Read Online The Rabbit Back Literature Society by Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen
Tags: Fantasy, Contemporary
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hostess.
Martti Winter assured those who asked him that Ms White would be joining them very soon. The night was still young. She had simply lost herself in writing the much-anticipated book that was to appear next fall—which according to the publisher’s press release was to be titled
The Return of Emperor Rat
.
Ah! the people sighed, casting a look of enchantment up the stairs.
It was said that
The Return of Emperor Rat
would be Laura White’s last book in the Creatureville series. Winter had asked the authoress about it a few days earlier at a party thrown by the mayor. White had smiled and said,
Martti, dear, we should never talk about what we’re writing, or our writing might turn into nothing but talk
.
One of the caterers came up to Winter and tugged on his sleeve.
“Ms White has a terrible headache,” she whispered. “Do you know where I might find something she can take for it?”
“I doubt that headache medicine will be much use for one of her migraines,” Winter said. “She should lie down in a dark room. And she shouldn’t be disturbed unless she specifically requests it.”
“But she was sitting in her office and getting ready to come downstairs just moments ago, and she is the hostess of the party, so perhaps I should take her some painkillers…”
Winter broke away and moved clumsily among the crowd, accidentally elbowing and shoving some of the guests—he was attempting out of old habit to slip through gaps that were much too narrow for his present shape.
He drank some wine for the sake of form, then ate that much more intently. As he did he was dimly aware of meeting teachers, journalists, local politicians, theatre people, members of book clubs and amateur authors who were very excited about him and his literary career.
As always in these situations, he was also approached by those who thought of him as some sort of messiah, who tried desperately to make an impression upon meeting the One True Writer.They quoted aphorisms to him, recited homespun poetry, and performed lines from plays they had in desk drawers at home.
Winter strove to be the humble, grateful, polite author and take his admirers seriously, but he couldn’t stay focused on anyone for more than a moment.
Ah, you’re writing a play? Wonderful. I hope you finish it. By the way, do you think that’s sachertorte or just ordinary cake? Are the chocolate-covered almonds all gone?
A couple of times he almost ran into another Society member, but an imperceptible course correction on both sides always saved the situation.
Then he noticed Ingrid Katz.
She kept flashing into view all over the room, and Winter became nervous when he realized that there was no point in trying to escape her. Her top knot kept coming closer, slicing across the room like a shark’s fin.
Winter filled his plate and left the drawing room. He found a quiet place in a back room where he might continue enjoying the party.
Ingrid Katz appeared in the doorway.
“Have you seen the new demigod anywhere?” she asked.
Winter waved his cake spoon and grunted as some icing fell on his expensive necktie.
“Ella Milana? Isn’t she somewhere in the crowd? I just met her a moment ago.”
“What about Laura White? I haven’t seen her once today.”
He touched his temple. “Migraine.”
“Ouch,” Katz said.
Then she walked over to the fireplace and stooped to dig around in her bag. “Does my fellow author happen to have a match?” she asked at last.
“Your fellow author doesn’t smoke anymore,” Winter said.
“Ah. That’s something new. We’ll have to talk about that. But I should find a match so I can burn these books.”
Winter glanced at her. She had a bundle of books in her hand and a meaningful look in her eye. He didn’t feel like interpreting what it might mean, however. He took another bite of cake and smiled a little.
“Children’s book author and librarian Ingrid Katz burning books, again,” he said.
Katz clicked her
Martti Winter assured those who asked him that Ms White would be joining them very soon. The night was still young. She had simply lost herself in writing the much-anticipated book that was to appear next fall—which according to the publisher’s press release was to be titled
The Return of Emperor Rat
.
Ah! the people sighed, casting a look of enchantment up the stairs.
It was said that
The Return of Emperor Rat
would be Laura White’s last book in the Creatureville series. Winter had asked the authoress about it a few days earlier at a party thrown by the mayor. White had smiled and said,
Martti, dear, we should never talk about what we’re writing, or our writing might turn into nothing but talk
.
One of the caterers came up to Winter and tugged on his sleeve.
“Ms White has a terrible headache,” she whispered. “Do you know where I might find something she can take for it?”
“I doubt that headache medicine will be much use for one of her migraines,” Winter said. “She should lie down in a dark room. And she shouldn’t be disturbed unless she specifically requests it.”
“But she was sitting in her office and getting ready to come downstairs just moments ago, and she is the hostess of the party, so perhaps I should take her some painkillers…”
Winter broke away and moved clumsily among the crowd, accidentally elbowing and shoving some of the guests—he was attempting out of old habit to slip through gaps that were much too narrow for his present shape.
He drank some wine for the sake of form, then ate that much more intently. As he did he was dimly aware of meeting teachers, journalists, local politicians, theatre people, members of book clubs and amateur authors who were very excited about him and his literary career.
As always in these situations, he was also approached by those who thought of him as some sort of messiah, who tried desperately to make an impression upon meeting the One True Writer.They quoted aphorisms to him, recited homespun poetry, and performed lines from plays they had in desk drawers at home.
Winter strove to be the humble, grateful, polite author and take his admirers seriously, but he couldn’t stay focused on anyone for more than a moment.
Ah, you’re writing a play? Wonderful. I hope you finish it. By the way, do you think that’s sachertorte or just ordinary cake? Are the chocolate-covered almonds all gone?
A couple of times he almost ran into another Society member, but an imperceptible course correction on both sides always saved the situation.
Then he noticed Ingrid Katz.
She kept flashing into view all over the room, and Winter became nervous when he realized that there was no point in trying to escape her. Her top knot kept coming closer, slicing across the room like a shark’s fin.
Winter filled his plate and left the drawing room. He found a quiet place in a back room where he might continue enjoying the party.
Ingrid Katz appeared in the doorway.
“Have you seen the new demigod anywhere?” she asked.
Winter waved his cake spoon and grunted as some icing fell on his expensive necktie.
“Ella Milana? Isn’t she somewhere in the crowd? I just met her a moment ago.”
“What about Laura White? I haven’t seen her once today.”
He touched his temple. “Migraine.”
“Ouch,” Katz said.
Then she walked over to the fireplace and stooped to dig around in her bag. “Does my fellow author happen to have a match?” she asked at last.
“Your fellow author doesn’t smoke anymore,” Winter said.
“Ah. That’s something new. We’ll have to talk about that. But I should find a match so I can burn these books.”
Winter glanced at her. She had a bundle of books in her hand and a meaningful look in her eye. He didn’t feel like interpreting what it might mean, however. He took another bite of cake and smiled a little.
“Children’s book author and librarian Ingrid Katz burning books, again,” he said.
Katz clicked her
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