A Wednesday night at the local bookstore

On a Wednesday night my yoga girlfriend and I are off to see and hear this writer visiting the local bookstore. The store is situated on the ground floor of an old historical building in the centre of town. The owner, Hans, a young and enthusiastic man, is trying his best to compete with the ever-growing competition coming from the likes of Amazon.com. Upon entering I see thirty somewhat people, and some faces I recall from earlier nights. This isn’t the first literary event we have come to see here, and I see the familiar set-up of wooden chairs around a sturdy square table in the back of the store. There are some mothers and fathers I recognize from the school yard. We wave at each other. The other faces all radiate a certain literary contentment: everyone is looking forward to tonight. And some have come well-prepared.

My yoga friend and I take a seat on two vacant chairs on the front row.

It is snowing heavily outside, and the streets in the centre of our little town are slippery and deserted. Hans is nervously pacing around, and then his face lights up: the writer and his wife enter the store. Hans had just suggested we all get ourselves something to drink while waiting and I take my red wine back to my seat. I take a sip; this is nice wine. Before plodding through the snow to the store, my yoga friend and I had already made a stop at a small café for some small talk and wine, and I now start to feel warm and relaxed. A little fuzzy, maybe.

The writer takes off his winter coat, opens his old worn briefcase to take out some books and notes, and walks up to the table. He pours himself a glass of water and begins his well prepared talk. It is a pleasure to hear him speak. After his first opening lines it is obvious that he is an eloquent speaker. In a low and calm voice he talks about his work and reads to us from it. This writer is known for his very short stories. And even though he explains that this is not so much a style element, but more the only way he knows how to write, it is clear that he has mastered this to perfection. It is inspiring to see him show his craftsmanship. An expert and a free spirit. He does not want anything to do with those critics who claim to represent serious literature and its rules, and who tend to look down upon his work, he tells us. He has an easy way of capturing us, his audience. He tells us about his early years as a teacher, when he started to write. I love this: here I am listening to someone who is able to share his way of writing in a passionate way.

The writer is man in his early seventies, I guess. About the same age as my father. This little fact crosses my mind and look at his hands. And suddenly notice the way he uses them, a small gesture to make a point. It suddenly strikes me as slightly familiar. His heavy eyebrows have a lot of long hairs that almost cover his eyes. While speaking the writer alternately looks at the table, to gather his thoughts carefully, and directly at us, his audience. With his piercing eyes he seems to cast a direct glance at me, when he starts to tell about his 5 children. Whom all went to the Arts Academy. Like my father, who was also a teacher with 5 children. My father, the passionate and talented professor at the Arts Academy, who made us all go there too. And whom I worshipped as a young girl. Suddenly I find it impossible to stop thinking about my father, seated here on a small wooden chair, firmly holding on to my glass of red wine. On a beautiful summer’s day years ago, he informed my eldest sister that he didn’t want any more to do with us, his children. And then he went off to live on a mountain in France with his second wife.

Next it’s time for a short break. I’m grateful for this, as I feel my thoughts focussing on the present again. The audience is given the opportunity to buy books and let the author sign them. The writer does this with gentle patience. My yoga friend in front of me, I join the line. But when it is my turn, I feel the tension, caused by the sudden emotional turn this evening has taken, build up feverishly inside of me. I feel I am about to blurt something out to this man, who has made me think back to my father. On this snowy Wednesday in January. I don’t want to do this, I’ll only make a fool of myself, but this doesn’t stop the uncontrollable remark bubbling up inside of me. I have no idea what I am about to say. At the exact moment that I, in terror, open my mouth to speak, this woman behind me takes a step forward and leans over to the writer. ‘Excuse me, I am so very curious.’ Her red-nailed hands are leaning on the table beside me. ‘My husband and I were just wondering: could one say that your stories are leaning towards the haiku?’

The moment has passed. I sit down once again and effortlessly focus on someone else’s stories for the rest of the evening.