Page 48 of Lost Room Lawyer
“Then why don’t you stay here today?” Luca suggested. “Have dinner with us and relax a bit.”
“That sounds good, but I need to go home. My wife … It’s our anniversary today.”
The two of them sat in their chairs, observing the extent of my discomfort.
“Can you even get it up with your wife?” Juri asked directly, leaving Luca at a loss for how to react.
I shook my head in exasperation. “We’ll find out tonight.”
I’m just the worst.
Screwing my intern on my wedding anniversary.
You really can’t sink any lower.
14
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Nico
I wandered through the aisles, my eyes gliding over the spines of books lining the shelves. It had been ages since I’d last set foot in a bookstore. The days when I devoured one book after another felt like a distant memory. As a devoted fan of Dostoevsky and Dumas, I had once immersed myself in all their works. But ever since my writer’s block set in, I had stopped reading too, wondering if the two were somehow connected.
As far as I could remember, it had been seven years since I last held a literary work in my hands; that was before law school. It was almost as if I had started to fear literature. Now, as my anxiety was shifting to next Wednesday, when dinner with Hector, his wife, and my father was supposed to take place, I felt a tingling in my fingers. Was it a coincidence that I was suddenly surrounded by literature again, and that the urge to write was spreading within me?
Maybe it was Hector’s fault.
An affair had often inspired the mind.
Never had two weeks passed so quickly in my life. With Gerry in Vevey and Linda on vacation, Hector and I had grown closer—not just physically, but on a personal level as well. Maybe I was imagining it, but I had the impression that Hector’s obsessive-compulsive disorder—his constant handwashing and sanitizing—had eased a bit. It couldn’t just be the cream that healed the wounds on his hands and made his skin smooth again. He also seemed a bit more relaxed—probably due to the frequent sex.
However, since that day Linda had unexpectedly returned to the office, he had been even more on edge than before. Like a watchdog, he reacted to every little sound, even if it was just the door of the office across the hall. It was no longer easyto seduce him, and it was somehow annoying to watch him first draw the curtains in his office while I had an erection. Given the circumstances, fooling around with him in the archive was the easiest. The compulsive disorder, previously manifested in excessive handwashing, had been replaced by an over-cautiousness that was no less neurotic.
As I surveyed the books on display, I realized I was smiling. Strangely enough, that had been happening quite often in recent days. No matter where I was—whether in the shower, at the supermarket, or here in front of literary works I didn’t know—I kept smiling. The only thing I knew was that Hector was somehow responsible for this shift in me. At least, that was what I thought. I couldn’t really explain it.
My gaze wandered over the book covers and landed on a crane.The Birds’ Song of Laughterby Nicola Rossi. I knew it was a reissue; my publisher had recently mentioned they were changing the pastel green background to a dusty rose.
The smile disappeared from my face, and a queasy feeling spread in my stomach. Nevertheless, I picked up one of the books. It was a hardcover with exquisite colored edges and weighed almost five pounds. I leafed through the pages and ran my fingers over the intricately embossed relief print on the cover.
Many authors considered the blurb to be their biggest obstacle. For me, it was now the book itself that stirred my emotions just by looking at it. Some force seemed to choke my throat, and I gasped for air. I tore my gaze away from the book and glanced around.
My mother had come along with me, but she was out of sight, browsing for an art book for her friend Maya’s birthday.
“Can I help you?” a saleswoman asked from a nearby shelf. “Are you searching for something specific?”
I was caught off guard by her unexpected presence and didn’t know how to respond.
“Oh,The Birds’ Song of Laughter… a very beautiful book. Is it for you?”
I frowned in confusion, my gaze drifting back to the crane illustration on the cover in my hands. “I don’t know …” As I turned the book over and scanned the blurb, I felt a wave of nostalgia.
“It’s a bit thick,” the saleswoman said, her tone gentle and understanding. “But I can assure you, it’s worth it. It’s no wonder it won the German Book Prize. The story is about a family that gets increasingly pushed to the edge of society due to the illegal activities of an uncle. They say Nicola Rossi was only eighteen when she published this book.”
She?I smiled. “Eighteen?”
“Yes! I know!” The saleswoman’s eyes sparkled with bibliophilic passion. “Almost like Françoise Sagan! She wroteBonjour Tristesseat seventeen!”
“Hm …” I said thoughtfully, now ready to engage in the conversation. “ButBonjour Tristesse—if I remember correctly—was only about 150 pages.”
