I am sent to a small town as an emissary of someone I’ve forgotten, my mission there, too forgotten. But I know I’m supposed to be here. The news of a newcomer arriving in the sleepy town spreads like wildfire amongst the remaining residents. I am carrying a brown leather suitcase with a lock protecting its contents; I don’t know what’s inside. I talk with the excited townsfolk; they all mention, and are very proud of, a famous writer having been born and grew up here. I don’t remember the name; I remember not recognizing it when they spoke it. The oldest member of the town, a 200-year-old man, gives me a copy of his favorite work by this author. It’s the first edition, he smiles, showing more gum than teeth. I thank him for the book, and he nods. As I say goodbye, I board a diesel train from the town’s lonely wooden train station. As I sit down, I lay the suitcase down and fish the book out of my large overcoat pocket, which I draped over the corner of the dark red seat I sit on. I open the book, and it’s completely blank. I flip it through, and every page, from start to finish, is completely blank. An attentive older woman sitting across from me, presumably from the town, tells me that I’m reading it wrong. What? I question her, not understanding what she’s saying. She nudges her husband, who’s fast asleep sitting next to her; he wakes and tells me, you’re not supposed to read it like that; it’s not supposed to be read that way.
I am sent to a small town as an emissary of someone I’ve forgotten, my mission there, too forgotten. But I know I’m supposed to be here. The news of a newcomer arriving in the sleepy town spreads like wildfire amongst the remaining residents. I am carrying a brown leather suitcase with a lock protecting its contents; I don’t know what’s inside. I talk with the excited townsfolk; they all mention, and are very proud of, a famous writer having been born and grew up here. I don’t remember the name; I remember not recognizing it when they spoke it. The oldest member of the town, a 200-year-old man, gives me a copy of his favorite work by this author. It’s the first edition, he smiles, showing more gum than teeth. I thank him for the book, and he nods. As I say goodbye, I board a diesel train from the town’s lonely wooden train station. As I sit down, I lay the suitcase down and fish the book out of my large overcoat pocket, which I draped over the corner of the dark red seat I sit on. I open the book, and it’s completely blank. I flip it through, and every page, from start to finish, is completely blank. An attentive older woman sitting across from me, presumably from the town, tells me that I’m reading it wrong. What? I question her, not understanding what she’s saying. She nudges her husband, who’s fast asleep sitting next to her; he wakes and tells me, you’re not supposed to read it like that; it’s not supposed to be read that way.