back cover. I flip around in
it a bit and find this: “A man who sees a gourd and takes it for his wife is
called insane only because this happens to very few people.” Well if that’s not
pure wisdom, somebody better tell me what wisdom is. I flip around a bit more
and see how I could get to like this Erasmus. A lot of your famous detectives
will have a partner, and I’m thinking you could do worse than a little
Dutchman.
Once I decide
the danger’s passed, I take the book over to the checkout line, where I find
myself stuck behind a middle-aged couple in interesting eyeglasses. They want
to discuss their purchases with the cashier. You know the type. Maybe we don’t
want the dictionary of Botswanan deconstructionism after all. They’re both a
little thick around the middle, and she’s got a shade of a mustache she’s
probably cultivated as a sign of her liberation from the restrictions of
non-Botswanan society or whatever. I’m getting a little edgy, I have to admit,
and the situation doesn’t improve when the Fedora walks right in, jingling the
door bells. His face is hidden by the hat, but I don’t need to see his eyes to
know where they’re looking. He spots me in line and decides to stand there by
the exit and browse through the bookmarks. You know how they’ve got all manner
of junk up by the cash registers these days.
I’m going to
need some kind of major diversion, I’m thinking, when I overhear a bit of the
endless conversation in front of me and discover that the word thee is a
working part of this pair’s vocabulary.
“But I thought
we’d get it for thee, Ligiea.”
“Thee are too
sweet, Didier, but isn’t it a bit expensive?”
“I’d like to
do it for thee,” he says.
“Ha Ha Ha,” she goes. Sounds less like laughter than
singing rehearsal.
“How about
thee stepping aside until thee make up thee mind,” I say real polite. Maybe not
the best tack to take here, considering how they turn round nice and slow,
delaying the proceedings even further, but I’ve been tapping my foot like it’s
a square dance and they’ve paid me no mind. Now they give me this long up and
down designed to get me considering the rightness of my own existence. I take the
opinion that it’s my duty to convince them of it, Fedora be damned.
“I’m not
really what you would call a television-watching man,” I say as they stand
there blinking at me, “but it has come to my attention while watching various
of these so-called infomercials in the late evening that there are certain new
revolutionary products designed to remove pesky facial hair. Can’t say I’ve
ever tried it, though it might be worth thy consideration.”
Didier’s
quick, and I’m honestly a bit taken aback by the force he manages to put behind
a punch. Taken aback to about the floor, at which point the Fedora decides to
make his move. He comes rushing in as Ligiea gets me in three places with her
sensible shoes. Then Didier’s giving it to the Fedora so effectively that I
have no choice but to readjust my opinion of the academic profession. Behind
every Einstein there lurks a Mohamed Ali. Compensation, I believe it’s called,
and the Fedora’s getting compensated pretty bad. Didier catches him with an
uppercut, the hat flies off, and then I really get a shock. He’s Albanian, my
secret admirer, and his name is none other than Kafka.
“What the hell
are you doing?” I cry out, as Ligiea starts work on my shins.
Kafka doesn’t
manage a response, because the security guard’s now run over from the coat
check and is making it three against two. I mean Kafka and me versus the
infidels, but when security punches Kafka with something professional, it’s me
and the eyeglasses standing there awestruck as Kafka drops to the floor, taking
the bargain book bin with him. The whole place goes quiet. His nose starts
trickling blood out onto a copy of the Lonely Planet Uruguay, 1994 ,
which is about how he’s looking. He’s squirming
it a bit and find this: “A man who sees a gourd and takes it for his wife is
called insane only because this happens to very few people.” Well if that’s not
pure wisdom, somebody better tell me what wisdom is. I flip around a bit more
and see how I could get to like this Erasmus. A lot of your famous detectives
will have a partner, and I’m thinking you could do worse than a little
Dutchman.
Once I decide
the danger’s passed, I take the book over to the checkout line, where I find
myself stuck behind a middle-aged couple in interesting eyeglasses. They want
to discuss their purchases with the cashier. You know the type. Maybe we don’t
want the dictionary of Botswanan deconstructionism after all. They’re both a
little thick around the middle, and she’s got a shade of a mustache she’s
probably cultivated as a sign of her liberation from the restrictions of
non-Botswanan society or whatever. I’m getting a little edgy, I have to admit,
and the situation doesn’t improve when the Fedora walks right in, jingling the
door bells. His face is hidden by the hat, but I don’t need to see his eyes to
know where they’re looking. He spots me in line and decides to stand there by
the exit and browse through the bookmarks. You know how they’ve got all manner
of junk up by the cash registers these days.
I’m going to
need some kind of major diversion, I’m thinking, when I overhear a bit of the
endless conversation in front of me and discover that the word thee is a
working part of this pair’s vocabulary.
“But I thought
we’d get it for thee, Ligiea.”
“Thee are too
sweet, Didier, but isn’t it a bit expensive?”
“I’d like to
do it for thee,” he says.
“Ha Ha Ha,” she goes. Sounds less like laughter than
singing rehearsal.
“How about
thee stepping aside until thee make up thee mind,” I say real polite. Maybe not
the best tack to take here, considering how they turn round nice and slow,
delaying the proceedings even further, but I’ve been tapping my foot like it’s
a square dance and they’ve paid me no mind. Now they give me this long up and
down designed to get me considering the rightness of my own existence. I take the
opinion that it’s my duty to convince them of it, Fedora be damned.
“I’m not
really what you would call a television-watching man,” I say as they stand
there blinking at me, “but it has come to my attention while watching various
of these so-called infomercials in the late evening that there are certain new
revolutionary products designed to remove pesky facial hair. Can’t say I’ve
ever tried it, though it might be worth thy consideration.”
Didier’s
quick, and I’m honestly a bit taken aback by the force he manages to put behind
a punch. Taken aback to about the floor, at which point the Fedora decides to
make his move. He comes rushing in as Ligiea gets me in three places with her
sensible shoes. Then Didier’s giving it to the Fedora so effectively that I
have no choice but to readjust my opinion of the academic profession. Behind
every Einstein there lurks a Mohamed Ali. Compensation, I believe it’s called,
and the Fedora’s getting compensated pretty bad. Didier catches him with an
uppercut, the hat flies off, and then I really get a shock. He’s Albanian, my
secret admirer, and his name is none other than Kafka.
“What the hell
are you doing?” I cry out, as Ligiea starts work on my shins.
Kafka doesn’t
manage a response, because the security guard’s now run over from the coat
check and is making it three against two. I mean Kafka and me versus the
infidels, but when security punches Kafka with something professional, it’s me
and the eyeglasses standing there awestruck as Kafka drops to the floor, taking
the bargain book bin with him. The whole place goes quiet. His nose starts
trickling blood out onto a copy of the Lonely Planet Uruguay, 1994 ,
which is about how he’s looking. He’s squirming
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