this toilet too. Standing at the little sink he takes a few deep breaths and looks in the mirror. The final moments alone—the trick is to make these moments last as long as possible. Sometimes he fantasizes about not coming back at all, about how the librarians would glance at their watches with concern. “He’s been in there for fifteen minutes. I hope nothing’s happened to him? Could you go and sort of knock quietly, Anneke?”
It would be a nice addition to his obituary:
found dead in the restroom of a library where he was about to read from his own work.
And then? What else would the obituary say? He looks in the mirror, and suddenly he can’t help thinking about his mother. What if she could see him like this, he thinks. Would she be proud of him? He suspects she would. Mothers are not hard to please. They’re always proud, even of a writing career that’s nearing its expiration date. Thoughts arise in his mind about her troubled deathbed, her mouth trying to smile at him, trying to reassure him,
go on back outside, go have fun with your friends, Mommy’s just a little tired.
And with no clear transition, he thinks then about his young wife. About Ana. Instead of a youth full of discos and a new boyfriend every two weeks, she chose him. Sometimes he thinks he stole those boyfriends and discos from her, but that’s not true. She decided of her own free will to share her life with a writer, a writer who was aging rapidly, even then.
He flushes the toilet for form’s sake, then steps outside.
The reading begins. He sees about thirty people in the audience, most of them women, not one of them younger than fifty-seven, he guesses. Four or five men, tops. One man is sitting in the front row, he recognizes the type: they often have beards, they come to the reading wearing sandals or hiking boots. This one, for a change, has on a sleeveless khaki vest with a wealth of pockets, zippers and rivets, the kind photographers and cameramen wear; there are marking pens and ballpoints sticking out of a few of the pockets. His broad, hairy, and tanned arms are crossed at his chest, the chairs on both sides of him are unoccupied, and he has a pair of (reading?) glasses pushed up over his peaky, mussed-up hair. The hair of a troublemaker, M knows, a man in bad boy’s clothing who, like the bewhiskered ones in sandals, saves the impertinent questions for after the break.
What do you actually think of your own work? What do you get paid, anyway, to come here and read a few bits from your book? Can you give us one good reason why we should read your books?
Further back, toward the middle of the room, he sees two other men. Colorless men. Men in sport jackets and striped shirts who apparently could think of nothing more pleasant to do on this Saturday afternoon than accompany their wives to a reading. Deep in his heart, he feels an almost nauseating contempt for men like these. He’s a man too. Would he ever attend a reading at a library—a reading by a writer like him? No, never. Not even if all other options had been exhausted.
Startled, he sees a familiar face in the audience: his publisher. He vaguely recalls a phone call from him about a week ago. “There are a couple of things I need to talk to you about,” his publisher had said. “Maybe I’ll pop by the library.” Were they planning to dump him? he’d wondered during the phone call. No, that wasn’t likely. His sales might be dwindling, but his name is still one everyone would be pleased to have in their stable. He could find another publisher at the drop of a hat. It seems more likely that they just want to discuss that interview Marie Claude Bruinzeel asked about, the one he’s succeeded in putting off till now. “Please!” M had said. “Don’t do that to me!”
All the way at the rear, in the backmost, almost empty row of chairs, is another man. A young man. Well, youngish…about thirty years younger than he is, that’s for sure. The man’s face
It would be a nice addition to his obituary:
found dead in the restroom of a library where he was about to read from his own work.
And then? What else would the obituary say? He looks in the mirror, and suddenly he can’t help thinking about his mother. What if she could see him like this, he thinks. Would she be proud of him? He suspects she would. Mothers are not hard to please. They’re always proud, even of a writing career that’s nearing its expiration date. Thoughts arise in his mind about her troubled deathbed, her mouth trying to smile at him, trying to reassure him,
go on back outside, go have fun with your friends, Mommy’s just a little tired.
And with no clear transition, he thinks then about his young wife. About Ana. Instead of a youth full of discos and a new boyfriend every two weeks, she chose him. Sometimes he thinks he stole those boyfriends and discos from her, but that’s not true. She decided of her own free will to share her life with a writer, a writer who was aging rapidly, even then.
He flushes the toilet for form’s sake, then steps outside.
The reading begins. He sees about thirty people in the audience, most of them women, not one of them younger than fifty-seven, he guesses. Four or five men, tops. One man is sitting in the front row, he recognizes the type: they often have beards, they come to the reading wearing sandals or hiking boots. This one, for a change, has on a sleeveless khaki vest with a wealth of pockets, zippers and rivets, the kind photographers and cameramen wear; there are marking pens and ballpoints sticking out of a few of the pockets. His broad, hairy, and tanned arms are crossed at his chest, the chairs on both sides of him are unoccupied, and he has a pair of (reading?) glasses pushed up over his peaky, mussed-up hair. The hair of a troublemaker, M knows, a man in bad boy’s clothing who, like the bewhiskered ones in sandals, saves the impertinent questions for after the break.
What do you actually think of your own work? What do you get paid, anyway, to come here and read a few bits from your book? Can you give us one good reason why we should read your books?
Further back, toward the middle of the room, he sees two other men. Colorless men. Men in sport jackets and striped shirts who apparently could think of nothing more pleasant to do on this Saturday afternoon than accompany their wives to a reading. Deep in his heart, he feels an almost nauseating contempt for men like these. He’s a man too. Would he ever attend a reading at a library—a reading by a writer like him? No, never. Not even if all other options had been exhausted.
Startled, he sees a familiar face in the audience: his publisher. He vaguely recalls a phone call from him about a week ago. “There are a couple of things I need to talk to you about,” his publisher had said. “Maybe I’ll pop by the library.” Were they planning to dump him? he’d wondered during the phone call. No, that wasn’t likely. His sales might be dwindling, but his name is still one everyone would be pleased to have in their stable. He could find another publisher at the drop of a hat. It seems more likely that they just want to discuss that interview Marie Claude Bruinzeel asked about, the one he’s succeeded in putting off till now. “Please!” M had said. “Don’t do that to me!”
All the way at the rear, in the backmost, almost empty row of chairs, is another man. A young man. Well, youngish…about thirty years younger than he is, that’s for sure. The man’s face
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