Le livre, 1911
(Oil on canvas, 55 x 46 cm)
BY Juan Gris
Musée national d’art moderne, Paris

One of the most persistent foisters of sheaves of poems upon him was young Rich, and despite being possibly the worst writer in the world, his personal manner was amiable and also, he knew that girl, that one who had appeared at the party. He arranged to meet him at a small riverside café.

The shaggy student was already there, a mug and newspaper before him, the tea smoke ringing his brown curls. The older man appreciated that, knowing what an effort it must have been for the young man to be on time. In his own student days — Anglistiek and Pedagogiek, UvA, 1964-8, he remembered rattling his bike up to the faculty with those bloody Amsterdam psychopaths zooming at you from all angles. So, well done, young man: but he soon saw that any words of praise would be received with limited appreciation.

Addressed, Richard looked up, strung out, beyond the nerves that meeting an éminence littéraire would naturally entail: he whispered, “Hello.”

“So — your poems, I’ve got here — ” taking out the handwritten pieces from his satchel, he said, “Yes, yes, here they all are.”

Rich sipped his tea mournfully. “Thank you for reading them.” His voice was Northern, maybe Mancunian.

“It’s not a problem. Some of them … Well, this one. ‘The Lobsters Claw.’ Tell me about that.”

“I was thinking about lobsters — you know, how they’re small, yet have the capacity to inflict damage. And I thought that was like, poetry, y’know.”

“Short poetry, yes.”

“No — I mean that it was like, poetry to say that. It was sweet.”

The last word eluded him. “You’ll have to forgive me, Rich. I’m just not up on youth slang from — uh — Manchester…”

“Stockport.”

“Right, Stockport, of course. Now, you asked me about some poets to recommend. One man you might like is Hugo —”

Rich looked away, held his head to one side deliberately for a second, than leant back with an audible sigh. “What’s wrong?” asked his partner.

“Nothing, it’s nothing. Just that…”

“Seriously, what is it?”

Rich gave another sigh; then, with a scrunching up of his face, began to talk. “Well — you know Maria, right?”

“Ah yes, the ingénue.”

“She’s ingenious, right. And she’s really pretty and, see…”

“Mm?”

“The other day I got a text message from her. But it wasn’t meant for me, see. It was meant for Karl Baummüller. I know because it was written in German.”