Near half four time-out from the room-hunt. Blasted nuisance, rotten damn waste of time. Library refuge, first visit since the return from Jogja. In the café there was a chance encounter with Ranie after our dinner of last week. (Was the chocolate batik scarf really a welcome gift? enough gold in the intricate beeswax patterning to counteract the perhaps unwelcome choc on brown skin double-up? Late night she had messaged that she liked it; suspiciously adding it was a useful present too.)
Full-house down in the newspaper/basement, only the single pair of legs with a vacant seat adjacent, reading matter unclear. Mandarin it turned out, in Eurasian hands. Neat young lass in red slip-ons not exactly Fuck-me level, resistant to the Wild Side.
Pin-drop silence as usual almost welcome after the noisy Kota Yogyakarta Perpustakaan.
Old men seeking out the aircon, high-heels, one scarf at the other end on the first round. Vlad Nab. on the face of the nearest shelf, yeah, yeah, the Lit and Butterflies quote, what else? The news wouldn't have broken here of his pedophilic pursuits. Colourful butterflies chased by the pith-helmet and net. Vera! Veruska drazenka! Lepidoptery, chocolate cake and literature for Sing' consumption.
Old crocs. soaking up the aircon outnumbering most others. They would get under their wives feet at home. No-Go zone for uncles in shorts, tees and thongs here. The tough guys lay about in the shade outdoors, escorted out quick-smart did they try to breech the Store-house of Knowledge. Breaking the rules dozing—let's see how long before Sec. do their rounds.
Daubed soft-hued landscapes and shop-house frieze around the corner. They gobble this stuff up day after day without OD-ing, hard-core junkies beyond redemption.
Innocent Erendira & Other Stories beside Franzen and Eugenides next shelf-end. None of the Acquisition staff have read any Garcia M. How could they make head or tail of the material?! Within the competence of 3 - 5 % of the population, no more, of bloody course. The Ascot-voiced MRT announcer could be given a nice little examination on her broader competence using one of the old master’s texts. Knee-length polished boots for the interrogation stamping round her chair a little. I ask you once more Madame, page 43, paragraph two…. Saucy bit where a pair of lovers sky-rocket: ".... her breast like ripest melons fallen from the tree directly upon the unwary Eugenio passing on his way to his father’s jewelry store...." Madame, attend!
A short-fuse stink bomb in the stacks, no holding back on the sulphur and taking a seat at the exit where the evacuation could be calmly observed, coming to the aid of the most badly afflicted and getting in the papers next day. There's no caning for over fifty year olds now…. Iridescent turquoise for the.... what did they call the shelf-stackers couple of years ago?... EXPERTISE carried on their backs like a load of firewood. The bus "Captains" on the roads here. Spectacular glory and honour for those at the very apex of the pyramid of course. What were the feeble pharaohs to compare!
Two out to it along the wall, without the snoring in line to get some good catch-up. Aircon savings at home not to be sneezed at, like in the Eastern Bloc heated railway waiting-rooms.
All Vlad's intricate trickery. Let them join the chase. Poor ol' sods trying to get on the trail, step up to Literature, seize the take-away. Might help them win a contract, beat the other guy, upgrade to the penthouse. Rose of Literature growing from the pile of merde.
The Lower River, Theroux, who had a run here in the 60's. Downstairs Ranie had been preparing for her English Enrichment class for Pre- and Junior School with grammar and phonetics for pronunciation. (Sounds like bulldust laid on a mite high right?)
Arthur Conan Doyle, Stendhal (bracketed reminder of his original name), Richard Steele — the sketch in the elaborate wig aiding recall. Richard Steele.
Not a whisper, occasional page-turn and sandal-slap. Still no Malays or Indians. Faintest susurration of kids' voices from the far corner nook or cave thing. Tomorrow night a launch of a magazine in Soho spitting distance from the British Museum where a piece skewering this place will be among the rest of the literature. The very paving-stones where Rich Steele paced three centuries ago.
Chap woken from his nap with an exclamation brought up from beyond. Finally an old bellied Indian striding past at the other end of the Nabokov shelf.
"Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man."
The old Impaler was hardly going to fess up to any more now was he?
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