Read Online Zenith Hotel by Oscar Coop-Phane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Oscar Coop-Phane
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slightly upper-class accent, he’d be a man of letters. The novel was not progressing, but in the meantime, he cultivated his personal style. A real man of letters, slightly dirty, slightly pedantic. He wanted to suffer outrageously, take drugs, find inspiration, write all night long by candlelight. So much more stylish than a neon lamp. Brown ink, yellowing pages, notebooks in his pockets and stained fingers. He fancied the idea of himself assad, tormented, hunched over a piece of paper. He bought a pair of owl spectacles and looked for a muse. While waiting for his true muse, the lady of the night who would make him bleed, he made do with Kim Carnes. Sitting on the sleeve of her LP, a gun-toting man beside her. Oh! Kim Carnes! The perfect woman, sitting cross-legged on her velvet sofa. And he listened to ‘Bette Davis Eyes’, dreaming of her, inhaling her anguished voice deep inside his soul.
The novel began something like this:
‘Have you ever noticed,’ he said, ‘how an empty cup on your table in a café looks perfectly natural if it’s yours, and dirty, disgusting even, if it was there when you sat down?’
It was a good idea to start with a real-life incident. But after that he was stuck. That was the end of his career as a scribbler.
He gave up on the idea. He sat on his wooden chair and waited for it to blow over.
2
Robert looks at himself from a distance. He smiles when he pictures himself a few months earlier, obsessed with the idea of being a man of letters,allowing his hair to grow, donning a cravat every morning. Yes, he has a good laugh when he thinks back on that phase. But he’s not ashamed, it feels as if it happened to someone else. That man can’t be him, that clownish scribbler with cufflinks and a rusty inkwell. No way can that be him. So let’s laugh at him because he really is ridiculous.
Robert is able to see himself from a great distance . That is a strength, but it’s also a trap. He doesn’t recognize himself at all. He sees himself rather in the way that people insist that the curly-headed little boy perched proudly on his tricycle, that little boy in the photograph you’re holding, is you, at Grandma’s, the summer you were five. You can’t be ashamed of him. Of the snot dripping from his nose, it doesn’t matter, it’s not really you. No memories of that tricycle ride in Grandma’s garden. All right, if you’re sure it’s me, I believe you. But that little boy doesn’t affect you. He’s cute, there’s snot dribbling from his nose. And then what? He’s only you because people say so.
That’s what Robert feels; he has no need of a photo or of a childhood. His own memories are alien to him.
Today, Robert has bought a new tree. He hasn’t named it yet. He certainly intends to find a name for it. We’ll see later, he thinks. Right now, he needs something to eat, his rumbling stomach is his main concern. He can’t do anything on an empty stomach. Some people can think more clearly when they’re hungry, but with him it’s the opposite. I’ll have a four-cheese pizza. Yes, to take away. That’s quick! Yes, of course, it’s because you’re Italian, how silly of me!
He eats his pizza at the little kitchen table and gradually his head fills with dwarf tree names. He’s made up his mind, it will be Billy the Kid. That sounds cool, as if he’d bought it in the USA. A little tree from Houston, Texas. A tree with cowboy boots and a gun. Now that
is
cool! The next one will be a Mexican, he’ll dress it in a little poncho and a big hat. Oh, his little trees are so lovely! If he looks after them well, they’ll outlive him. It’ll be his opus, his mark. But who will he leave his dwarf trees to? Who would be prepared to take them into their living room as if they were their own children, water them with a mineral-water spray and prune the superfluous little branches? Bah, he’ll find someone. For the time being, he’s looking after them, and he’s happy.
It’s
The novel began something like this:
‘Have you ever noticed,’ he said, ‘how an empty cup on your table in a café looks perfectly natural if it’s yours, and dirty, disgusting even, if it was there when you sat down?’
It was a good idea to start with a real-life incident. But after that he was stuck. That was the end of his career as a scribbler.
He gave up on the idea. He sat on his wooden chair and waited for it to blow over.
2
Robert looks at himself from a distance. He smiles when he pictures himself a few months earlier, obsessed with the idea of being a man of letters,allowing his hair to grow, donning a cravat every morning. Yes, he has a good laugh when he thinks back on that phase. But he’s not ashamed, it feels as if it happened to someone else. That man can’t be him, that clownish scribbler with cufflinks and a rusty inkwell. No way can that be him. So let’s laugh at him because he really is ridiculous.
Robert is able to see himself from a great distance . That is a strength, but it’s also a trap. He doesn’t recognize himself at all. He sees himself rather in the way that people insist that the curly-headed little boy perched proudly on his tricycle, that little boy in the photograph you’re holding, is you, at Grandma’s, the summer you were five. You can’t be ashamed of him. Of the snot dripping from his nose, it doesn’t matter, it’s not really you. No memories of that tricycle ride in Grandma’s garden. All right, if you’re sure it’s me, I believe you. But that little boy doesn’t affect you. He’s cute, there’s snot dribbling from his nose. And then what? He’s only you because people say so.
That’s what Robert feels; he has no need of a photo or of a childhood. His own memories are alien to him.
Today, Robert has bought a new tree. He hasn’t named it yet. He certainly intends to find a name for it. We’ll see later, he thinks. Right now, he needs something to eat, his rumbling stomach is his main concern. He can’t do anything on an empty stomach. Some people can think more clearly when they’re hungry, but with him it’s the opposite. I’ll have a four-cheese pizza. Yes, to take away. That’s quick! Yes, of course, it’s because you’re Italian, how silly of me!
He eats his pizza at the little kitchen table and gradually his head fills with dwarf tree names. He’s made up his mind, it will be Billy the Kid. That sounds cool, as if he’d bought it in the USA. A little tree from Houston, Texas. A tree with cowboy boots and a gun. Now that
is
cool! The next one will be a Mexican, he’ll dress it in a little poncho and a big hat. Oh, his little trees are so lovely! If he looks after them well, they’ll outlive him. It’ll be his opus, his mark. But who will he leave his dwarf trees to? Who would be prepared to take them into their living room as if they were their own children, water them with a mineral-water spray and prune the superfluous little branches? Bah, he’ll find someone. For the time being, he’s looking after them, and he’s happy.
It’s
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