Relic of the Future
by
Israela Margalit
On Saturday mornings I take our
three-year old to Barnes and Noble on 7th Avenue. We have a ritual and she
makes sure not to skip a step, so we press the button that pushes open the door
to the ramp, make our way to the elevator, park the stroller in the reserved spot,
take the elevator back up to the coffee shop, and find a table by the window. I
use her absorption with the culinary delight of a plain bagel to pack her
vibrant little brain with titles of eternal novels and names of master writers.
Normally I’m observing her to the
exclusion of everything else, but today there’s a man sitting at the far-left
corner table under the steps, exuding patrician calm despite a bohemian choice
of washed out jeans and a crumpled T shirt. He draws my attention with his
tanned face under a full head of white hair, and his lanky, tall physique.
There’s extreme intensity about him, the way he’s hunched over a magazine
spread on his table that he reads without blinking an eye, oblivious to his
surroundings. My granddaughter asks for more water. I walk to the stand and
refill her cup, watching her with one eye lest she lose her balance and falls,
while my other eye veers to the man, who hasn’t moved one bit since we came in.
He’s not my type, but nevertheless he fascinates me with his Jeremy Iron’s-like
figure and capacity for concentration. I return to the table with the water. My
granddaughter says “thank you,” and to highlight her appreciation of the outing
she repeats the last name I’ve been pushing on her. “Poost,” she says, meaning
Proust. I laugh. The man gives us a sudden glance. I smile at him. He smiles
back. Then he returns to his magazine. I guess I’m not his type either. But
then he looks at me again. He must be sixty years old. Should know how to do it
by now. He can walk to the counter to allegedly order something and stop by our
table to say how adorable my granddaughter is. That kind of an opening gambit
is sure fire. Or he can ask, “May I get you another latte?” But he does
nothing. Glued to his magazine. Maybe he’s researching for a book. Or his
archrival has written a well-received article that he’s trying to find fault
in. Or he’s reading his own story for the umpteen times, basking in the
unending pleasure of seeing one’s work in print. Whichever it may be I become
impatient and unreasonably resentful of his attention furnished to something
other than me, and since my granddaughter has just given the “all done” sign,
we embark on cleaning up the table, an activity she savors with a sense of
privilege and accomplishment. As we prepare to leave, I don’t look at the man
and I feel a pang of guilt. Granted, he’s too slim and aloof for my taste, but
any man who spends his Saturday Morning at Barnes and Noble is already a catch.
Maybe he’s a widower like me and he’s rusty. I should give him a chance. I
could even make the first move, go ask what he’s reading with such interest.
The thought comes to me too late, as my granddaughter is eager to move on, and
is dragging me by the hand. “Let’s go, let’s go.” We climb up the few stairs
leading back to the main floor, and we walk just behind the back of the
white-haired man. I can see what he’s reading. Two large pages of advertisement
in black and red. I gasp. The little one looks at me and says, “Look, Grandma. The Red and the Black.”
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