A young man, hectic and dirty, sits on a park bench in a cold city. He is wild, nervous, seems to fiddle with his soul. Beside him, an old man is holding a newspaper. The young man begins a conversation. In its course, the old man reveals that he is blind. He asks the young man where he lives. The young man decides to lie, and names a pleasant square, somewhere he could not afford in his present circumstances. The blind man knows the square, knows the building, in fact. What is the name of the landlord again, asks the blind man. The young man says the first word that comes into his head: 'Hippolati.' Ah yes, says the blind man, Hippolati, that's right, he knows the name, it was on the tip of his tongue. The young man is enjoying this; he froths his lies up into greater extravagances. He reminds the old man that Hippolati is something of an inventor, that he invented an electric prayer-book. Yes, says the blind man, he recalls hearing some thing like that. And, Hippolati was for seven years a cabinet minister in Persia, adds the young man. Ah yes, says the old man.

LRB 26 November 1998 | PDF Download