wrapper back over the remains of his chocolate bar.
âAll right, Iâm going to read now. I wonât bother you any more.â
He opens the book on his lap and begins to read. But not a minute passes before he turns again to his neighbour.
âWisdom â this means something to you?â
Fearing what may follow, Claudia offers a hesitant yes in reply.
âWell! Well, believe it or not, I am a wise man. Have you ever seen one before?â
Claudia is on the verge of concluding that the man is slightly deranged. But how to bring an end to this conversation?
âNo, I donât think so.â
âGood! So now you have.â
The man named Shimon casts a global eye around the cabin.
âPeople are beginning to sigh. This is a good sign.â
And he adds, in the same confiding tone: âThey are beginning to show fatigue. Sometimes, fatigue can be very beautiful, you know.â
Two women are having lunch together in a crowded restaurant.
âEvery Thursday, heâd throw out his used Kleenex.â
She says this without looking up from her plate; she is working hard with her fork to retrieve a piece of sodden lettuce stubbornly entrenched in the dregs of vinaigrette. The other woman does not look up either; having harpooned a chunk of meat, she is busy enveloping it in sauce.
âOnly on Thursdays? Who threw them out the other days? You?â
The leafy green yields at last and is taken. Clearly, her friend will never change.
âI mean, on Thursdays, heâs more sure of himself. More confident. Optimistic.â
âAh! You mean he bounces back.â
Silence permeates the restaurant.
âHe wouldnât be a bit depressed, by any chance?â
âDepressed? No. At least, I donât think so.â
Claudia is astonished to find that sheâs been sleeping, and she notices with equal surprise that the pope-rabbi has also dozed off. She remembers straining to stay awake while he chattered away about one thing and another. For what seemed like the longest time, she had struggled to keep up with the speaking face, but to no avail: the pope-rabbiâs face faded, slipped into slow motion, or broke into jump-cuts, like in those old Hollywood movies that her parents occasionally suspend their social conscience to indulge in. In the end, the man suggested she yield to slumber.
âGo ahead. Donât worry about me. Sleep is a gift from God.â
Claudia glances at her sleeping neighbourâs delicate white hands. One of his fingers is clenched within the pages of a book with a nondescript black cover.
A stewardess comes down the aisle, pausing here and there to ask if everything is all right. Watching her walk away, Claudia notices, diagonally across the aisle, a man, approximately fifty years old, shift in his seat and uncross his legs. He shows no sign of reading.
In the restaurant, the two women have finished eating. A few scraps litter their plates, which they have pushed delicately aside.
âYou really have no idea where he is?â
âHe called twice. To see how I was doing.â
âWhere was he calling from?â
âI asked, but he wouldnât say. He said it made no difference.â
âMy God! Is he mixed up in something shady, or what?â
The woman whoâd struggled with her lettuce laughs.
âDonât be silly. Of course not! Thatâs just how he is.â
Her friend sighs.
âAnd when is he supposed to come back?â
âI have no idea.â She hesitates for a moment before speaking her mind. âAssuming he comes back at all.â
And tossing her napkin on the table, the friend concludes: âI donât know how you manage.â
Having uncrossed his legs, thereby slightly modifying his view, the man who shows no sign of reading continues to reflect on the fact that the names of the major planetary winds do not require capitals. Why not Trade Winds? Foehn? Sirocco? It seems to
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