘That was funny for the first year but then – well, I always forget how it must look. Bowls all around the building with TITS written on them, me shouting “Tits!” out of windows. I’m so used to the name by now that I hardly notice.’ David busied himself with a kettle and a small cafetière.

‘Titivillus,’ I said again, to check the pronunciation. ‘Is that an emperor? Empress?’

‘A demon – I think Milton mentions him, possibly not.’ David waved at the lower half of his wall-to-ceiling bookshelves, presumably indicating an M section. I was not prepared for the editor of an encyclopaedic dictionary to admit ignorance so candidly while also asserting how well-read he was. ‘Certainly crops up in mystery plays: used to be blamed for introducing errors into written works. Slip-ups, typos, that kind of thing. There’s also something in The Pickwick Papers about “tits” being a word for calling cats. “Puss, puss, puss – tit, tit, tit.” Along those lines.’

Tits’s purring intensified against my hand. David hit the cafetière plunger with the stance of someone detonating a mountainside.

‘He’s a boy, by the way,’ David said.

‘Got it,’ I said. ‘Hello,’ I added, to the cat.

‘But all that’s something completely by the by,’ said David. ‘I want to ask you about whether you are any good at keeping secrets.’

I blinked.

‘This will all be rather quick and informal. In fact,’ David said, checking his tone, ‘I’d rather that what I’m about to say doesn’t go beyond these walls.’

It occurred to me that I might be fired. From a cannon, in a kiln, from a job, fretted, fretting, flaming. I began to make calculations about rent and overdrafts as David cleared his throat. I realised I had been making these calculations in the back of my mind every day since I started this job. There should be a specific word for that: the sluice of adrenaline that comes when you are able to pinpoint the reason for exhaustion. Precarity and teetering and grocery lists with question marks and budgeting apps and crying in the shower and adding water to pasta sauce and—

‘First of all, I want to emphasise that I am deeply aggrieved by today’s events,’ David said. ‘Thank you for taking time out of your day, and I am so incredibly sorry for any upset caused.’

I waited.

‘I need to talk to you about mountweazels.’

‘Mountweazels,’ I repeated.

‘There are mistakes. In the dictionary,’ David said. There seemed to be a sob edging the softness of his voice. I stared at him. He assumed a defensive tone. ‘Well. Not mistakes. Not-quite mistakes. They’re words that are meant to be there but not meant to be there.’

‘Mountweazels,’ I repeated again.

‘Other dictionaries have them! Most!’ David Swansby said. ‘They’re made-up words.’

‘All words are made up,’ I said.

‘That is true,’ David Swansby replied, ‘and also not a useful contribution.’

‘Fake words?’ I said.

‘That might be one way to put it.’