What's In A Name Read Free Page A

the front of the room, where the old man now sat, facing forward, peering at the lectern, his shoulders drooping beneath a jacket that was not only threadbare, as Altman had previously observed, but perhaps a size too big, something purchased at a thrift store, no doubt, so that he abruptly felt a seizure of pity for this old fellow, so lonely, as it seemed, at the end of an unfortunate life. Might he have known some modest glory, Altman asked himself, had history turned his way? Might he have loved beautiful women, had accomplished children, felt the reverence of the few, if not the adulation of the multitude?
    He glanced at the clock that hung on the opposite wall and suddenly considered the passage of his own life. He was a widower, with children in distant cities, a man with a solitary evening before him. Normally he would have gone back to his apartment to work on his catalogue, a large collection of books and manuscripts written after the Great War, the works of those who’d known the fire and thunder of battle, along with the great unrest that had followed the Peace of Versailles, some of which he’d cited this very night during his talk on Carlyle. As a way of spending the remainder of his evening, he did not find this in the least off-putting. Still, would it be so bad to indulge this other old man, this compatriot—though admittedly at a distance—of those ancient, sanguinary fields, for a little while, perhaps find a way to suggest to the poor fellow that he was not so lacking in distinction as he so clearly thought himself? Earlier, he’d had a vaguely unsettling sense that the old man was accusing him of something, but none of that remained. Now all he felt was pity.
    â€œHave you had dinner?” he blurted with a suddenness that surprised him.
    The old man had resumed his seat, his head deeply bowed. He did not move or in any other way respond to Altman’s questions. Could it be that this unfortunate old gentleman had simply been unable to imagine himself being asked to dinner by the distinguished “Herr Altman? If so, how very, very sad, Altman thought.
    And so he strode back to where the old man sat, his hands folded over his lap as if in stern guardianship of the package in his lap. A rectangular package, as Altman observed, wrapped in cheap brown paper and tied with a string.
    A manuscript!
    Ah, so that was what had brought this unfortunate man out into the rain, Altman thought, he has a manuscript he no doubt thinks valuable. It would have no value at all, of course. As a collector, he’d been approached untold times by people clutching books and manuscripts they felt valuable, then untied this same gray string and drawn back this same brown paper only to find… a tattered, forty-year-old edition of Doctor Faustus, or the nearest thing imaginable to a book club edition of Heinrich Heine. And yet these poor, ignorant souls had held on to their “precious” treasures either lovingly or avariciously. It was often hard to tell which.
    But not now, not with this fellow. It was clear that in his case, it was love. Altman could see it in the gentle way his gnarled fingers curled around the corners of the manuscript, his index fingers moving softly back and forth, as if he were comforting an infant. In fact, he had never seen anyone touch a book with such tenderness. It was as if, through his fingers, the old man were singing it a lullaby.
    â€œExcuse me?” Altman said softly.
    The old man looked up.
    â€œI was thinking we might have dinner together,” Altman said.
    â€œDinner… together?”
    â€œYes,” Altman said. “I’ve a favorite place a few blocks from here. They make a wonderful chicken salad sandwich.”
    The old man peered at him hesitantly. “I am a pensioner,” he reminded him.
    â€œOh, don’t worry about that,” Altman said expansively. “Dinner will be on me. Think of it as payment for the effort