Free The Rabbit Back Literature Society by Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen Page A

said. “I don’t read my own books or think about them after I’ve written them. I’ve never learned to quote books by heart, not even my own.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Besides, I don’t understand people who read a book for pleasure and then ruminate on the book’s ideas. Paper was invented so we wouldn’t have to keep all those thoughts in our heads.”
    “Be that as it may, the Douglas Dogson strategy isn’t going to work on me. I know your books better than you do.”
    Winter shrugged. “I didn’t think it would work. I’ve never tried it in real life. It worked in the book. Listen, could we talk about this some other time? There’s so much going on, and it’s almost time for you to go and meet Laura White. It seems to me that Ms White would want to tell you herself what The Game is. She’s the one who thought it up. It’s not exactly simple. In fact we have a rule book for it. You’ll no doubt have your own copy soon.”
    Ella Milana’s eyes widened. “A rule book? What kind of rule book?”
    Winter took pleasure in her impatience and started to feel more warmly towards her.
    He’d noticed before that people in their twenties, whenever they were with someone middle-aged, seemed to feel it necessary to find some way to point out the difference in age every five minutes or so. If they didn’t mention it outright, they managed it by means of a polite distance. Unlike others her age, however, Ella Milana seemed to think that they were both originally from the same planet and century.
    Winter decided to like her.
    “This kind,” he said.
    He showed her his worn copy. He’d been carrying it with him for thirty years—out of mere habit these days.
    “Can I look at it?” the girl breathed, groping for the book.
    The palm-sized volume was covered in brown leather. The spine had small, gilded lettering that read RABBIT BACK LITERATURE SOCIETY: GAME RULES. NOT FOR NON-MEMBERS!
    “Remember, you can’t show it to anyone or talk about The Game to non-members,” Winter said. “You’ll understand whyonce you’ve read the rules. The Game is a way for the Society to exchange useful information which would otherwise be difficult to obtain. There’s nothing wrong in it, but some of it might be a bit bewildering to ordinary people.”
    Ella Milana looked past him, squinted and walked over to the fireplace.
    “Has someone been burning books?” she asked. “It looks like there were books in here.”
    This upset Winter. He didn’t want to have that bothersome conversation.
    “Ask Ingrid Katz. From what I can tell, she’s keen to talk about it.”
    The woman from catering appeared in the doorway, cleared her throat, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and announced that the hostess was finally about to make an appearance.
    Winter walked through the doorway into the drawing-room without waiting for Ella Milana.
    The orchestra had started to play again. Conversation stopped. Expectation quickened into silence. All eyes were directed towards the top of the stairs.
    Laura White was standing there.
    She looked down at the expectant faces, and they looked back.
    Look, there she is—Laura White herself. Beloved author, fascinating woman. Her reputation ripples around the world, and there she stands, flesh and blood, looking at all of us with curiosity.
    We can see her face, her eyebrows, her lips. Her delicate chin. Her hair. We see her hands and feet and slim figure in a white dress. We see the marks of age, the small flaws in her beauty. But above all we see her specialness, shining through her whole being
.
    Soon she will be among us. Perhaps she’ll have coffee and cake and talk with us. We’ll try to say something meaningful, something that will make her notice us and think we’re interesting.
    We’ll probably not succeed in standing out from the crowd, but that’s all right. The main thing is that we’ve experienced this night. As one of the teeming mass of people in the room, we’ve been