Travelling Light by Tove Jansson Read Free Book Online Page B

Unfortunately, just the tiniest bit too late… But I’ve already said that.
    And now here came a taxi, at first far away down the long road, then nearer, headlights dimmed, it drew up and stopped in front of me. What could have been more natural than to show the driver the address in the hat? Without a word he began driving towards the city. I let my thoughts rest. It was a long way; the buildings around us were dark, and if anything the mist had grown thicker. When the car stopped I took out my wallet while he sat still, his taxi meter switched off. “Dollars,” he said finally. I handed them to him, one after another. It was quite impossible to tell when the man had received enough, he just lifted his shoulders and looked straight ahead. Rest assured that by the time I finally got out of the car with my suitcase, I was thoroughly sick and tired of the whole journey. The house in front of me was very old; it looked medieval. The square was totally deserted.
    I opened the front door and only then realised how lucky I was; it could so easily have been locked. Stairs and high corridors, numbers on the doors but no names. I changed into my strongest glasses, the ones I use for stamp collecting, and read what was written in the hat. It is so reassuring that there are people in the world who still take the trouble to write out a long address in clear handwriting. Number twelve, it said. I knocked and the door opened immediately.
    Somehow I’d expected an older man – I mean, someone who might be expected to forget a hat, but this man was very young, tall and strongly built with a mass of shiny black hair. Of course, I ought to have learned at least a couple of phrases: good evening, excuse me, I’m so sorry but I don’t speak your language… As it was, I just held the hat out to him and said, “Sorry”. He hesitated, perhaps thinking I expected him to put something in the hat, so I quickly turned it crown upwards and said “Sorry” again.
    At that he smiled and said in English, “Can I help you?”
    My relief was enormous.
    “I think this is your hat,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I took it by mistake… Look, this is your name and address, isn’t it?”
    He looked and said, “Remarkable. This hat belongs to my cousin. He was living here six months ago. Where did you find it?”
    “On the plane.”
    “Of course. He gets to fly sometimes. He’s a civil servant. Come in, it’s cold this evening. It was kind of you to go to so much trouble so late at night.”
    The room was a small one. In the light from the single table lamp I got a general impression of pleasant homely untidiness: books, newspapers and piles of papers all over the place. It was very cold.
    He asked me where I was from and did I know the city… Oh, of course, just passing through. But it was unusual for people to break their journey here. Unless they had business here, of course. Would I care for a cup of tea?
    I watched him lift the kettle from the stove and take out cups. All his movements were very calm. Occasionally he looked at me and smiled. It was so peaceful to be able to sit with him and drink tea and quietly wait for the name of my hotel to pop up. I was dreadfully tired. After his first polite questions, he said nothing more, but it was a pleasant silence.
    In the end I remarked on the fact that he had so many books. And on how it was difficult these days to get your hands on the books you wanted.
    “Yes. It is very difficult. People keep track of what’s being published and, when it comes out, somehow they know, they sniff it out. And go and queue for it. I’m very proud of my library.”
    “You’re a writer, perhaps?”
    “Not really. Just articles, in a way.”
    “And what kind of books particularly interest you?”
    He smiled again and said, “Everything.”
    I said that I myself, on a modest scale, had published a bit on the subject of, how should I put it, the changes that affect us as we get older. I