The Bad Book Affair. Ian SansomЧитать онлайн книгу.
eh?’
‘No,’ said Israel.
‘Good,’ said Ted. ‘Go all right?’
‘It was horrific,’ said Israel.
‘No,’ said Ted. ‘Having no arms and legs would be horrific.’
‘Right,’ said Israel. ‘Yes. Of course. I forgot. I am lucky to have the use of my arms and legs.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ted. ‘Count your blessings.’
Israel counted his blessings all the way to the visitors’ car park at the Myowne mobile home park, their last stop of the week, 1 p.m.-5 p.m., the traditional rush as Tumdrum’s many mobile home dwellers changed their books for the weekend.
‘So,’ said Israel, staring out at the grey expanse of the strand.
‘So,’ said Ted, producing his ancient orange-coloured Tupperware lunchbox. ‘Back to normal, then.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Israel.
‘Do you no good, lying in yer bed,’ said Ted.
‘No,’ agreed Israel, for the sake of peace and quiet.
‘Weather’s not looking the best,’ said Ted, tucking into the first of his customary two-ham-sandwich lunch. ‘It’s autumn, mind. So what do you expect?’ In the absence of anyone else to actually argue with, Ted enjoyed arguing with himself. He was pretty much self-sufficient, conversationally.
‘What are books, do you think, Ted?’
‘What are books?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you losing your mind?’ said Ted, with sandwich poised.
‘No. I’m just…interested.’
‘Ye’re not eating right,’ said Ted. ‘Your mother’d be on to me if she knew.’
‘Right.’
‘What are ye eatin’? Weetabix and lettuce? D’ye want a bite?’ He held out his sandwich between his fingers.
‘No, thank you.’
Ted then proceeded to peel open the two slices of white bread and peer carefully inside, as though he were Howard Carter uncovering the entrance to the tomb of Tutankhamen.
‘They’re ham.’
‘I know they’re ham. You have ham every day, Ted. You have eaten a ham sandwich every lunchtime ever since I’ve known you. You only eat ham sandwiches at lunch.’
‘Aye, well, and I’m offering you a bite, seeing as the condition ye’re in, but it’s an offer I’ll not make again in all pobability, given your attitude.’
‘Probability,’ said Israel.
‘Exactly,’ said Ted.
‘You’re offering me a bite of your ham sandwich?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, I would accept, under normal circumstances,’ said Israel, wearily, ‘but as you well know, Ted, I’M A VEGETARIAN.’
The vegetarian conversation was another one of the conversations that Ted and Israel had had at least once a day every day since Israel had arrived in Tumdrum—along with the conversation about Israel resigning, and why there were no longer any great Irish boxers—yet the memory of it seemed to leave no trace with Ted, like the taste of tofu, or Quorn. Ted took a long and very noisy slurp of tea from the plastic cup of his old tartan Thermos flask.
‘Aye, well, the vegetenarianism’d be yer problem. Ye’ve the skitters, have ye?’
‘What?’
‘Aye, all them there fruit and vegetables, skittering the guts out of ye. It’s a wonder ye’re not on the po the whole time.’
‘I have been vegetarian for many years, Ted. And my digestive system remains in good working order, thank you.’
Ted finished one sandwich and then slid another from under the firmly elastic-banded lid of his lunchbox.
‘So ye’re just off yer food, are ye?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Ye frettin’ about yer birthday, eh? And the girl?’ Ted spoke with his mouth full, pointing at Israel with the sharp end of the sandwich.
‘No. I am not fretting about my birthday. And no, I am not fretting about Gloria.’
‘Well, it’s strange but, isn’t it, seeing as ye were a wee ball of lard when you were with her.’
‘I was not a “wee ball of lard” when I was with Gloria, thank you, Ted.’
‘Wee bunty, so you were. Ye want to get back on the stew and the Guinness, boy. Get a good rozner in ye, ye’d be right as rain.’
‘A rozner?’
‘A good feed, boy, and ye’ll be out gropin’ the hens again.’
‘Well. Thank you for your dietary and relationship advice, Ted. To the point, as ever.’
‘I tell ye, ye’ll be playing the vibraphone on your ribs soon enough ye keep this up.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s not healthy, so it’s not, losing all that weight like that. Ye’ll see. Ye’ll put it all back on again. Ye’re depressed, just.’
‘I am not depressed, Ted.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve just got things on my mind,’ said Israel.
‘Very dangerous,’ said Ted, mid-mouthful.
Ted finished his sandwich in silence, screwed the cup back on the top of his Thermos, and looked at his watch.
‘Books,’ said Israel.
‘Books?’ said Ted.
‘What are they?’
‘Ach, knock it off,’ said Ted.
‘I mean a book is not a person, is it? Or an idea. Not just an idea.’
‘No,’ said Ted, uninterested.
‘It’s not an issue or a theme.’
‘No,’ said Ted. ‘I’ll tell you what it is: a book is a blinkin’ book, for goodness’ sake. End of conversation.’
‘But—’ began Israel.
At which point a man entered the van.
‘Hi!’ he said.
‘Hello,’ said Israel.
‘Saved by the bell,’ said Ted. ‘I’m away for a smoke here. Think you can cope?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Israel.
‘Not going to go crazy in my absence?’
‘No, Ted. I am not going to go crazy.’
‘Good,’ said Ted. ‘Watch him,’ he instructed the man. ‘He’s a bit…’—he tapped a finger to the side of his head—‘ye know.’
The man was wearing a navy crombie jacket, faded jeans, and cowboy boots, a look that was one part bohemian to one part gentleman farmer, to one part middle manager in corporate marketing. He also sported a goatee beard, which added to the overall effect, and which gave him a rather sincere appearance, as if he’d just made a decision and was mulling over the consequences, and he also had close-cropped hair, which made him look as if the decision he’d just made was a serious one, possibly related to the military, or the sale of some new kind of social-networking software. Israel wondered whether it might be an idea for him to have his hair cut short,