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“Yeah, intense. And it would have been a hell of a lot worse if you hadn’t been there. I think I was drunk on pain and exhaustion. Bottom line, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I let out a slow breath.So that sucked.
“Oh. Okay,” Charlotte said, her voice sounding strange and distant. I couldn’t tell if she were relieved, indifferent…
Or maybe disappointed?
She inhaled like she was going to say more, but I guessed she changed her mind. I heard a creaking sound as she rummaged in the wicker basket.
“I brought a book.”
So she wasn’t disappointed. She was cool with it. Moving on. I leaned back on my hands, pretending like a fucking madman that didn’t bother me. “Okay.”
“You might be tired of listening to other people read with all your audiobooks, but I thought you might like this one.”
She was right; I was sick of the audiobooks. I wanted to read words on a page but what was my alternative? Learn Braille? Exhausting just to contemplate.
“What’s the book?”
“The Origin of Silenceby Rafael Melendez Mendón. Ever heard of him?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“He’s really good, and this is his latest. The one he sort of debuted with as he came out of his self-imposed exile.”
“Oh yeah? Exile?”
“He had been living in San Francisco, alone, writing award-winning books, and no one knew who he was. Then he published this one,Origin of Silence, and sort of re-emerged into the world…” Her voice changed, grew heavy. “I’m sorry, I just realized how all this must sound to you.”
“What do you mean? A recluse holed up in a big city?” I affected a slightly stupid expression. “I don’t see a connection.”
Charlotte laughed. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just really good.”
“You’ve read it already?”
“Yes, but I’m willing to go again; it’s that good.”
“All right, let’s hear it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I lay down on the blanket and listened to her voice unfurl the story of a guy named Eduardo who journeys to South America and discovers the Midnight City—a ruinous city deep in the jungle and appearing only at night. By the end of chapter two, Eduardo is trapped there and has come face-to-face with the city’s ruler—a cold, bitter-hearted man who also happens to look as if he were Eduardo’s identical twin.
I fell into the story, amazed at how this Mendón guy could weave his words so perfectly—to form a whole picture seemingly effortlessly, while also telling a storybehindthe words. His ability to craft subtext and allegory was insane. I could believe he was an award-winner and wondered how I’d missed him in all my audiobook ordering mania.
“What do you think?” Charlotte asked after a while. “Pretty good, right?”
“Pretty good,” I said dryly. “The same way Picasso was apretty goodpainter.”
“Yeah, Mendón’s not too shabby.” A pause. I heard more grass plucking. “Didn’t you tell me you liked to write too? For the magazine?”
“Yeah.”
“I read one of your articles. Okay, I read more than one. A few. You’re really good too, Noah.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. I wasn’t bad, I guess. My editor, Yuri Koslov, was always harping on me about it.”
