Romance | Reading | Books | Grief | Harry Hogg
Overheard, A Conversation in the Library
I was just in the mood to write something romantic
She was sitting in the local library wearing a yellow t-shirt and blue shorts. I suspected the reason for her being there was to enjoy the air conditioning, with the outside temperature being 99°. But what about the old chap sitting an armchair’s width from her wearing a long brown corduroy coat over a mustard color sweater? He has on brown slacks, and a yellow scarf wrapped round his neck. His hair, thick with grease, laid flat, several strands quite unruly and in his hands, he carries the works of John Donne.
She, sitting in a corner, her young legs smooth, long down to her tan sandals. The old chap, wearing the coat, moves to sit closer. She appeared uncomfortable, and looked up fleetingly, then turned her eyes back to stare nowhere particularly.
They sat like that for a few minutes.
I heard the man say, without directing his voice in the young woman’s direction. “I do that…. you know… stare at an imaginary wall,” he said, “as if to nowhere, nothing, or to someone.”
The young woman, whose hair glimpsed so blonde in the light streaming through a high window above the ‘Hobby Section,’ said. “I’m sorry….?” believing he had spoken to her.
“You know…. stare off into nowhere, to nothing….I do it a lot.”
“Oh, I see…. Yes….” and she looks away.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, and then, “Cyrano De Bergerac?” pointing with a spindly finger to the book lying open in her lap.
She didn’t need the conversation, which was clear, but was kind enough not to ignore him.
“Yes…yes…. “ she said and turned the book over, looking down at its cover, smiling.
The wiry old chap said, “Rostand, of course. Great story… composer…everything…wonderful book, it’s long been a favorite of mine. “Tranquill.… romantic …. funny. Everything one wants in a love story.”
“It was a favorite my husband. I only just found it again…. he read it all the time,” she said, and her face finally showed an interest in what the old chap had said.
“Ah…. did I hear you say was a favorite?”
“Yes. He died three months ago. He was a soldier,” she said…fingering the cover of the book.
The old chap turned a little more toward her. “I’m deeply sorry for you…. that explains you staring away. Thinking, of course, about him still, a soldier.”
“Sometimes, when I read the things he read, I can hear him,” she said, turning herself toward him a little.
“That’s Rostand,” he said.
“No, I mean I think I can hear my husband…. I’m sorry… I’m talking too much,” and she opened the book and stared down.
“I meant to say, Rostand can do that…. you can hear your husband talking to you inside Rostand’s words.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose so. My husband had a favorite passage. Whenever he came to it, he would read it to me… it made me stare…yes,” she said, and her eyes came a little more alive.
“Tell me, dear… what passage was it?”
“Oh, it’s silly…. pay me no mind. I’m just being silly.”
“Please…. I would be complimented if you would read it to me. I’d like to hear what passage of Rostand’s writing makes you look away,” he said so kindly.
“Took me away?” She said.
“Yes…. Into his space, your husband’s.”
“Oh, oh, I see… thank you, I’d rather not,” she said, her cheeks flushed.
“Could it have been…” he said…
‘Roxane, adieu! I soon must die!
This very night, beloved; and I
Feel my soul heavy with love untold.
I die! No more, as in days of old,
My loving, longing eyes will feast
On your least gesture — ay, the least!
I mind me the way you touch your cheek
With your finger, softly, as you speak!
Ah me! I know that gesture well!
My heart cries out! — I cry “Farewell.”
“Who are you? How could you have known?” She said, facing the old chap head on, her eyes signaling she wanted to know more.
“Rostand speaks for us all. He speaks for your husband, does he not?”
“Please… tell me who are you? You’re frightening me.”
But the old chap only smiled. “Roxane, adieu!” He said, rising from his chair, a glint of something metal hiding beneath his long coat.
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