Chapter XLVI Louis sat by Angel’s bedside. Some ruddiness had returned to Angel’s cheeks, or perhaps this was simply wishful thinking on the part of his partner: Angel was still pumped full of the kind of medication that left the world a blur, and made arduous all but the simplest and shortest of conversations. Now Angel was sleeping while darkness laid claim to the world beyond his window. Two hours went by, during which Louis read. Reading had not previously consumed much of his time, but here in this hospital room he had begun to find in books both an escape from his cares and a source of solace when their avoidance proved impossible. Uncertain where to start, he had sourced a number of lists of the hundred greatest novels ever written, which he combined to create his own guide. So far in the course of Angel’s illness, Louis had read The Call of the Wild, Lord of the Flies, and Invisible Man — both the Ellison and Wells titles, due to a mix-up at the bookstore, but Louis didn’t mind as both were interesting in their different ways. He was currently on The Wind in the Willows, the inclusion of which had initially appeared to represent some form of cataloging error, but the book had grown pleasantly strange as his explorations of it progressed. “Why are you still here?” asked a voice from the bed. “I’m trying to finish a chapter.” Angel sounded hoarse. Louis put down the novel and fetched the no-spill water cup with its flexible straw. He held it until Angel waved a hand to signal he was done. Angel’s eyes seemed clearer than they had been since before the operation, like those of a man who has woken after a long, undisturbed rest. “What are you reading now?” Angel asked. “The Wind in the Willows.” “Isn’t that for kids?” “Maybe. Who cares?” “And after that?” Louis reached for his coat and removed a folded sheet of paper. He examined the contents of the list. “I might try something older. You ever read Dickens?” “Yeah, I read Dickens.” “Which one?” “All of them.” “Seriously? I never knew that about you.” “I read a lot when I was younger, and when I was in jail. Big books. I even read Ulysses.” “Nobody’s read Ulysses, or nobody we know.” “I have.” “Did you understand it?” “I don’t think so. Finished it, though, which counts for something.” “You still read now. You always got a book by the bed.” “I don’t read like I used to. Not like that.” “You ought to start again.” Louis waved his papers. “I got a list you can use.” “The Wind in the Willows, huh?” “That’s right.” “So read me something from it.” “You mean out loud?” “You think I’m psychic, I’m gonna guess the words?” Louis glanced at the half-open door. He had never read aloud to anyone in his life, nor had he been read aloud to. He could recall his mother singing to him as a child, but never reading stories, not unless they were from the Bible. He thought of Angel’s bodyguards. He didn’t want them to return and find him voicing weasels and toads. “You’re too embarrassed to read to me?” asked Angel. “If I die, you’ll be—” “Okay!” said Louis. “Not the dying again. You want me to go back to the beginning?” “No, just from where you’re at.” With one final check of the door, Louis began. “‘The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky,’” he read, “‘and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew. At last, over the rim of the waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to see surfaces—meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognized again under it . . .” All was dark. Angel was once again asleep. Louis stopped reading. “That,” said Tony Fulci, from his seat on the floor, “was f**king beautiful.” Beside him, his brother Paulie — fellow bodyguard and now, it appeared, literary critic — nodded in agreement. “Yeah, f**king beautiful . . .”