RUSH (City Lights, #3)(52)
“The Origin of Silence, by 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?”
“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.”
She 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 story behind the 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 audio-book ordering mania.
“What do you think?” Charlotte asked after a while. “Pretty good, right?”
“Pretty good,” I said dryly, “the same way Picasso was a pretty good painter.”
“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, Noah.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. I wasn’t bad, I guess. My editor, Yuri Koslov, was always harping on me about it.”
“For being good?”
“He’d curse at me in Russian and then say…”
“Say what?”
“Never mind. I’ll sound like an arrogant ass.”
“Tell me! Come on. It’s not bragging if it’s the truth.”
I felt warmth grow in my chest at her words. I didn’t talk about my writing a lot. I’d always been too busy with the sports to give it much thought, but I was sort of proud of my articles. And I had to admit, some part of me wanted Charlotte to be proud too.
“All right. Yuri would say, ‘You’re being better than the subject matter. Tone it down or write a book, but if you do the latter, I get first crack at publishing.’”
“Noah!” Her voice was saturated with pleasant surprise, and I could have hugged her. Or kissed her again. Kissed her until we were drunk off each other.
“Do that!” she cried.
“Do what? Write a book?”
“Why not?”
“What would I write about? All the Light I Cannot See?”
“Catchy. Anthony Doerr’s lawyers might disagree, but I like it.”
Of course, Charlotte knew the reference. She was smart. She read a lot, just like me. She had a deep pain she couldn’t shake—stage fright—like me. And everything else I liked about her, I liked because it was the exact opposite of me.
She nudged my knee, and I swear to God I felt it up to my groin. “Think about it, eh?”
Unlike me, Charlotte knew just when to leave a subject alone, and resumed reading the Mendón book. But I wasn’t really listening. When my blood had cooled from her brief touch, I thought about that old saw: write what you know. What did I know? Blackness. That losing my sight made me feel trapped in my own body. Anger, pain, rage. A future of more of the same.
I felt the shadows grow long and steal the sunlight from my skin. A soft hand on my arm; Charlotte had stopped reading.
“What are you thinking about?”
My life, or what’s left of it.
“Not a damn thing.”
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte
On Friday night, I was itching to go out. Melanie was out of town visiting her parents with her girlfriend, Sasha; Anthony was spending the weekend with his new girlfriend in D.C., and Regina rain-checked me for next week. I found myself wandering the townhouse, debating whether or not to go up and ask Noah if he wanted to venture out. Not as a date, of course. No, just as friends. Or an after-work social outing, since he’d made it clear we were employee/employer only. As it should be. The last thing I needed was to have my heart stomped on all over again.
And Noah wasn’t right for me anyway. But for a love of reading, we had nothing in common. He was surly and sharp-tongued, and I’m sure that if he’d known me when he was sighted, he wouldn’t have given a girl like me a second look.