Aciman Room on the Sea

'Master of the Modern Love Story.' Sunday Times
Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-38516-4
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 176 Seiten

Autoren/Hrsg.

Aciman, André

Leseproben

He was reading the newspaper. She was reading a novel. He looked at her once. She did not look back. She had fair hair, which was combed back, and from the way she held her book and rested it on the knee of her crossed leg, she had the hands of a pianist. He attempted to catch the title of her novel but was unable to make it out. When she turned the page, he tried once more but failed again. Moments later, he made one last try. ‘It’s Wuthering Heights,’ she whispered so as not to disturb the others seated in the large hall. She appeared mildly amused by his curiosity, and to prove that her novel was no secret, turned the book cover for him to see for himself, thinking perhaps that he’d probably never heard of it. He was not sure why he needed to know what she was reading other than because he’d kept failing each time or because, without quite admitting it to himself, he was trying to make conversation. But after showing him the title of her novel she went back to reading and was seemingly more absorbed than before. ‘Actually, I’ve read it twice,’ he said. ‘In school, we used to call it Weather and Heights.’ She thought that was amusing and emitted a quiet, breathless laugh, more out of courtesy than because it was funny. ‘It’s a tired old joke,’ he added, ‘but it holds up if you’ve never heard it before.’ This time she gave a perfunctory smile, did not say anything, and continued reading. He went back to his Wall Street Journal.

She was dressed in light linen with her shoulders exposed on that hot summer Monday but had brought a cotton sweater just in case the air conditioning made the central jury room unbearably cold. But the air conditioning wasn’t working in the large hall where at least two hundred people were bunched together waiting to be selected as jurors. Eventually, at nine thirty, the jury warden picked up his microphone, welcomed everyone, and, with a touch of mirth in his voice, apologized for the cooling system, reminding those present that the heat was just as intolerable to those working in the building as it was to prospective jurors. Everyone seemed grateful for the humour, and a muted chuckle rippled through the hall.

Meanwhile, the man put down his Journal, removed his striped blue worsted wool jacket and laid it, neatly folded in two, on the seat between them. He thought of loosening his necktie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt but decided not to. Before making his passing remark on Weather and Heights, he had started to undo his thick gold cufflinks, shaped like a marine chain, which now dangled at his wrists. His shoes were shimmering black brogues, the kind her husband never wore. His black socks did not droop; her husband’s did. Jonathan never cared if his socks bunched up around his ankles, but this dapper man most likely wore garters around his calves. She could read him like a book: Wall Street, Park Avenue, Ivy League – arrogant, self-satisfied, clearly prejudiced, and knows it too.

They stayed glued to their reading until his name was called out: Wadsworth. Of course, she thought. He was ordered to take the elevator to Court Part 73. ‘Enjoy your reading,’ he said, picking up his jacket and cuffing his sleeves again with the visible ease of someone who, unlike Jonathan, never needed help with cufflinks. ‘Emily Brontë beats the Journal hands down,’ he added.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ she replied.

Definitely lefty, he thought, an opinionated and dismissive Upper West Side liberal who deplored his sort.

He left the main waiting hall and made his way to the courtroom. He seated himself on one of the benches and waited to be called. The lawyers were discussing matters among themselves. Meanwhile, the door behind him opened and he turned around to notice that another group of jurors was being ushered in. She was among them. He noticed that her hair was not dirty blonde as he had first thought when they were seated in the central jury room but an attractive, shiny grey. She caught his glance and rushed to his spot, finding an empty seat right behind him. Leaning forward, she asked: ‘Do you have a way out of this?’

‘I think I do,’ he replied.

‘Please tell me what it is. I can’t afford to be here. Any advice?’

He stood up, grabbed his newspaper, and sat next to her. ‘Two things,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘What exasperates lawyers most when they voir dire you is being answered with a straight yes or no, not a single syllable more. They’ll figure you’re either a lawyer or have some experience with the bench and suspect you’ll see right through their legal shenanigans. I’m wearing a lawyer’s suit – they know why, and they know I know why. Basically, they’ll know I’m a lawyer and they don’t want a lawyer controlling the jury room during deliberations. As for you, don’t volunteer anything. Just a simple yes or no.

‘Now, since this is criminal court they’ll ask if you’ve ever been the victim of a crime. They might give you a chance to elaborate on one such incident. In the past, I told them the truth: I’ve had no experience with crime, but I’ll add that my mother was mugged at gunpoint while she stood at the cash desk in a supermarket. This will most probably please the prosecution. But then I’ll remind the judge that the police did not pay attention to a word she said when they arrived at the scene. Because she spoke with a foreign accent, the officers proved so hostile to her that she lost all respect for them and refused to file a report. “Can you be impartial?” the judge will ask. “Honestly, Your Honour, I don’t know, but I’ll try my best.” It worked twice in the recent past. Both the defence and prosecution felt uncertain about me and didn’t want me as a juror.’

As it turned out, when his turn came, he did as he had told her he would and was summarily dismissed and sent back to the central jury room. He took out his copy of the Wall Street Journal and picked up where he had left off before being called to the courtroom. When, after more than an hour, he saw that she wasn’t coming back, he figured she must have fumbled her reply to one or both lawyers, and had, as a result, been empanelled.

But no. Fifteen minutes after he’d given up, the elevator bell rang and she appeared in the main hall. She looked around, spotted him, and walked straight up to him.

‘It worked!’ She was beaming like a child.

‘Don’t tell anyone I told you.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

‘It’s a well-kept secret. You know,’ he added, removing his jacket from the empty seat next to him to make room for her, ‘I once told someone about a hotel in Naples where I always stayed because of an important client I had there. The hotel was not particularly pretty but one room was heavenly. “Ask for Room 68B and none other,” I said. Well, ever since that day, the rumour must have spread like wildfire among people in my line because I could no longer book that same room. I eventually found a better hotel with a better view of the city – of the shoreline and Mount Vesuvius. But now mum’s the word.’

‘I won’t breathe a word,’ she said. ‘In my business, we know how to keep secrets.’

‘What’s your business?’ he asked, feeling he could already guess.

‘Basically a headshrinker,’ she replied with a slight giggle and a touch of meekness verging on an apology for her profession. The word headshrinker fell like an old punchline to a joke that’s been retold too many times to need an intro. Then, with a touch of boldness that almost surprised him: ‘What’s the name of the hotel?’

‘Its name is Albergo Segreto, i.e., the Secret Hotel.’

She pondered the answer. ‘Oh!’ she finally exclaimed. ‘So, you’re not going to tell me?’ There was an affected, slighted pout to her voice. He liked how she pretended to reproach him without meaning to.

‘I’ll tell you, but not before you explain what you told the judge.’

As it turned out, she hadn’t made up a story for the judge. Her daughter, walking with her four-year-old son, had been robbed in plain sight on Columbus Avenue. She had right away called 911 and when the police came they asked her to describe the perpetrator. She had been so flustered and so frightened for her child that she hadn’t focused on the criminal and was unable to describe him to the police. They told her to come to the precinct to file a report. ‘But by then the mugger will have disappeared,’ she’d objected. ‘Lady,’ said one of the two officers with a cheeky, all-knowing smile on his face, obviously enjoying what he was about to tell her, ‘your mugger disappeared long, long ago.’ Your...