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Dear Reader,
This month's Classic is The Quiet American by Graham Greene. If you haven't sampled the monthly Classic yet, go ahead--give it a try. And to sweeten the invitation, I'm offering 20 Penguin Book Bags to readers.
Congratulations to last month's winners of the Sweet Deal Giveaway, Sean M. and Linda E.
Read the sample from The Quiet American then send an email and tell me what you thought of the book. That's all you have to do to enter the drawing.
The Quiet American by Graham Greene
Chapter One
After dinner I sat and waited for Pyle in my room over the rue Catinat; he had said, "I'll be with you at latest by ten," and when midnight struck I couldn't stay quiet any longer and went down into the street. A lot of old women in black trousers squatted on the landing: it was February and I suppose too hot for them in bed. One trishaw driver pedalled slowly by towards the river-front and I could see lamps burning where they had disembarked the new American planes. There was no sign of Pyle anywhere in the long street.
Of course, I told myself, he might have been detained for some reason at the American Legation, but surely in that case he would have telephoned to the restaurant--he was very meticulous about small courtesies. I turned to go indoors when I saw a girl waiting in the next doorway. I couldn't see her face, only the white silk trousers and the long flowered robe, but I knew her for all that. She had so often waited for me to come home at just this place and hour.
"Phuong," I said--which means Phoenix, but nothing nowadays is fabulous and nothing rises from its ashes. I knew before she had time to tell me that she was waiting for Pyle too. "He isn't here."
"'Je sais. Je t'ai vu seul a la fenetre.'"
"You may as well wait upstairs," I said. "He will be coming soon."
"I can wait here."
"Better not. The police might pick you up."
She followed me upstairs. I thought of several ironic and unpleasant jests I might make, but neither her English nor her French would have been good enough for her to understand the irony, and, strange to say, I had no desire to hurt her or even to hurt myself. When we reached the landing all the old women turned their heads, and as soon as we had passed their voices rose and fell as though they were singing together.
"What are they talking about?"
"They think I have come home."
Inside my room the tree I had set up weeks ago for the Chinese New Year had shed most of its yellow blossoms. They had fallen between the keys of my typewriter. I picked them out. " 'Tu es trouble,' " Phuong said.
"It's unlike him. He's such a punctual man."
I took off my tie and my shoes and lay down on the bed. Phuong lit the gas stove and began to boil the water for tea. It might have been six months ago. "He says you are going away soon now," she said.
"Perhaps."
"He is very fond of you."
Continue reading the sample and enter the book bag giveaway, go to: http://tinyurl.com/2xdyfj
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Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com
http://www.DearReader.com
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READ THE CLASSICS: The Quiet American by Graham Greene and enter the free Penguin Classic's Drawing. Go to: http://tinyurl.com/2xdyfj
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