him. They usually call in the evening. At an inconvenient moment. During the eight o’clock news. They have a keen nose for moments when you really shouldn’t be bothering people.
These days he just stays on the couch in front of the TV and lets his wife answer the phone. He looks at the images of a bombed-out city, of a suburb retaken from rebel hands, he has the volume turned down low.
“He’d rather stand,” he hears Ana say, “but a table is okay too.”
“Of course, he’d be happy to sign.”
“If the room’s not too big, there’s no need for a microphone.”
“Just plain water. And during the intermission he likes to have a beer.”
This last comment is perhaps the most important of all. The core of the reading, the pivot, or perhaps more like the tipping point. You can put up with anything as long as you’re allowed to slowly sink back into yourself after fifty minutes. The questions that come after the intermission he answers rather offhandedly. But the beer calls for a separate mention. Experience has made him wiser. They used to ask him during the pause whether he would prefer coffee or tea. Whenever he mentioned beer, they would raise their eyebrows. Then one of the lower-ranking librarians would be sent out on a scavenger hunt. Sometimes she would come back just before the intermission was over with one bottle that had, unfortunately, not been refrigerated. By the time they found a bottle opener, the reading was over.
“No, it’s not that far, is it?” he hears Ana say. “He’ll walk from the station.”
That’s right, they always ask that too. Whether he wants to be picked up at the station. No, he doesn’t want that. Nothing is worse than to have the blathering start long before the reading itself has even begun. No, that’s not true, there is one thing that is much worse than being picked up, and that’s when they insist on bringing you to the station
after
the reading. In a cramped car, the blanket covered in dog hair has to be tossed onto the backseat to make room for you. Normally, the passenger seat slides back further than that, but the handle broke off yesterday. There he sits, the bunch of flowers or bottle of wine in his lap, his knees jammed up against the dashboard. The engine turns over. “There’s one question still on my mind, something I didn’t dare to ask in there…” All the way home on the train, the odor of dog clings to his clothes.
“Would you like some coffee? Shall I take your coat?”
He doesn’t want any coffee, he prefers to hold on to his own coat.
“How many people are you expecting, more or less?” he asks, for the sake of having something to ask. In order not to have to look at the librarian’s haircut, he pretends to examine a poster announcing a comedian who will come here soon to talk about “his profession.” The picture shows the comedian wearing a funny derby, a nutty pair of plastic spectacles, and a fake mustache glued to his upper lip.
Anyone who lets themselves be portrayed like that on a poster should be taken out and shot,
he thinks. Right here, the moment he gets to the library, or else at home, in his sleep—with a silencer, of course; it would be a pity to wake anyone up with the blast.
“We have about twenty reservations,” the lady librarian says. “And there are usually about twenty more who show up. But, well, you never know. It’s such nice weather…”
And what if it had rained?
he thinks, trying to imagine how she must have looked as a young girl, long ago. Where did it go wrong? At which age did that face slam shut like a book no one felt like finishing? What would she have said if it had been raining—
You never know, it’s raining out
?
“I need to use the restroom,” he says.
She leads him to a space with a photocopier and a bookcase filled with loose-leaf binders. A coffee machine is sputtering in the corner. This is where the toilet is.
He tries to fend off the thought that the librarians use
These days he just stays on the couch in front of the TV and lets his wife answer the phone. He looks at the images of a bombed-out city, of a suburb retaken from rebel hands, he has the volume turned down low.
“He’d rather stand,” he hears Ana say, “but a table is okay too.”
“Of course, he’d be happy to sign.”
“If the room’s not too big, there’s no need for a microphone.”
“Just plain water. And during the intermission he likes to have a beer.”
This last comment is perhaps the most important of all. The core of the reading, the pivot, or perhaps more like the tipping point. You can put up with anything as long as you’re allowed to slowly sink back into yourself after fifty minutes. The questions that come after the intermission he answers rather offhandedly. But the beer calls for a separate mention. Experience has made him wiser. They used to ask him during the pause whether he would prefer coffee or tea. Whenever he mentioned beer, they would raise their eyebrows. Then one of the lower-ranking librarians would be sent out on a scavenger hunt. Sometimes she would come back just before the intermission was over with one bottle that had, unfortunately, not been refrigerated. By the time they found a bottle opener, the reading was over.
“No, it’s not that far, is it?” he hears Ana say. “He’ll walk from the station.”
That’s right, they always ask that too. Whether he wants to be picked up at the station. No, he doesn’t want that. Nothing is worse than to have the blathering start long before the reading itself has even begun. No, that’s not true, there is one thing that is much worse than being picked up, and that’s when they insist on bringing you to the station
after
the reading. In a cramped car, the blanket covered in dog hair has to be tossed onto the backseat to make room for you. Normally, the passenger seat slides back further than that, but the handle broke off yesterday. There he sits, the bunch of flowers or bottle of wine in his lap, his knees jammed up against the dashboard. The engine turns over. “There’s one question still on my mind, something I didn’t dare to ask in there…” All the way home on the train, the odor of dog clings to his clothes.
“Would you like some coffee? Shall I take your coat?”
He doesn’t want any coffee, he prefers to hold on to his own coat.
“How many people are you expecting, more or less?” he asks, for the sake of having something to ask. In order not to have to look at the librarian’s haircut, he pretends to examine a poster announcing a comedian who will come here soon to talk about “his profession.” The picture shows the comedian wearing a funny derby, a nutty pair of plastic spectacles, and a fake mustache glued to his upper lip.
Anyone who lets themselves be portrayed like that on a poster should be taken out and shot,
he thinks. Right here, the moment he gets to the library, or else at home, in his sleep—with a silencer, of course; it would be a pity to wake anyone up with the blast.
“We have about twenty reservations,” the lady librarian says. “And there are usually about twenty more who show up. But, well, you never know. It’s such nice weather…”
And what if it had rained?
he thinks, trying to imagine how she must have looked as a young girl, long ago. Where did it go wrong? At which age did that face slam shut like a book no one felt like finishing? What would she have said if it had been raining—
You never know, it’s raining out
?
“I need to use the restroom,” he says.
She leads him to a space with a photocopier and a bookcase filled with loose-leaf binders. A coffee machine is sputtering in the corner. This is where the toilet is.
He tries to fend off the thought that the librarians use
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