Book

The voice on the other end sounds soft and gentle, as if hushed by the owner, afraid to overwhelm the listener's delicate ear. They exchange specific information, then polite farewells. "Thursday, if it suits you." Yes, yes, of course, and where, oh no, it's up to you to choose the place, just tell me." She squirms, her finger sliding over the phone buttons, blushing boldly; he can't see her anyway. Whose voice does that belong to? The kind you could follow to hell. He insists she choose the meeting place herself, he'll show up, he'll comply. This is too much, it's almost unbearable. It's a nuisance for you, after all, you've gone to so much trouble, you've already gone to so much trouble, you've found my phone number... Let it be as you please. The man is an implacable gentleman, waiting for her to tell him where and when she's supposed to be.

He remembers the name of the first café on the street she comes back from work. They agree on a time, and with relief, she wishes him a pleasant evening.

She hangs up and writes in her calendar: Thursday, 9:00 PM, book pickup. She considers for a moment whether to add something, whether to mention his name, since he's already introduced himself, then puts down her pen and closes the calendar.

On Thursday morning, she'll remember her evening meeting with the owner of the voice. A man with a voice like that can't look ordinary, it occurs to her, but she tries to push the thought away. Not to imagine, not to expect anything. There's no point. She'll pick up the book, buy him coffee, and they'll go their separate ways.

When she crosses the threshold of the café, she's calm, confident in her beauty, accentuated by a touch of makeup and well-fitting clothes. What does appearance have to do with picking up lost items? She can't answer that question. She feels like she needs beauty for this meeting, needs her own attractiveness, like support, like justification for his behavior, for this whole affair of him finding the book she left on the dirty seat of a suburban train, of finding her phone number from the name carelessly scribbled in the upper left corner of the first page, of his gallant disposition, his selfless willingness to show up at the place and time she indicated just to return her lost item.

He's not there, or maybe he is; she's never seen him before. She takes out her cell phone and dials his number. Indeed, he's not there, he's late, he apologizes, he's even a little out of breath, as if he's just run to her from across town. No problem, I'm already here, waiting inside.

She sits down at a table and orders a glass of wine. Waiters bustle around, stealing glances at her. I look beautiful again, she thinks realistically, without enthusiasm. The mirror on the wall reflects her large eyes, her red lips.

She takes a sip of wine, looks around, takes a newspaper from her bag, and leans over it, seemingly only for a moment. The article captivates her, making her forget everything. A slim guy in a light jacket stands with his back to her table and surveys the people around him. Then she takes her phone out of her pocket. It's not for nothing that she lingers on it for a moment, as an electronic ringtone rings in her bag. She doesn't answer, but calls his name. The guy turns, and then they see each other for the first time, and they already know who they were talking to on the phone, who left the book on the train, who found it.

He's slim, pale like a boy, with short dark hair neatly combed to the side. Beautifully shaped eyes, she thinks, surveying his face expressionlessly, as if he didn't want to show her anything, to convey anything with his appearance. It's eyes like these that are rightly called almond-shaped, because of their slightly slanted, teardrop-shaped shape. Later, as they talk, she learns with surprise that the day after tomorrow he'll be twenty-nine. She's a few years younger than him.

They exchange first names, and the conversation begins with her answers to his questions, which she gives without question, believing she owes him one. After all, he didn't have to try, he didn't have to call, he didn't have to agree to this meeting. He could have kept the book, he could have even left it alone. Now she obediently adapts to his style of conversation, his topics, his interests, which are essentially limited to her, her work, her life, her plans. As time passes, she realizes they're discussing her problems; he's advising her on how to proceed, explaining things, presenting an objective point of view. Then she snaps and asks, "Are you a psychologist?" No, she says, "No, I'm just interested." And he returns to talking about her, her goals, which she'll surely achieve, her ambitions, which are perfectly justified.

A strange guy. Strange and handsome, with the delicate beauty of a child. A strange, handsome man, the kind who never ages.

His face is like a riddle, revealing very little, as if he's perfectly trained himself to keep his emotions bottled up. They're locked away somewhere deep inside, or perhaps lurking just beneath the skin. Sometimes, when he leans closer to her with more intimacy, something appears in his eyes, a glint of sympathy, of intimacy, waiting for a chance to lighten his pupils.

They drink and talk for a while, then he suddenly says, "I'd like to know how things are going for you. Leave me your email address; it would be nice to meet up again." She jots down his address on a piece of paper, informing him that she has the evening free and isn't in a hurry. Then he picks up the phone and calls, rescheduling meetings, canceling arrangements. He asks her if she'd like to go out for dinner. Of course, it's so nice. She agrees out of curiosity, wanting to know what's going to happen.

She wonders what to think of this. A romantic story about a lost book that ends with a meeting. Had it occurred to him too? Had he wanted to meet the book's owner? He wanted to know who reads the good novels of a famous Nobel Prize winner? He tried to imagine her from his voice. He seems inscrutable, his plans inscrutable. She decides to let herself be carried away by events. His dark eyes tighten her pupils.

In the passages, he opens doors for her, letting her pass first, maintaining his image as a gentleman, a man who knows how to treat women. Such meticulous chivalry always makes her a little uncomfortable; she would prefer he did it more naturally, casually, automatically.

In the restaurant, they sit across from each other, the light from the wall lamp falls on her face, and then she sees a hint of delight in his fixed gaze. For a long moment, as if he had suddenly decided to show it. Finally, she smiles to herself inwardly. He lets it slip a bit, though, making his presence known, perhaps he needs more time.

They're eating good food; he knew the right place to choose, watching her talk, eat, drink, move her head, blink her eyes. This is probably the first time he's told so much about himself to someone who barely speaks. Usually, she prefers to listen, let others tell their stories.

She wonders if she likes him. He has little masculinity about him; he looks like an overgrown high school student. Intelligent, well-dressed, smelling of some strange, cloying scent of men's perfume, which she so dislikes. Perfume is death to pheromones, so how can a perfumed man seem attractive?

The plates are emptying, and he looks at her, as usual, with a puzzled look in his eyes, a bit melancholy, as if anticipating the inevitable end, the drifting toward separation, the fading of their evening together into a distant future that will separate them. He wipes his mouth on a napkin and asks, questioningly, "Shall we go?" He, prepared, smiles slightly and heads towards the door.

They leave, and then, in the doorway, he brushes her hand with his fingertips.

They walk slowly through the bustling streets, squeezing between cars densely parked on narrow sidewalks. She feels his arm against hers, then his back touches a wall. She swallows before he gently, with his own lips, opens her mouth.

They kiss in silence, as if they weren't breathing, in the cold, her fingertips frozen. She runs the back of her hand along the zipper of his pants.

Then she turns her head, and he steps back, making room for her to continue her walk toward the subway station. Before she reaches the underground passage, she turns and shouts, "Thank you for the book, thank you for tonight." He's so far away that he shouldn't have heard her voice, or picked it up over the din of the street. But he turns and raises his hand in farewell. She smiles and runs down the stairs into the concrete pit.

It's unclear whether they know they'll never see each other again.