The Bookseller(17)

“It’s a brilliant move,” Lars is saying approvingly. “It just makes business sense. We design it slick, we design it modern, but even so, we ensure that it’s accessible on a smaller scale. We make it appealing to both the businessman and the passerby—something for everybody, as it were. You’ll be at full capacity before you even open your doors, Bill. You’ll be turning away tenants in droves. You’ll see.”

Bill sips his Scotch. “I absolutely agree, Lars.” He sets down his glass. “And I must say that, after too many discussions with architects who seem to be living in the Victorian age, I appreciate talking with someone who understands foresight as much as I do.”

Under the table, Lars squeezes my hand in triumph. I squeeze his back.

Judy slices herself a piece of bread and nibbles it without butter. “Enough business, boys,” she says. “You can talk about that any time.” She smiles at me, and I automatically smile back, although I am slightly ticked off. I actually wanted to hear more about the new building.

“Judy, you are one hundred percent correct.” Lars nods at her. He’s no dummy; he must realize that to get the husband’s business, he also needs to chitchat with the wife. “Let’s change the subject,” he suggests.

“Let’s,” Judy agrees gaily. “I want to learn about Katharyn. Where did you two meet?”

Lars’s eyes meet mine. “It’s quite a story.”

“Quite,” I agree, and then, not knowing where to go from there, I add, “Why don’t you tell it, dear?”

Lars places his hand over mine. “Believe it or not, this beautiful lady was looking to meet men through the lonely hearts section in the newspaper.” He goes on to tell about my ad, about the letter that he spent days writing, in an effort to get it absolutely perfect. “I waited and waited for her to call,” he says. “I was afraid I had taken too long to write. Perhaps she’d already met some other fellow.” His eyes are downcast, but I can see that they are merry under his lashes. “And then one night the telephone rang.”

“We talked for hours.” I take up the tale. “And made plans to meet.” After that, I don’t know what else to say. The story is true so far, but only in a dream could it have ended here, in this restaurant, instead of where it actually did—with Lars deceased, with me sitting alone and unaware in a coffee shop.

“And then, as we were lingering over a few last words to each other on the telephone line, I began to feel a tight pain in my chest,” Lars says. “I had trouble breathing. Katharyn must have heard it in my voice, because she asked what was wrong. I told her that I was having chest pains. ‘Good heavens, where are you?’ she asked, and the last thing I remember is giving her my address. Then I blacked out.”

I stare at him, shocked. That did not happen.

In the real world, what happened is that we said good-bye and hung up the telephone. And two days later, he failed to appear at the coffee shop.

Now it all makes perfect sense. In the real world, Lars did have a heart attack and die, just as the newspaper obituary said he did.

What I hadn’t realized—until now—is that it happened that very night.

It happened only moments after we got off the telephone.


So. This is the part where, if I were at a movie theater or watching a program on television, I might just laugh aloud. I would shake my head. Honestly, I might think, this is simply too absurd to continue. I would contemplate getting up from my seat, walking out of the theater, or turning off the television set.

But I can’t do that. I am forced to stick around. Like a bug caught on flypaper, I don’t have any choice in the matter.

Regardless of how absurd or unbelievable it may be, I cannot seem to leave. I cannot get out of this dream.


Judy leans forward. “My, what a story,” she says. “Tell me, Katharyn, what happened next?”

And suddenly, in a rush—in the way things happen only in dreams, of course—I know exactly what happened next.

“I knew something serious must have gone on,” I begin. “I knew I needed to act quickly. I’d scratched Lars’s address on a piece of paper, and I picked it up and ran next door to my neighbor’s. I wanted to leave my telephone line open, you see, in case he regained consciousness. I knocked on the neighbor’s door, and when she answered, I rushed for her telephone and called the police. When I explained what had happened, they said they’d dispatch a squad car and an ambulance right away. I explained briefly to my neighbor what was happening. Then I went back to my apartment and picked up the telephone and called his name, but he didn’t come back on the line. Finally I could hear someone banging on his door, then breaking in. I heard lots of excitement and voices, and I could tell they were trying to do something medically with him, though of course I had no idea what.”

Judy’s eyes are huge over her martini glass. “Goodness, you must have been frightened out of your wits!”

“I was.” Nodding, I continue. “I kept calling through the line, trying to get someone to talk to me. Finally a man picked up the telephone. When I told him I was the one who had rung for help, he said it appeared that Lars had had a heart attack. I asked where they were taking him, and he told me they were on their way to Porter Hospital.

“I didn’t really think. I just grabbed a coat, called for a taxi—I didn’t have a car back then—and went outside. When I got to the emergency room at Porter, I gave Lars’s name and tried to get someone to tell me what was going on, but no one would. I didn’t know what else to do, so I sat down in the waiting room. No one else was there. After what felt like an eternity, a man and a woman came in. The woman said her brother had been brought in because he’d had a heart attack. She was taken into the treatment area. The man with her was about to follow, but I caught his arm.”