Ghost Radio by Leopoldo Gout

Author:Leopoldo Gout
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: HarperCollins

chapter 37

CALL 1904, MONDAY, 4:01 A.M. THE TRANSLATOR

“This story is about me,” said the caller, “but even more it’s about a man who was my friend for many years, Norbert Gutterman:

This happened a long time ago when I worked in downtown New York. This would be around ten years ago now, and at the time I was still trying to make it in middle management at Emigrant Savings Bank. We usually worked from eight to five, but I would stay longer on most days, trying to impress my bosses, you know. I rode a packed train at seven in the morning, and came home on a nearly empty one, at eight or nine in the evening.

I rarely had free time, and when I did I usually spent it at bars or at home watching soccer games on Telemundo. One Sunday morning, on a whim, I decided to head into Central Park, I’m not sure why. Fresh air, maybe. I was carrying the newspaper under my arm; I figured I might find a nice spot in the sun and read the financial section. As I made my way down one of the paths, I noticed a man sitting by himself at one of those outdoor chess tables, kind of isolated in a small plaza under a couple of oak trees. He was thin, older, wearing a brown suit that was threadbare but clean, and he held an old-fashioned briefcase on his lap. Even though he was outdoors, he conjured up images of thick leather-bound books and wood paneling. You might even say that with the crisp creases in his trousers and the defined shadows and lines in his face, he resembled a well-preserved antique book himself.

He looked up as I passed, and waved me over, which surprised me. I hadn’t found people to be that friendly in the city, and except for the women professionals I occasionally dated, I tended to avoid contact outside of work. I wondered if maybe he was looking to hustle me. Something about him, his posture or his hair that curled a little at the neck or his shoes, reminded me of premature unemployment, living alone, and for a reason I can’t explain, of pickles and onions floating in a jar.

I needn’t have worried. He looked down at the chessboard in front of him, the pieces all laid out and ready, and asked, “Care for a game?”

I almost shook my head and walked away, but something made me stay. Pity or curiosity maybe.

So we played chess. He tested my game, let me joust a couple of moves, and then beat me with a simple queen pin. He told me his name was Norbert. He was a Polish immigrant, a translator by trade, specializing in Eastern European poetry and history; I asked him if he’d done anything I might have read.

“From the look of you, I doubt it,” he said.

It was embarrassing, but true. I hadn’t read a good book since college, and as for poetry, well, I didn’t think nursery rhymes counted.

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