Read Online Angelica's Grotto by Russell Hoban - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Russell Hoban
Tags: Retail, 20th Century, Literature, Amazon.com, 21st Century, v.5, American Literature, Expatriate Literature
Ads: Link
NOT A DIFFICULT THING TO IMITATE. MEN DO IT ALL THE TIME.
I NEED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU.
I DON’T NEED YOU TO KNOW MORE. NOT YET.
WHEN? THIS YEAR, NEXT YEAR, SOMETIME, NEVER?
MAYBE SOMETIME. THE PHONE NUMBER ON THE HOMEPAGE IS USUALLY ENGAGED. USE THIS ONE IF YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME. GOODBYE FOR NOW. X
IS THAT A KISS I SEE BEFOREME?
FROM MY LABIA MINORA. TILL NEXT TIME, RUGGI.
Klein wrote down the telephone number, disconnected from the Internet, and switched off the modem, visualising her kiss as he did so. His fantasy partner that evening was the imagined Angelica in the horn-rimmed glasses. When he went to sleep he dreamt that he was hurrying down a rainy street at three o’clock in the morning, seeing her ahead of him and hearing her heels on the pavement. He walked faster and faster, then began to run, but he never caught up with her.
14
Doe Not Call Upp
HOP-ON HOP-OFF AT 100 STOPS ON 7 ROUTES, said the London Pride Sightseeing Bus parked in Southampton Row by Russell Square. Its redness was of a piece with the hard sunshine of the end-of-October day. The driver sat at the wheel; there was no one else on the bus.
‘They’ve all hopped off,’ said Klein to himself, ‘speaking French, German, Spanish, Greek, Russian, Polish, Urdu, Hindi, Arabic and goodness knows what else. They’re speaking those languages out loud and they’re speaking them to themselves in their heads, even the children.’
He was meeting his friend Seamus Flannery for lunch at II Fornello, an Italian restaurant with Spanish waiters. Seamus wrote radio, screen, and stage plays and taught History of Film at the National Film School. The waiters Paco and Juliano called the two of them ‘Dottore’ or ‘Professore’ interchangeably. Flannery was already there in their usual booth.
‘Professore!’ said Juliano. ‘Nice to see you. Are you having something to drink?’
‘Half lager, please. Same for you?’ he said to Seamus. Over their half-pints they brought each other up to date.
‘That’s really awful,’ said Seamus when Klein told him about the loss of his inner voice. ‘Some of my best conversations happen inside my head.’ He was as bald as an observatory dome; Klein imagined echoes.
‘Different voices?’ he said.
‘No, just mine. Did you have an inner voice that was different from yours?’
‘No, but I suppose one might.’
‘Where would it be coming from?’
‘From a different part of oneself, I should think.’
‘How different?’
‘Well, mostly I’m Harold, right? But maybe I’ve got a Jim part as well.’
‘Chelsea supporter, hangs out with the lads at the pub, owns a Rottweiler, has a tattoo?’
‘Maybe not that different.’
‘Jekyll and Hyde spring to mind, or maybe
The Case of Charles Dexter Ward.
“Doe not call upp Any that you cannot put downe.” Flannery and Klein were both well-grounded in H. P. Lovecraft.
‘Nothing like that,’ said Klein.
‘Has Jim said anything interesting lately?’
‘Not yet.’
They talked of Klimt, Kieslovski, and Egberto Gismonti over their tortellini and lasagne. ‘Do you use the Internet?’ said Klein.
‘I haven’t got round to that yet, I’m afraid I’d become addicted to it. You?’
‘From time to time; it’s useful for research.’
After lunch they walked down to Great Russell Street, then over to Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street and the Virgin Megastore, where they headed for the video department. Klein bought, among others,
BringMe the Head of Alfredo Garcia.
Flannery included
Point Blank
in his purchases. They both possessed recordings from TV of these all-time favourites but they liked the pretty boxes.
