Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer Read Free Book Online

His train was dilatory, so it was five hours. I was spleened to have to loiter there with nothing to do, without even a hi-fi, but I was very good-humored to not have to be in the car with Grandfather, who was likely becoming a deranged person, and Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, who was already deranged. The station was not ordinary, because there were blue and yellow papers from the ceiling. They were there for the first birthday of the new constitution. This did not make me so proud, but I was appeased that the hero should view them when disembarking the train from Prague. He would obtain an excellent picture of our country. Perhaps he would think that the yellow and blue papers were for him, because I know that they are the Jewish colors.
    When his train finally arrived, both of my legs were needles and nails from being an upright person for such a duration. I would have roosted, but the floor was very dirty, and I wore my peerless blue jeans to oppress the hero. I knew which car he would be disembarking from, because Father told me, and I tried to walk to it when the train arrived, but it was very difficult with two legs that were all needles and nails. I held a sign with his name in front of me, and fell many times on my legs, and looked into the eyes of every person that walked past.
    When we found each other, I was very flabbergasted by his appearance. This is an American? I thought. And also, This is a Jew? He was severely short. He wore spectacles and had diminutive hairs which were not split anywhere, but rested on his head like a Shapka. (If I were like Father, I might even have dubbed him Shapka.) He did not appear like either the Americans I had witnessed in magazines, with yellow hairs and muscles, or the Jews from history books, with no hairs and prominent bones. He was wearing nor blue jeans nor the uniform. In truth, he did not look like anything special at all. I was underwhelmed to the maximum.
    He must have witnessed the sign I was holding, because he punched me on the shoulder and said, “Alex?” I told him yes. “You’re my translator, right?” I asked him to be slow, because I could not understand him.
    In truth I was manufacturing a brick wall of shits. I attempted to be sedate. “Lesson one. Hello. How are you doing this day?” “What?” “Lesson two. OK, isn’t the weather full of delight?” “You’re my translator,”
    he said, manufacturing movements, “yes?” “Yes,” I said, presenting him my hand. “I am Alexander Perchov. I am your humble translator.” “It would not be nice to beat you,” he said. “What?” I said. “I said,” he said,
    “it would not be nice to beat you.” “Oh yes,” I laughed, “it would not be nice to beat you also. I implore you to forgive my speaking of English. I am not so premium with it.” “Jonathan Safran Foer,” he said, and presented me his hand. “What?” “I’m Jonathan Safran Foer.” “Jon-fen?”
    “Safran Foer.” “I am Alex,” I said. “I know,” he said. “Did someone hit you?” he inquired, witnessing my right eye. “It was nice for Father to beat me,” I said. I took his bags from him and we went forth to the car.
    “Your train ride appeased you?” I asked. “Oh, God,” he said,
    “twenty-six hours, fucking unbelievable.” This girl Unbelievable must be very majestic, I thought. “You were able to Z Z Z Z Z?” I asked.
    “What?” “Did you manufacture any Z’s?” “I don’t understand.” “Repose.” “What?” “Did you repose?” “Oh. No,” he said, “didn’t repose at all.” “What?” “I . . . did . . . not . . . repose . . . at . . . all.” “And the guards at the border?” “It was nothing,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about them, that they would, you know, give me a hard time. But they came in, checked my passport, and didn’t bother me at all.” “What?” “I had heard it might be a problem, but it wasn’t a problem.” “You had heard about them?” “Oh