The Illumination_ A Novel - Kevin Brockmeier [102]
Morse scoured the shelves for the second of his two books. Impressionist Masterpieces in Full Color was the kind of oversize hardcover whose thick, coated paper was cool to the touch and gave off a smart perfume of expensive ink. The binding was so heavy he had to support the book on his hip. He wanted his other choice to be smaller, lighter. He was sure he would know it when he saw it. Dimly, as he scanned the bookcase closest to the front door, he heard the noise of an argument, or half an argument, the raised voice of the one letting the dice clitter in his hand, but it was of no significance to him.
The one whose retainer was drawing a silver line across his teeth groaned. “All right, man. Hurry it on up. You can have that one and one other, but that’s it.”
On impulse Morse selected a worn volume with a frayed silk bookmark dangling over its spine from the corner of the top shelf.
“Fine. Fantastic. You have your two books. Now go. Go. You have to go now.”
Morse heard the one on the phone saying, “Okay, okay, we’re done. He’s leaving. Problem solved,” as he placed the wooden box with the brown lettering on the sideboard and took his exit. In the hallway he made the call button glow beneath his index finger. In the elevator he sat like a king on the stool’s satin cushion. From the lobby he retrieved his silver chariot. And then he was gone, back outside, among the night smells and the speeding cars and the bars with their gray windows and the diners with their bright ones.
Because it was late and the alley behind New Fun Ree was unilluminated, Morse wasn’t able to page through the second book until the next day. It turned out to be a diary, handwritten in blue ink, each page lined from top to bottom with thousands of small slanting letters.
I love how dark your hair gets after you wash it. I love waiting for you in the airport at the bottom of the escalator. I love the way you run your hands under the hot water a hundred times a day when it gets cold outside. I love how you “dot all your t’s and cross all your i’s.” I love my birthday present—thank you so much. I love hearing you rise to someone’s defense, and twice in one night, too: Woody Allen and Neville Chamberlain. I love watching you upend a whole bottle of water after you’ve exercised: that little bobber working in your throat, and the gasp you make after you finish swallowing, and the way you slam the bottle back down on the counter. I love how cute you are when we’re watching basketball together and you pretend to care who’s winning. I love your idea for a hard rock supergroup made up of the members of Europe, Asia, and America—Pangaea. I love your cleansing rituals (but I love your dirtying rituals even more). I love your morning breath.
That was all it was, line after line of love notes, none of them longer than a sentence. They appeared to be from the father of the one with the loose shoelaces and the crickety voice, addressed to his mother.
I love the e-mails you send me in the middle of the day.
I love trying to coax you to pick out a restaurant.
I love the way you groan whenever adult human beings start talking about comic books.
The cover was scuffed, the pages were buckled with moisture, and Morse was uncommonly disappointed. No one would ever buy such a thing. He presumed the one who had allowed him to take it would come looking for it within a day or two. He decided to save it for him.
The next week, when the smaller one, the talker, came by to swap his books and slide Morse a few extra dollars, he made a show of considering his choices. “No, not the Lawrence,” he said. “And not the Ramirez. And definitely not the Railey. A man’s got to have some scruples. How about that one?” and he reached for the diary of miniature love letters.
Morse surprised himself with the force of his objection. “No! Not that one.”
“MP!