15
Second Session
Klein ignored holidays and celebrations as much as possible. On Hallowe’en, his neighbourhood being ever more gentrified, little groups of middle-class trick-or-treaters rang his bell but he didn’t answer the door. On Guy Fawkes night the gunpowder-smelling streets were hung with smoke as fireworks
I NEED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU.
I DON’T NEED YOU TO KNOW MORE. NOT YET.
WHEN? THIS YEAR, NEXT YEAR, SOMETIME, NEVER?
MAYBE SOMETIME. THE PHONE NUMBER ON THE HOMEPAGE IS USUALLY ENGAGED. USE THIS ONE IF YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME. GOODBYE FOR NOW. X
IS THAT A KISS I SEE BEFOREME?
FROM MY LABIA MINORA. TILL NEXT TIME, RUGGI.
Klein wrote down the telephone number, disconnected from the Internet, and switched off the modem, visualising her kiss as he did so. His fantasy partner that evening was the imagined Angelica in the horn-rimmed glasses. When he went to sleep he dreamt that he was hurrying down a rainy street at three o’clock in the morning, seeing her ahead of him and hearing her heels on the pavement. He walked faster and faster, then began to run, but he never caught up with her.
14
Doe Not Call Upp
HOP-ON HOP-OFF AT 100 STOPS ON 7 ROUTES, said the London Pride Sightseeing Bus parked in Southampton Row by Russell Square. Its redness was of a piece with the hard sunshine of the end-of-October day. The driver sat at the wheel; there was no one else on the bus.
‘They’ve all hopped off,’ said Klein to himself, ‘speaking French, German, Spanish, Greek, Russian, Polish, Urdu, Hindi, Arabic and goodness knows what else. They’re speaking those languages out loud and they’re speaking them to themselves in their heads, even the children.’
He was meeting his friend Seamus Flannery for lunch at II Fornello, an Italian restaurant with Spanish waiters. Seamus wrote radio, screen, and stage plays and taught History of Film at the National Film School. The waiters Paco and Juliano called the two of them ‘Dottore’ or ‘Professore’ interchangeably. Flannery was already there in their usual booth.
‘Professore!’ said Juliano. ‘Nice to see you. Are you having something to drink?’
‘Half lager, please. Same for you?’ he said to Seamus. Over their half-pints they brought each other up to date.
‘That’s really awful,’ said Seamus when Klein told him about the loss of his inner voice. ‘Some of my best conversations happen inside my head.’ He was as bald as an observatory dome; Klein imagined echoes.
‘Different voices?’ he said.
‘No, just mine. Did you have an inner voice that was different from yours?’
‘No, but I suppose one might.’
‘Where would it be coming from?’
‘From a different part of oneself, I should think.’
‘How different?’
‘Well, mostly I’m Harold, right? But maybe I’ve got a Jim part as well.’
‘Chelsea supporter, hangs out with the lads at the pub, owns a Rottweiler, has a tattoo?’
‘Maybe not that different.’
‘Jekyll and Hyde spring to mind, or maybe
The Case of Charles Dexter Ward.
“Doe not call upp Any that you cannot put downe.” Flannery and Klein were both well-grounded in H. P. Lovecraft.
‘Nothing like that,’ said Klein.
‘Has Jim said anything interesting lately?’
‘Not yet.’
They talked of Klimt, Kieslovski, and Egberto Gismonti over their tortellini and lasagne. ‘Do you use the Internet?’ said Klein.
‘I haven’t got round to that yet, I’m afraid I’d become addicted to it. You?’
‘From time to time; it’s useful for research.’
After lunch they walked down to Great Russell Street, then over to Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street and the Virgin Megastore, where they headed for the video department. Klein bought, among others,
BringMe the Head of Alfredo Garcia.
Flannery included
Point Blank
in his purchases. They both possessed recordings from TV of these all-time favourites but they liked the pretty boxes.
15
Second Session
Klein ignored holidays and celebrations as much as possible. On Hallowe’en, his neighbourhood being ever more gentrified, little groups of middle-class trick-or-treaters rang his bell but he didn’t answer the door. On Guy Fawkes night the gunpowder-smelling streets were hung with smoke as fireworks
Similar Books
