The Last of the Wise Lovers Read Online Free PDF Page B

lemon is sour - so fruit is not always sweet!
       I remember wondering: if the riddle
really is meant to test how well a person can cope with reality without
stubbornly trying to make it fit his needs, and if Mom's answer is incorrect,
am I supposed to understand that Mom isn't a realistic person?  And if she
isn't realistic, maybe she is ignoring some important message that the guy in
the Lincoln Tunnel passed on to her through me, by mistake?  And if she is
ignoring the message, does this mean that an "unpleasant" fate awaits
her, like the guy promised, and that someone she's involved with really is
going to die on the 7th of September?
       The bus climbed the cement ramp to
Port Authority.  I could envision the guy breaking the window of Mom's car
in order to get into the back seat.  I tried not to think about everything
that had happened since then, tried to just erase it all, but the knowledge
that one word from me could warn someone - maybe even just the suggestion that
he should disappear, take off to another city or even to another street around
the 7th of September - was stronger than any other thought or sentence or tune
that I tried to pound into my brain instead.
       I got up and stood by the door.
 When we got to the platform I was the first one off.  I looked back
as I walked down the long, narrow passageway to the main hall of the terminal.
 The escalator was packed with people.  Which of them was plotting
something?  Which of them would be the unwitting victim of some plot?
 I wasn't sure of anything anymore, and I kept looking behind me as I
walked down 42nd Street. The usual bums were splayed out in front of the
library and the coffee shop was still closed.  A workman was perched atop
scaffolding, spraying water at the lintel that bore the inscription
"MUNICIPAL LIBRARY".  Since when had that scaffolding been erected?
 I must have looked pretty lost and confused, because some smiley-faced
guy with a pin on his lapel that said "The City of New York - Department
of Tourism" came up to me right away and asked, "Can I help
you?" Without answering, I ran under the scaffolding and went inside.
       Did I ever tell you what morning at
the library is like?  Well, there were still three more minutes 'till we
were officially open, but the woman in charge, Ms. Yardley (and heaven help
anyone who called her `Miss', even by accident) was already standing at the
ready behind her counter, watching over the three regular employees who were
wiping away at their counters with chamois cloths.  My counter was also
covered with a fine layer of dust.  I wiped it off with my sleeve (my
anti-static chamois was stolen from me the day I got it) and the shellac on the
wood made a pleasant crackling sound.  Next I opened the drawer under the
counter and took out the ledgers, stamps, and forms. Finally I took the slide
wrapped in paper out of my pocket and wedged it in the crack between the
counter and the sign that said "Requests for Books and Periodicals; Course
Registration".  Again I thought: where, for heaven's sake, have I
seen that word ‘agitator’?
       The big hand jumped.  9:00. Ms.
Yardley straightened.  A uniformed guard opened the door that led to the
Reading Room and sat down in the bag-checker's booth.  Another guard
opened the door that led to the corridor just as Mr. K. came running in and
crossed the room, absent-minded as ever.
     "Good morning, Mr. K.," Ms.
Yardley said emphatically.
     "Good morning," Mr. K. dismissed,
hurrying past.
       From that moment on, nothing
happened.  Simply no new clients come to the library at 9:00 in the
morning, especially in the summer when there's no need to get warm.  The
regulars already know how to use the computer to find the titles they're
looking for; they fill out the proper forms themselves and continue on to the
Reading Room to get their books.  Not a single one of them needed help,
and none of them came to register for any of the courses