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

there then but the three friends having their final conversation. Even this far away he felt like he was eavesdropping.

Turning around, he looked out at the rest of the cemetery. Scanning the tombstones, one eventually caused him to squint and move his head forward to see it better. When he was sure what he’d read was correct, he walked over to the stone and stared at it with a combination of respect and sadness. It marked the grave of Arlen Ford, the American film actress. Earlier when they were driving here, Isabelle had mentioned that the movie star was buried in this cemetery. Ettrich wasn’t aware that she had died. A wave of nostalgia hit him while he went through a fast mind-shuffle of the films Arlen Ford had made and how much he had enjoyed her in them. They had even used his car in one of her films.

On the gravestone beneath the dates of her birth and death was a quotation in English. He read it several times and liked it but had no idea what it meant.

“I’LL COOK YOU SOUP AND HOLD YOUR HAND.”

He assumed it must have been a famous line from one of her films.

Sighing, he lifted his eyes from the grave toward the sidewalk and street beyond it. Standing up there was a big bearded man. No, he wasn’t big—he was fat. Well, not really fat. He was… it was hard to say what he was from that distance. The man appeared to be watching Ettrich and smiling. Or maybe it just looked like that. He wore a black suit and a white dress shirt but no tie. The outfit made Vincent think he had come to attend the funeral. But the guy didn’t move at all—just stood there and smiled. He appeared to be waiting for something. Maybe he was someone’s driver. That made sense. Maybe he was someone’s chauffeur. Whoever he was, it wasn’t polite to stare at him and really there was no reason to. Ettrich turned away and walked back to the funeral.

Seeing this, John Flannery frowned. He was genuinely disappointed that Vincent Ettrich didn’t do something, anything, to demonstrate some sign of recognition or unease. Flannery had wanted a more concrete, more delicious frisson from their first face-to-face. Instead, he had only gotten a couple of long looks and then Ettrich walked away. What kind of bullshit showdown was that? Shrugging it off, Flannery reached into his pocket, pulled out a fresh horsemeat sandwich, and bit into it contentedly while watching his lover’s funeral begin.

He liked the taste of horsemeat; something he had acquired while living in Vienna. It was sweet and strong and vaguely disgusting. Knowing how much Leni loved horses, he had once cooked her a meal using a big filet of horsemeat as the centerpiece of the recipe. She tucked right into it, had a second helping, and never once asked what kind of meat she was eating. Flannery had enjoyed doing things like that to her. He would persuade Leni to tell him her secrets, dreams, and fears. Then without her ever knowing it, he would take these intimate fragile things and shove them back up her ass in furtive and creative ways. He would have done the same to Flora, but all that cow ever seemed to want to do was fuck.

He liked a dab of sweet Kremser mustard on his pferde leberkase; a fresh roll, tangy mustard, and a nice thick chunk of boiled horse. When he had finished the sandwich and licked the remnants off his shiny fingers, he entered the graveyard and walked over to the funeral. He knew Flora’s husband was here today. But Flannery wanted her to see that he was there, or that “Kyle Pegg” was there, so that she would be touched by his secret support in her time of sadness and need. He’d learned that about her from Leni: Flora Vaughn was bad in emotional situations. She had a tendency to break down and lose control. It was useful information to know. And vice versa naturally—From Flora he learned many handy tidbits about Leni. Best of all, from both women he learned most about Isabelle Neukor and Vincent Ettrich, which was the whole point of course.

Flannery enjoyed cemeteries. He relished their tidiness and artificial beauty because he knew both were the result of fear and dread. Not the love people felt for their deceased. To him cemeteries represented the useless pathetic gestures and shrines human beings made to try and ward off the big bad wolf of death. Fat chance of that happening. It’s gonna git you, kiddo, no matter how many calla lilies you lay on Mom’s grave this time, next time, or any other time.

It was not really death people feared, but the unimaginable chaos it might bring. He could smell that fear, the longing for order forever, but most of all the desperation people brought to any cemetery whenever they came to visit.

It was always the same: first they laid their wreaths or bouquets on the grave, thought awhile about dead Dad, wept some, and then the good stuff started. One day I’ll be in a place like this too. They would look around at the peaceful surroundings as if seeing them for the first time, trying to imagine that fateful day, all the while knowing full well that wherever they went after they died wasn’t going to be a cemetery. Next came the inevitable predictable questions like what is death? What if it is horrible chaos? What if there really is a Hell? All those endlessly delicious cliches that stirred people up into a tizzy or down into a black funk by the time they left here for home after their little visit.

Especially the old people—they were the best. Walking toward the crowd, Flannery looked for any oldies because they were invariably the most fun to watch at a funeral. Won’t be long now, eh, Grandma? Are you really weeping