The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

'No, I must get round to that,' said Israel.

'A 2:2,' said Danny, face full of froth.

'Oh.'

'So, what have you been reading lately?' asked Ben.

'Erm.' Israel had mostly been reading large-print true-crime books. 'This and that.'

'You should really check out the Pynchon though,' said Danny. 'I mean, a 2:2's respectable these days.'

Israel pondered for a moment the chances of the new 2:2 Thomas Pynchon making it into the acquisitions list for the mobile library in Tumdrum.

'Or that new Cormac McCarthy,' said Ben. 'Devastating.'

'Devastating,' agreed Danny, '2:1.'

'Right.'

'I've just been rereading Cien años de soledad.' Danny never read books; he only ever reread them.

'One Hundred Years of Solitude,' glossed Ben.

'Really?' said Israel. Danny did not read Spanish, as far as Israel was aware, but with Danny it was absolutely de rigueur to refer to titles in their original, so it was always A la Recherche du temps perdu, please, and Der Zauberberg.

'It's for a course I'm teaching.'

'Oh yeah? How's that going then?' He knew Danny through Gloria: they were old friends; their families were friends. Danny taught English at University College London, which was like teaching at Oxford or Cambridge, except much hipper. According to Danny.

'It's okay,' said Danny. 'What can I say? It's teaching. Every day's kind of the same, you know.'

'Groundhog Day!' said Ben.

'Yeah.'

'That is a great film,' said Israel.

'Punxsutawney Phil,' said Ben.

'Bill Murray,' said Israel. 'I love Bill Murray in that film.'

'Yeah.'

'And in Lost in Translation.'

'Yeah.'

'Basically, I love Bill Murray!' said Israel.

'Excuse me, ladies,' said Danny. 'Did your mother not teach you it was rude to interrupt when you'd asked someone a question?'

'Sorry,' said Israel.

'So, as I was saying, when you asked me. The teaching is fine, thank you very much.'

'Good.'

'It's kind of like working in a factory, only in a factory you get longer lunch breaks and get to knock off at five, and the stuff on the production line doesn't talk back.'

Danny talked like he was in a successful HBO returning series; he talked like he was on all the time, and as he heard him spiel Israel realised that in Tumdrum he had effectively switched himself off, possibly forever. Danny was transmitting on a channel that Israel no longer received.

'Huh,' said Israel. 'You're enjoying it then?'

'It's fine.'

'How about you, Ben?' asked Israel. 'How's work?'

Ben was smart, really smart-smarter than Danny. He was just quieter, and like Israel he'd drifted, had never quite found his niche; he was nicheless. Which was maybe why Israel got on with him so well; they were similar; they were on the same wavelength. Ben did something in the Civil Service which did not require a suit. And he was on flexi-time.

'Work's the usual,' he said. 'You know what it's like. Sometimes you feel like you can't go on-'

'But you go on,' said Danny. 'Samuel Beckett.'

'He went to school at Portora,' said Israel. 'Did you know that?'

'What?'

'Portora? It's a school in Enniskillen.'

'Weird!' said Danny.

Israel was about to ask them what they thought he should do about the mobile library.

'So, anyway, I was going to ask-' he began.

'How is life in bonny Scotland?' said Danny.

'Ireland,' said Israel.

'Oh, right, sorry. I thought it was Scotland.'

'Me too,' said Ben.

'They're all the same, though, eh? Celtic fringe.'

'Where are you based, then, Dublin?' said Ben.

'No, it's in Northern Ireland.'

'So what's it like with all the bogtrotters then?' said Danny.

'They're not bogtrotters,' said Israel.

'Top of the morning, to ye!' said Danny. 'Begorrah, begorrah, begorrah.'

'It's Northern Ireland,' said Israel.

'Hoots, man!'

'That's Scotland,' said Israel.

'Ulster Says No!'

'Well, you got there in the end.'

'They're all sorted over there now, aren't they?' said Danny.

'You could call it sorted,' said Israel.

'Why's it called Ulster?' said Ben. 'I always thought that was a funny name.'

'Ulster is actually one of the four ancient provinces of the whole of Ireland,' said Israel. 'Three of the counties of the historic Ulster are a part of the Republic and-'

'Oooh,' said Danny. 'Who's been boning up on his Irish history then?'

'It's actually part of British history.'

'He's gone over,' said Danny. 'He's one of them now.'

'I have not gone over. I'm just-'

'He has. Are you voting for Sinn Féin?'

'No, I am not voting for Sinn Féin.'

'Well, you bloody well should be,' said Danny. 'They're much better than the other lot, aren't they?'

'The Scottish National Party?' said Ben.

'It's Northern Ireland,' said Israel.

'Plenty of crack then?' said Danny. 'The old ceilidhs and-'

'Oh yes, plenty of crack,' said Israel, irritably. 'Loads of it. The whole place is coming down with crack.'

'All right,' said Danny. 'I was only asking. It was a joke.'

'Right.'

'When are you moving back then?' asked Danny.

'I don't know at the moment,' said Israel. 'Soon. But I just wanted to ask-'

Israel couldn't understand why they weren't exactly following what he was saying, and why they were talking to him like he wasn't actually there, but then he noticed: Danny had his right hand under the table; he was texting. And Ben was texting too. They weren't listening. And they weren't talking. They were neither here nor there. They were double-tasking.

'Sorry,' said Ben, looking up.

'When are you going to tell him your news then?' said Danny.

'My news?' said Ben.

'The news.'

'Oh, the news. Yeah. I'm getting married.'

'No!'

'Yes.'

'Congratulations. Let me shake your hand.' They shook hands. 'To Louise?'

'No,' said Danny. 'He dumped her, and he's marrying a call girl he met in a bar.'

'Yes,' said Ben wearily, 'to Lou. That was her on the-'

'That's great, mate; when's the big day?'

'October. You and Gloria will be invited, of course.'

'Super. Great.'

'And how is the fragrant Gloria?' asked Danny.

'She's fine,' said Israel.

'You're still…'

'Oh, yeah. Yeah.'

'You sure?' said Danny with a smirk.

'Difficult being apart?' said Ben.

'It's fucking impossible if you're apart!' said Danny.

'Ignore him,' said Ben.

'Yeah, it's-' began Israel.

'When the cat's away the mice will play, eh?' said Danny.

'Erm…'

'Only to be expected,' said Danny.

'He's just jealous,' said Ben.

'Ooh!' said Danny, checking his phone again. 'You'll perhaps excuse me if I leave you ladies to discuss your scintillating love lives while I get more coffee.'

'He's published his book, you know,' said Ben, when Danny was out of earshot. Danny had been talking about his book for years. Talking about it had in fact been all he'd done until now.

'Oh.' Danny was insufferable before-but now! Oh God. 'What's it like?' said Israel.

'Postmodern Allegories?' said Ben.

'Is that what's it's called?'

'Yeah. With a question mark.'

'Oh God.'

'He gave me a copy,' said Ben.

'He didn't send me a copy,' said Israel.

'You're lucky.'

'Why? What's it like?'

'It got great reviews,' said Ben. 'In the TLS someone called him a genius.'

'Oh no,' said Israel, finishing off his espresso.

'I wouldn't say it was a book for the general reader.'

'Really?' Israel felt himself to be no longer the general but rather the common reader.

'Suffice it to say that the acknowledgements run to two pages, the first chapter is called the "H-brackets-Owl of Minerva" and it's all about Facebook and MySpace, and virtual worlds, and Philip K. Dick, and contemporary American fiction, and he constructs this sort of argument based on Lacan, and Slavoj 017Di017Eek, and he uses the word "meta-epistemic".'