The Illusion of Separateness: A Novel
Simon Van Booy
Language: English
Pages: 224
ISBN: 0062248456
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In The Illusion of Separateness, award-winning author Simon Van Booy tells a harrowing and enchanting story of how one man’s act of mercy during World War II changed the lives of strangers, and how they each discover the astonishing truth of their connection.
Whether they are pursued by Nazi soldiers, old age, shame, deformity, disease, or regret, the characters in this utterly compelling novel discover in their, darkest moments of fear and isolation that they are not alone, that they were never alone, that every human being is a link in an unseen chain.
The Illusion of Separateness intertwines the stories of unique and compelling characters who—through seemingly random acts of selflessness—discover the vital parts they have played in each other’s lives.
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To Montauk. It was what they both wanted. The sky was blue and cloudless. After lunch they watched seagulls. Fishing boats. Bristling lines of white frothed against the bow. Across the ocean, Europe smoldered. John found basic training difficult. It also hurt to be away. He couldn’t do a lot of the things they wanted. He was told he would have to kill—would have to cross a field of guts to come home. John could tell that some of the others were ready, and it reassured him that one day he might.
I waited for night. Night came. I fought to keep warm. With the armor of dawn came relief. I watched day unfold from inside, then slept where sunlight pooled. Anyone who is desperate or alone will agree there is comfort in routine. I hit the usual benches, boulevards. Notre Dame. The cinemas were safe for sleeping if you didn’t get caught. Parks were safe, too, if others joined. There was one park we all knew, where a small boy, a baker’s boy, came running (young thief), with a sack of.
Telephoned. But there were so many injured. Most died. Then an old woman who once worked in the kitchen said she could faintly recall: Left to die in the street, she said. Without any identification, rags for clothes, pockets empty except for a novel by Victor Hugo. It was the admitting doctor’s idea for a name. Didn’t think I’d live. I had to go down to the passport office with the chief. I had to show what was left of my face. They stopped what they were doing. Was a victim of war, he.
Line of low huts where the chickens slept. John wondered what Paul wanted to show him. It was painful to walk and he was worried about being seen. When they reached a cluster of young fruit trees, Paul stopped. John was about to say something when he looked down and saw four mounds of earth, all faintly indented with handprints. Each was marked with a different-sized cross. Paul leaned down and touched the smallest one. “Jacqui was only three,” he said. “But it made no difference.” Until.
Were wet from dew. While searching for somewhere to shelter, he heard two bombers hedgehopping at low altitude and wondered if they were from Harrington, and whether he knew the crew. The Carpetbaggers flew only when there was enough moon to navigate by rivers and lakes. News would have reached Harriet and his parents some time ago. He imagined them at the kitchen table trying to get used to the idea. A hush over the restaurant that would last decades. Sadness in the kitchen, and in the cake.