would look forward to this moment all day. From the moment he woke, he anticipated returning to bed again, for that last hour of the day when he’d be at the center of something magical. Which is exactly how he feels now and has done every day for the past two years, ever since stepping into that shop and hearing Walt’s voice for the first time.
Before that day Dylan had a perfectly fine life. He wasn’t a recluse or a hermit, quite the opposite. He had plenty of friends and was never shy asking women out for lunch or dinner. Not that, since turning thirty, he’s ever had a relationship that actually involved a woman staying the night, partly due to a fear ofcommitment but mainly because his septuagenarian father, Ralph, tends to sleepwalk naked. But, aside from bathing, feeding and generally ensuring his dad’s safety, Dylan had always been a vigorous specimen of manhood: thirty-six years old with a full head of dark hair and a long, lean, muscular body with a fairly healthy social life. And now, thanks to Walt, he’s acting like a seventy-five-year-old virgin.
When his mates ask why he hasn’t been to the pub in months he lies, citing extra work and family obligations. They know about his father and they understand. But there is another lie Dylan tells. It’s a white lie but still more dangerous than all the others, one that could get him into serious trouble. But, just as he’s unable to stop listening to Walt reading, so he’s unable to stop telling this lie.
Fan letters for the Night Reader had started arriving a few days after Walt began reading. His first book had been one of his own choosing, The Life & Times of Marie Curie . The scientific subject matter was rather dry for Dylan’s taste but, wanting to soothe Walt’s nerves, he allowed it and knew that his new protégé could read the dictionary aloud and listeners would still be entranced. He absolutely underestimated, however, just how entranced they would be. Within a month, Walt was receiving ten letters a day. They arrived in little piles every morning—scatterings of color and scent among the white gas and electricity bills on the mat. Dylan dutifully boxed them all up and passed them on to Walt in the evening.
“They’re calling you the ‘Night Reader,’ ” he’d joked one day when Walt had been at the station for a few months. “You should have a hotline. You’d make a mint.”
Walt had blushed and handed the box back. “I don’t want them,” he said.
“What am I supposed to do with them, then?” Dylan asked.
Walt shrugged. “Recycling.”
“All right.” Dylan had shrugged in return. What did he care, after all? They weren’t his letters. He didn’t know these slightly desperate women. Surely it was no skin off his nose if Walt never read them or wrote replies. Yet, after dropping the box in the wastepaper bin, Dylan couldn’t concentrate. He’d sat at his computer trying to focus on e-mails, advertising packages and office reports. But while he typed the box seemed to grow, expanding until it had filled the bin, until it started emanating a bitter scent that hovered accusingly in the air. Dylan continued to ignore it, holding a handkerchief to his nose for the rest of the morning and typing with one hand. At lunchtime he picked up the bin, ready to take it to the recycling spot on the second floor. Instead he’d found himself lifting the lid off the box and opening the first letter he found.
Now he reads them every day, these letters of longing, and writes back to each and every one. He writes to them of love, about which he knows almost nothing (having never had a relationship that lasted longer than six months), and desire, about which he knows considerably more. He tells them that he understands how they feel (strangely true) and that he hopes they will find happiness one day (also true). And then comes the lie, when he signs the letters with Walt’s name.
Writing these replies is how Dylan fills his time
Before that day Dylan had a perfectly fine life. He wasn’t a recluse or a hermit, quite the opposite. He had plenty of friends and was never shy asking women out for lunch or dinner. Not that, since turning thirty, he’s ever had a relationship that actually involved a woman staying the night, partly due to a fear ofcommitment but mainly because his septuagenarian father, Ralph, tends to sleepwalk naked. But, aside from bathing, feeding and generally ensuring his dad’s safety, Dylan had always been a vigorous specimen of manhood: thirty-six years old with a full head of dark hair and a long, lean, muscular body with a fairly healthy social life. And now, thanks to Walt, he’s acting like a seventy-five-year-old virgin.
When his mates ask why he hasn’t been to the pub in months he lies, citing extra work and family obligations. They know about his father and they understand. But there is another lie Dylan tells. It’s a white lie but still more dangerous than all the others, one that could get him into serious trouble. But, just as he’s unable to stop listening to Walt reading, so he’s unable to stop telling this lie.
Fan letters for the Night Reader had started arriving a few days after Walt began reading. His first book had been one of his own choosing, The Life & Times of Marie Curie . The scientific subject matter was rather dry for Dylan’s taste but, wanting to soothe Walt’s nerves, he allowed it and knew that his new protégé could read the dictionary aloud and listeners would still be entranced. He absolutely underestimated, however, just how entranced they would be. Within a month, Walt was receiving ten letters a day. They arrived in little piles every morning—scatterings of color and scent among the white gas and electricity bills on the mat. Dylan dutifully boxed them all up and passed them on to Walt in the evening.
“They’re calling you the ‘Night Reader,’ ” he’d joked one day when Walt had been at the station for a few months. “You should have a hotline. You’d make a mint.”
Walt had blushed and handed the box back. “I don’t want them,” he said.
“What am I supposed to do with them, then?” Dylan asked.
Walt shrugged. “Recycling.”
“All right.” Dylan had shrugged in return. What did he care, after all? They weren’t his letters. He didn’t know these slightly desperate women. Surely it was no skin off his nose if Walt never read them or wrote replies. Yet, after dropping the box in the wastepaper bin, Dylan couldn’t concentrate. He’d sat at his computer trying to focus on e-mails, advertising packages and office reports. But while he typed the box seemed to grow, expanding until it had filled the bin, until it started emanating a bitter scent that hovered accusingly in the air. Dylan continued to ignore it, holding a handkerchief to his nose for the rest of the morning and typing with one hand. At lunchtime he picked up the bin, ready to take it to the recycling spot on the second floor. Instead he’d found himself lifting the lid off the box and opening the first letter he found.
Now he reads them every day, these letters of longing, and writes back to each and every one. He writes to them of love, about which he knows almost nothing (having never had a relationship that lasted longer than six months), and desire, about which he knows considerably more. He tells them that he understands how they feel (strangely true) and that he hopes they will find happiness one day (also true). And then comes the lie, when he signs the letters with Walt’s name.
Writing these replies is how Dylan fills his time
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