The Reader on the 6.27 by Jean-Paul Didierlaurent Page B

under the layer of slush covering the works floor. Ankles sunk in the foul-smelling sludge, he and Brunner are slinging heaped shovelfuls of muck into the Zerstor’s funnel without a break. The Thing gobbles up all this mess, emitting a series of gross, squelchy slurps. Every ten seconds, its metal arse lays a new book which flies up towards the ceiling, its pages fluttering. Already, hundreds of books are swirling around the warehouse in an ominous swarm above the men’s heads, making a deafening racket. From time to time, a book breaks away from the horde and plunges downwards, then corrects its path and whistles past their heads. A volume that is fatter than the others hits Brunner plumb on the side of his head. The great beanpole crumples into the sludge-filled trench. The poor man struggles frantically, but only becomes mired more deeply with each movement. The windows of Kowalski’s office have been shattered into smithereens by the relentless assault of the flying book squadrons. Trapped in his tower, Fatso is unable to do anything. Despite the din, the terrible sound of books thumping against the boss’s flabby flesh reaches Guylain’s ears. Kowalski’s howls echo through the works for nearly a minute before dying down for good. Guylain doesn’t see it coming. A dictionary hurtling at full speed hits his right knee, knocking him over. A second breaks the handle of the shovel clean in two. He topples over head first, howling with pain. The sludge gushes into his gaping mouth, filling his lungs. He is choking. He gropes for something to hold on to until his fingers encounter a rope that appears out of nowhere.
    The reading light fell and smashed at the foot of the bedside table, taking with it Rouget de Lisle’s bowl, which shattered into a thousand pieces. The fish lay on the carpet amid the shards of glass, his fins quivering. His little body flashed orange with each spasm. Guylain grabbed the cereal bowl from the draining board and filled it with water, then threw in the dying Rouget. After one last spasm, the goldfish resumed his cruising speed as if nothing had happened and set off on a reconnaissance tour of the bowl, watched by a relieved Guylain.
    Guylain winced. The nightmare had left him with a blinding headache and his forehead was throbbing. Not only was the Thing making his days a misery, it was increasingly sucking the lifeblood out of his nights. In the morning, he breakfasted on two effervescent tablets.
    10.10. It was time for the second reading session at Magnolia Court. Same taxi, same route. And on his arrival, the warmest of welcomes. On spotting him, a flock of chirping grannies swooped down onto the steps and fluttered around him, their dentures chattering nineteen to the dozen. He almost forgot his headache. He shook hands right and left, tiny hands as rosy and delicate as pink champagne biscuits. They tapped his cheeks and smiled at him, devouring him with their eyes. He was the reader, the bearer of the good word. They called him Monsieur Vignal, Vignil, Vognal, Vagnul, Guillaume, Gustin, and simply Guy. Monique seemed to have infected the entire community during the week. He reserved his kisses for the two Delacôte sisters, who swooned with gratitude. The air reeked of eau de cologne, hair lacquer and traditional household soap. Sheltering in the huge lobby, the less robust residents slumped in their chairs, indifferent to the general excitement. People on their way out, forced to wait for a departure that was denied them.
    Pushed by Josette, pulled by Monique, Guylain slipped between the two rows of living dead to enter the vast dining room, relieved to find it transformed into an auditorium. The podium was made of two tables on which the armchair had been placed. At this rate, thought Guylain, in a month he’d have his own dressing room, and in two, his statue in the grounds. The audience pushed and shoved and mumbled and grumbled, fighting over the best seats. Monique stepped in,