good book, isnât there?â
âOh. You mean the Bible. There are other good books. There is
one
good book in particular, which I would probably take with me.â
âOh, yes?â
Simon smiled and touched his finger to his lips. âI regret that its name is never spoken, sir. Some names, like the name of God, may be thought of, but never uttered out loud.â
With that, he walked off. Detective Carroll came up to Jim and said, âThat the fruitcake Dave Brennan was telling me about?â
Jim nodded. âI donât know. At first, yes, I did think he was borderline bananas. Now . . . Iâm not so sure.â
Traffic was stop-go all the way home on Sunset. The second apple that Simon Silence had given him was lying on the passenger seat next to him, rolling backward and forward every time he stopped for a traffic signal or to avoid rear-ending the vehicle in front.
He was trying very hard to resist the temptation to pick it up and bite into it. There was something about its pale pink-and-green color that just made it
look
as if it were going to taste deliciously sweet and sour, and if it tasted anything like the first apple, he knew that it would.
Yet, strangely, he felt almost virtuous for leaving it where it was. It rolled back, it rolled forward. It came close to rolling off the seat but still he didnât make a grab for it.
When he reached the Vine Street intersection, however, traffic up ahead of him had come almost to a standstill because of a burst water main underneath the Hollywood Freeway, and three lanes were merging left into one. He had to sit under the gloomy concrete pillars of the freeway for more than five minutes, half deafened by impatient car horns, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and feeling hungrier and thirstier. Because he had gone to visit Jane this morning, he hadnât had time to stop for anything to eat or drink.
He glanced down at the apple. What had Oscar Wilde written? âI can resist anything except temptation.â And if that was a good enough excuse for Oscar Wilde â why not for him?
He had bitten into the apple before he knew it, and it
was
just as good as the first one. In fact it seemed even juicier and even sweeter, with that distinctive hint of sharpness which gave it so much character.
Not just character, either. It had an immediate effect on his emotions. He had taken only two or three bites before he was sure he could feel that warm wind blowing again, and hear that faint calliope music playing.
Even though he knew he was here, in his car, in the shadow of the freeway, he also felt as if he were on a seashore someplace, although he wasnât sure exactly where. The sun kept disappearing behind the clouds, so that the day continually brightened and faded, brightened and faded, and seagulls were crying out like lost children.
Something had happened on that day, long ago, and he was being reminded of it. Something had happened but it wasnât something that he wanted to remember. It was something hurtful and humiliating. He must have buried it so deeply in his mind that he couldnât even be sure that it had really happened, or if it had happened not to him but to somebody else altogether.
As the traffic crept forward along Franklin, he began to feel more and more distressed, and his breathing became increasingly hard and harsh. He felt anger and embarrassment and an overwhelming urge to get his revenge, even though he didnât understand what for, and against whom, or why.
Just after he had turned into the narrow uphill slope of Briarcliff Road, he had to pull into the first driveway that he came to, because he was panting and sweating. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands as if he were trying to wrench it away from the steering column. He was filled with such rage and frustration that he clenched his teeth tightly together and let out a roar like an angry beast.
He was still sitting there
âOh. You mean the Bible. There are other good books. There is
one
good book in particular, which I would probably take with me.â
âOh, yes?â
Simon smiled and touched his finger to his lips. âI regret that its name is never spoken, sir. Some names, like the name of God, may be thought of, but never uttered out loud.â
With that, he walked off. Detective Carroll came up to Jim and said, âThat the fruitcake Dave Brennan was telling me about?â
Jim nodded. âI donât know. At first, yes, I did think he was borderline bananas. Now . . . Iâm not so sure.â
Traffic was stop-go all the way home on Sunset. The second apple that Simon Silence had given him was lying on the passenger seat next to him, rolling backward and forward every time he stopped for a traffic signal or to avoid rear-ending the vehicle in front.
He was trying very hard to resist the temptation to pick it up and bite into it. There was something about its pale pink-and-green color that just made it
look
as if it were going to taste deliciously sweet and sour, and if it tasted anything like the first apple, he knew that it would.
Yet, strangely, he felt almost virtuous for leaving it where it was. It rolled back, it rolled forward. It came close to rolling off the seat but still he didnât make a grab for it.
When he reached the Vine Street intersection, however, traffic up ahead of him had come almost to a standstill because of a burst water main underneath the Hollywood Freeway, and three lanes were merging left into one. He had to sit under the gloomy concrete pillars of the freeway for more than five minutes, half deafened by impatient car horns, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and feeling hungrier and thirstier. Because he had gone to visit Jane this morning, he hadnât had time to stop for anything to eat or drink.
He glanced down at the apple. What had Oscar Wilde written? âI can resist anything except temptation.â And if that was a good enough excuse for Oscar Wilde â why not for him?
He had bitten into the apple before he knew it, and it
was
just as good as the first one. In fact it seemed even juicier and even sweeter, with that distinctive hint of sharpness which gave it so much character.
Not just character, either. It had an immediate effect on his emotions. He had taken only two or three bites before he was sure he could feel that warm wind blowing again, and hear that faint calliope music playing.
Even though he knew he was here, in his car, in the shadow of the freeway, he also felt as if he were on a seashore someplace, although he wasnât sure exactly where. The sun kept disappearing behind the clouds, so that the day continually brightened and faded, brightened and faded, and seagulls were crying out like lost children.
Something had happened on that day, long ago, and he was being reminded of it. Something had happened but it wasnât something that he wanted to remember. It was something hurtful and humiliating. He must have buried it so deeply in his mind that he couldnât even be sure that it had really happened, or if it had happened not to him but to somebody else altogether.
As the traffic crept forward along Franklin, he began to feel more and more distressed, and his breathing became increasingly hard and harsh. He felt anger and embarrassment and an overwhelming urge to get his revenge, even though he didnât understand what for, and against whom, or why.
Just after he had turned into the narrow uphill slope of Briarcliff Road, he had to pull into the first driveway that he came to, because he was panting and sweating. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands as if he were trying to wrench it away from the steering column. He was filled with such rage and frustration that he clenched his teeth tightly together and let out a roar like an angry beast.
He was still sitting there
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