Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance - FIRST PRINTING

Jones, Lloyd - SIGNED & RARE! ORIGINAL SOFT COVER

ISBN 10: 0143018183 / ISBN 13: 9780143018186

Edité par Penguin New Zealand, 2002

A propos de cet article

The prize winner who narrowly missed out on the Booker. Here is a rare and sought after earlier novel in its world first edition, a Penguin paperback, large format, and with the author's signature on the title page. This was signed at the Charleston Festival in Sussex. A perfect and seriously collectable copy of a rare book. Language: eng Language: eng 0.0 Language: eng 0.0 Language: eng 0.0 Language: eng.

N° de réf. du vendeur ABE-1050823473

Détails bibliographiques

• Titre: Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance - FIRST PRINTING
• Éditeur: Penguin New Zealand
• Date de parution: 2002
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN à 10 chiffres: 0143018183
• ISBN à 13 chiffres: 9780143018186
• Reliure: Soft cover
• Édition: 1st Edition.
• État de l'article: Fine
• Signé: Signed by Author

A propos de ce titre

Synopsis

Book by Lloyd Jones

Extrait

Chapter One

For eleven years an elderly man with a silver-knobbed cane visited Louise's grave with flowers. He came every Saturday with a plastic bucket, brush, cleaning fluids, and a fold-up canvas chair. He was always impeccably dressed for the occasion. A black blazer, white slacks. A bright red flower in his buttonhole drew attention to his snow-white hair.

The year before his death it was his habit to visit the cementerio at La Chacarita with his ten-year-old granddaughter. While he sat by Louise's grave fanning his face with his fedora the granddaughter would go and stand in line with her plastic bucket and the other mourners at the water taps.

He had his own car, but for this particular excursion Paul Schmidt favored the bus. The conductor helped him down the steps. He didn't experience any of the same uncertainty or hesitancy on the dance floor. He could always count on the same instruction, "Careful of the traffic, señor." With a dismissive grunt Schmidt would set off across the busy road for the flower stand on Coronel Diaz.

For someone with a huge deception at the center of his life, Schmidt prided himself on cultivating many small loyalties. That particular bus conductor, for instance. Another was the Paraguayan flower vendor from whom he always bought blue irises.

One Saturday morning a special flower of a competing vendor's display caught his eye — he bright yellow flower of broom — arousing in him an old memory. With some difficulty, as the bus was still moving, he stood out of his seat and stumbled past the knees of the woman sitting next to him. The bus lurched, and as his hands pawed at the dangling hand grips his cane clattered into the aisle. He didn't give it a second thought. Later, the conductor would recall Schmidt stooping to catch the receding view of the flowering broom in the back window, his hand on the shoulder of an unprotesting woman to steady himself.

At the next stop (not his usual stop) Schmidt struggled down the steps. The conductor caught up with him and handed him his cane. The old man gave it a brief regard and took it without thanks. The conductor smiled. They had an understanding, and in a manner of speaking had forged a friendship based on two predictable moments in each other's life. One, where the señor picked up the bus and where he got off. The other significant moment arrived in the week leading up to Christmas when the señor would give him a box of expensive cigars. It was always a last-minute thing. As the bus slowed down to his stop the cigars would be quickly produced and given without fuss as if he had no further use for them; for his part the conductor always received the cigars with noises of gratitude and false humility.

Now in the window of the bus he followed the old man's progress across the wide and busy road. He saw him poke his cane at the oncoming traffic. Later, the flower vendor would say that the señor's "eyes, face, and memory were so closed around his flower display" (not merely the yellow flowering broom, note, but his flower display), "that he did not see the bottle truck coming the other way." Meanwhile, from the bus window a hollow warning rose in the conductor's throat. He closed his eyes to avoid the final moment of impact. It was a story he would tell many times. First, the distraction. The old man's sudden rush of blood to the head. Then, his willfulness. The broken routine and — as a result the loss of the cigars at Christmas.
Chapter Two

In death there are no secrets. At La Chacarita, the wealthy are laid to rest in huge pharaonic tombs; mausoleums are styled after famous chapels. Sculpted angels and lute players pirouette in cement and plaster. Biblical scenes are lavishly carved out of stone. If a rich life must be seen to continue on into death the same could be said of the poor who are parked end to end, on top of one another, sandwiched into the massive walls of vaults. These older burial walls form inner walls of the cementerio. The newer vaults have been constructed by a mall developer. Bodies are stacked in galleria after galleria, and stairways descend two and three floors into the earth to workbenches and cemetery workers in blue overalls shouldering brooms. The air is closed with the sickly fragrance of old flowers stuck in the coffin handles.

