GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

go no further than today, right now. He wanted so many things but knew there was no way he could have them because… driving through that red light he had taken a mouthful of too-hot soup. He had caused this accident. What options did he have? Now he understood why the big man had recited that proverb—because it was totally appropriate.

He handed over his car papers and keys. Without looking, Flannery took them.

“And now I should just go?”

“Open the door and go. C’est tout.”

The driver clicked the handle and his door opened a crack. This car had cost almost one hundred thousand euros. He had had it six days. Street noise swept in. He looked through the window. It was sunny and clear out there. A delicious wisp of cool breeze blew in through the crack and across his face. He could almost taste its freshness. The green-brown water in the Danube canal over there moved by so easily and freely. More than anything else he wanted to be out there, away from this car, away from everything that had happened in the last half hour. He imagined walking over the bridge back into the center of town. He would do errands. That was good, a good diversion. He would do his errands and walk and walk. Eventually he would call his wife. No, not that. What could he say to her? He would have to create a perfect story about the car, a great alibi. One she would believe and accept without hesitation.

When his telephone rang these thoughts dissolved. He looked at the screen to see if he recognized the caller but it said only, “Number withheld.”

“Hello?”

“This is the police. You called before but then hung up.”

When he responded his voice was cool and professional. He knew how to do this. He was in his element. “I’m sorry, but the call was a mistake. We thought we’d been robbed but then my wife discovered she’d simply misplaced her things. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

The policeman on the other end asked a few more halfhearted questions and then rang off.

“That was impressive. You’re very good at bullshitting. You won’t have any trouble explaining what happened to your car.”

The driver stared at Flannery who did look bad. “Are you really hurt? Or is all this just…”

Instead of answering the question, Flannery slowly slid his left trouser leg up. The leg was clearly broken in two places, one of them a savage compound fracture. “Wanna see more?”

One look at that hideous leg was enough for the driver. Recoiling, he stumbled getting out of the car and almost fell down.

“Hey,” Flannery called out just as the guy was about to shut the door.

The driver looked at him in alarm. God almighty, what next? “Yes?”

“ ‘Beware of the silent dog.’”

Not sure he had heard right, the man leaned forward. “What did you say?”

“ ‘Beware of the silent dog.’”

“What? What do you mean?” All of these proverbs; why didn’t the guy just say what he meant?

Flannery let go of his pant leg. The material slid back down halfway, covering only part of the wound. He licked his lips and smiled. “Woof.”

The driver nodded his head fast too many times—yes, now he understood exactly what he was being told. Flannery watched him cross the street and walk double-time toward the bridge.

The interior of the car was black and silver, beautiful in its detail. “Beautifully appointed,” Flannery said like a radio announcer, as if he were trying to sell the car to himself. He touched the steering wheel, the gearshift lever. Then he inhaled that indescribable sweet/sour smell of new car and new leather. Very nice. All of it was very nice. He had chosen well.

But what color was the car exactly? He had forgotten to ask. It was a kind of grayish yellow-green. No, it was more than that. He closed his eyes a moment and searching, found the word—celadon. He had never heard of the word before but that’s what color this car was—a celadon Porsche.

“Okey dokey.” He slid both hands slowly down either side of his broken left leg, as if the whole thing were wet and he was squeezing water out of it. On reaching the ankle, he pulled up the pants to look. His leg was whole again—unbroken and unmarked.

He had a date in a few minutes. He needed to look presentable for it and not like a man who had just been struck by a car. Running his hands over his whole body, the torn and dirty clothes he wore disappeared and transformed into what he had been wearing an hour before—a new white T-shirt and beige shorts. He moved his hands up over his neck and face. All of the smudges and scratches from the accident disappeared as soon as they were touched. Now his beard was carefully trimmed and the smell of Gray Flannel cologne filled the car. He reached over and turned the rearview mirror toward him. Looking at his reflection, what he saw there was okay. Time for Leni.

“Celadon.” Ettrich said the unfamiliar word with surprise. It had just popped up on his tongue like an egg.

Isabelle looked at him, waiting for more. They sat in a tram holding hands while riding back into town from the Central Cemetery. Nothing had been accomplished there by visiting Petras Urbsys’s grave. Both of them were depressed and at a complete loss for what to do next.

Ettrich shook his head. “I have no idea what that word means.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I don’t know. It came out of nowhere.”

She gave him a So what? look. But Ettrich shook his head because there was more to this. “No, you don’t understand.”

“Then tell me, Vincent.”

He paused to think and then looked at her hand in his. Removing his, he opened her fingers and laid his flat palm on top of hers. She felt something—a tickle, a thin but persistent heat. He lifted his hand. Written in the middle of her palm