The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel by Jasper Fforde Page A
Authors: Jasper Fforde
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photocopier and the Wingco would merely be ‘Vulnerable.’ A limited print run of ten and he’d be on Vanity Island and ‘At Little Risk of Endangerment.’”
“What if you’re landfill?” asked Tuesday. “Anaerobic digestion could take years. ”
“Would you make some coffee, please, Friday?” I said quickly, in order to change the subject. The Wingco had thought of that, too, and the landfill theory was good and bad news. Good in that he could last for a century or more with little ill effects and perfectly safe—but bad in that the inevitable breakdown of the manuscript would be painfully protracted as the story fell apart word for word. I’d seen it happen, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Back in 1996 I headed up Jurisfiction’s Manuscript Retrieval Squad,” I said. “I spent almost a year doing little but tracking down Critically Endangered manuscripts. Did I tell you about how I found what came to known as the ‘Hemingway Hoard’?”
“Many times,” said Tuesday, getting up to help Friday with the things.
I thought I wouldn’t bore anyone else, so we changed the subject to my mother and my Aunt Polly, who seemed to get even less and less dignified as they worked their way through their eighth decade together.
“She doesn’t listen to me at all,” said Dad sullenly. “You know those personal-injury traveling booths where dumb people who feign accidents go to grub for cash?”
Joffy said that he did.
“They had one up at the Brunel Centre. A display with a table and some chairs. Your mother pretended to fall over it, then claimed she’d broken her hip and told them she wanted to make a claim—against them.”
“How did it work out?”
“There were three other personal-injury lawyers there, and they all started fighting to represent her. I had to call the police when it came to blows. During the melee she crept away giggling and said that watching personal-injury lawyers punching one another had an inexplicable joy to it.”
“At least it keeps her from playing dominoes at the day center.”
“She’s always been feisty,” said Dad with a warm smile. “Do you remember that trip we took to the Atlas Mountains when your mother tried to smuggle a live goat across the border, wrapped up in a carpet?”
“No,” I said.
“Joffy?”
“No.”
“Damn,” said my father. “All those memories, and none of them shared.”
11.
Monday: Evening
The sound cannon was one of Tuesday’s notable inventions, a device that used a low-frequency/high-amplitude resampling of Van Halen’s “Eruption” that could cause momentary unconsciousness. The device had not actually been designed as an intruder deterrent but was one of Tuesday’s attempts to adapt hard rock for domestic use in the kitchen. She had been attempting to use Led Zeppelin’s “I Can’t Quit You Baby” to whisk egg whites when she overmodulated the bass and punched a two-foot-wide hole in the fridge.
Gordon Von Squid, Tuesday Next: The Early Notions
W e had coffee in the living room. Tuesday went off to jot down an idea she’d had for a device to make yourself aware when sleeping so you’d enjoy it more, and Friday just wandered off. Joffy, Landen, Miles and I talked for a while until Joffy’s assistant called at the door to say that it was time for him to leave. He had to take the Gravitube to Dubai for a meeting in the morning.
“It was good to see you,” I said, giving him a hug. “And you,” he replied. “My time is not my own these days. I’ll be back in Swindon for the smiting on Friday. If there’s anything you can do to help Tuesday find a way to make the anti-smite tower operational, I’d be grateful.”
I hugged Miles, too, and they were soon gone, the five-car motorcade vanishing off into the darkness.
“I wouldn’t have Joffy’s job for anything,” said Landen as we watched them go. “Trying to demand the question of existence from an all-knowing omniscient supreme being takes
“What if you’re landfill?” asked Tuesday. “Anaerobic digestion could take years. ”
“Would you make some coffee, please, Friday?” I said quickly, in order to change the subject. The Wingco had thought of that, too, and the landfill theory was good and bad news. Good in that he could last for a century or more with little ill effects and perfectly safe—but bad in that the inevitable breakdown of the manuscript would be painfully protracted as the story fell apart word for word. I’d seen it happen, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Back in 1996 I headed up Jurisfiction’s Manuscript Retrieval Squad,” I said. “I spent almost a year doing little but tracking down Critically Endangered manuscripts. Did I tell you about how I found what came to known as the ‘Hemingway Hoard’?”
“Many times,” said Tuesday, getting up to help Friday with the things.
I thought I wouldn’t bore anyone else, so we changed the subject to my mother and my Aunt Polly, who seemed to get even less and less dignified as they worked their way through their eighth decade together.
“She doesn’t listen to me at all,” said Dad sullenly. “You know those personal-injury traveling booths where dumb people who feign accidents go to grub for cash?”
Joffy said that he did.
“They had one up at the Brunel Centre. A display with a table and some chairs. Your mother pretended to fall over it, then claimed she’d broken her hip and told them she wanted to make a claim—against them.”
“How did it work out?”
“There were three other personal-injury lawyers there, and they all started fighting to represent her. I had to call the police when it came to blows. During the melee she crept away giggling and said that watching personal-injury lawyers punching one another had an inexplicable joy to it.”
“At least it keeps her from playing dominoes at the day center.”
“She’s always been feisty,” said Dad with a warm smile. “Do you remember that trip we took to the Atlas Mountains when your mother tried to smuggle a live goat across the border, wrapped up in a carpet?”
“No,” I said.
“Joffy?”
“No.”
“Damn,” said my father. “All those memories, and none of them shared.”
11.
Monday: Evening
The sound cannon was one of Tuesday’s notable inventions, a device that used a low-frequency/high-amplitude resampling of Van Halen’s “Eruption” that could cause momentary unconsciousness. The device had not actually been designed as an intruder deterrent but was one of Tuesday’s attempts to adapt hard rock for domestic use in the kitchen. She had been attempting to use Led Zeppelin’s “I Can’t Quit You Baby” to whisk egg whites when she overmodulated the bass and punched a two-foot-wide hole in the fridge.
Gordon Von Squid, Tuesday Next: The Early Notions
W e had coffee in the living room. Tuesday went off to jot down an idea she’d had for a device to make yourself aware when sleeping so you’d enjoy it more, and Friday just wandered off. Joffy, Landen, Miles and I talked for a while until Joffy’s assistant called at the door to say that it was time for him to leave. He had to take the Gravitube to Dubai for a meeting in the morning.
“It was good to see you,” I said, giving him a hug. “And you,” he replied. “My time is not my own these days. I’ll be back in Swindon for the smiting on Friday. If there’s anything you can do to help Tuesday find a way to make the anti-smite tower operational, I’d be grateful.”
I hugged Miles, too, and they were soon gone, the five-car motorcade vanishing off into the darkness.
“I wouldn’t have Joffy’s job for anything,” said Landen as we watched them go. “Trying to demand the question of existence from an all-knowing omniscient supreme being takes
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