There was almost nothing that Schmidt could not have afforded. His widow had imagined a small family crypt, perhaps with some orchestral theme to symbolize the family business interests.

Instead, to his wife's great surprise, and the family's, Schmidt's final instructions were for a simple burial alongside his devoted shop assistant; a plain and quiet woman, the "English woman" whom Señora Schmidt had known simply as Louise.

They had exchanged pleasantries. Proper conversation had always required extra effort. The woman's Spanish was at best infantile. When she shopped she pointed at the items she wanted, extending the word on the end of her finger. Now that Schmidt's wife tried to recall all those other times they had met the occasions were so brief that nothing particularly telling or revealing had stuck.

Once, during a summer storm, at her insistence Schmidt had dropped the "shop assistant" off home in a taxi. She remembered glancing up at a gray building with a pink and blue plaster relief (a rosette, she seemed to recall) and the shop assistant's face suddenly dropping into the window to thank her for this kindness. Her hair was wet and unruly; her face washed out, a dark smear of eyeliner running from a corner of her eye. No one would ever say she was a classic beauty.

Louise had been dead for eleven years but one elderly woman, a former neighbor, remembered "the English woman." She recalled that she had kept to herself. The old woman shouted: "She could not speak." And no, she did not seek friendship. "What about visitors? Did she have many?" The neighbor's face grew thoughtful. Schmidt's widow briefly considered offering money, but then the woman spoke: "Many, no. Not many. But there was one..." And she began to describe her late husband, his shock of white hair, his smooth face, his chestnut eyes, the cane, his careful dress. "You know how it is, señora. Some people end their days having conquered time. Others are still running on the spot as they leave this world. The señor was of the former category." The conversation took place on the landing. A leaky tap could be heard along the way. It was such a run-down place. Her husband had always been so fussy. She couldn't place him here, on this landing. She began to walk along the hall. She stopped and looked back to check. "This room at the end?" The woman nodded. "Si, señora, that is the room." She thought, he must have seen this view, the same cold angling light in the end window, the same bare floorboards creaking under his feet. But what must he have felt? Excitement? A lift in his heart? The neighbor caught up with her. "Señora, I can show you the courtyard if you wish. The gentleman and the foreign woman sometimes sat in the garden beneath the lime tree. The tree is no longer, I regret to say..."

Schmidt's widow shook her head. She had seen and heard enough. She was ready to leave. "There is one other thing," resumed the neighbor. She began to describe the day the landlord's men had shown up to cart away the dead woman's possessions. She suddenly looked mischievous and edged her face closer to confide. "I snuck my head in for a look. I was curious too." Well, there was little to remove. A record player, a stack of record albums, some articles of clothing, a pair of black stilettos, "the kind worn by those who dance at the Ideal." The widow had friends who danced there. Now she wondered if they had seen her husband with the shop assistant and chosen not to say anything. The neighbor continued. She was used to cluttered rooms herself, but in the dead woman's flat you noticed the floorboards. They stood out. Their long run and the "scuff marks" in the middle of the main living area. The widow felt her eyes smart as she pushed out the next question, but she had to ask. "She and the señor liked to dance? Is this what you are telling me?" The neighbor made a grand display of her hands. "Dance? They dance and they dance. Oh, how they dance. Then they sit in the garden to rest, then they dance some more. The woman did not speak. She dance only."
Chapter Three

No one passes through life unnoticed. The panadería where she bought her bread sticks. The bus driver. The newsstand where she bought the English-language Buenos Aires Herald. And, of course, there was Max. Homosexual Max. His face tilted to receive kisses on both cheeks from his regulars. Max bulging like an overcooked soufflé inside his waiter's jacket. Max with his hairless chin. His small appreciative eyes glowing inside his spectacles. His body was found on the other side of Avenida Moreau de Justo in a stagnant pile of plastics and bottles, nudging against a bloated pig by the boatman's pier.

In the café where Max worked, small children with grown-up faces on the end of spindly bodies placed cigarette lighters on the tables of drinkers late in the afternoon. The drinkers waved them away like blowflies. They tapped the ends of their cigarettes into the ashtrays and resumed their thoughtful answers.

A balding man, yes? No. No one could remember Max. For thirty years he worked behind the blinds at La Armistad, in the city neighborhood of Montserrat, yet no one could remember his name.

Time is cruel, though necessarily so. The world has to make room for so many names.

In the 1940s, a young man with a large pink birthmark on his neck used to deliver coffee on a silver tray to Schmidt's staff on Coro...