Excerpt:
Drive as far as you like in any direction: wherever you find yourself,
it looks exactly like the road to an airport. (Orson Welles)
She told the boy she'd met on the ferry that her name was
Calandrea. When she asked for his, he told her that he'd always thought
of life as a monument. Much later, she confessed she'd first thought
him a baby, then a foreign element, then just an irresistable summons.
She remarked on the audacity of his red hair. He walked with her when
the ferry docked. Then easily, four days a week, he met her in a small
park at the other end of town; gave her old stories which he had
translated from the German into a red notebook; let her take him out for
cups of coffee and be entertained by his voracious appetite for sugar.
One morning she said she was curious how old he was and suddenly he
became sad, would not finish his drink, insisted on having the bill.
"Let me tell you something--" he began, then hesitated, then seemed to
change his mind. They got to walking along the quay, keeping an eye on
the dirty lapping lake. Then he said, "Do you know anything about fancy
bread knives? There are some marvellous ones, I would like to collect
them, but there's no time." She asked what he meant and he bit his lip
and drew blood.
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