Intermezzo (eBook)

Sally Rooney (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
288 Seiten
Faber & Faber (Verlag)
978-0-571-36549-4 (ISBN)

Infos

THE GLOBAL #1 BESTSELLER AN IRISH TIMES TOP 100 IRISH BOOKS OF THE 21ST CENTURY A BEST BOOK OF 2024 IN THE GUARDIAN, TIMES, SUNDAY TIMES, IRISH TIMES, LONDON STANDARD, INDEPENDENT, OBSERVER, NEW STATESMAN, iNEWS, GOOD HOUSEKEEPING, THE SKINNY, CITY AM, DAILY MAIL, AND THE CONVERSATION 'Intermezzo is perfect ... Is there a better novelist at work right now?' Observer 'Her most mature and moving book to date ... I read it in a state of rapture.'Sunday Times 'If a perfect Sally Rooney novel exists, this might just be it ... Her best novel yet.' Evening Standard 'Rooney has discovered her full literary prowess.' Independent From the author of the multimillion-copy bestseller Normal People, an exquisitely moving story about grief, love and family. Aside from the fact that they are brothers, Peter and Ivan Koubek seem to have little in common. Peter is a Dublin lawyer in his thirties - successful, competent and apparently unassailable. But in the wake of their father's death, he's medicating himself to sleep and struggling to manage his relationships with two very different women - his enduring first love Sylvia, and Naomi, a college student for whom life is one long joke. Ivan is a twenty-two-year-old competitive chess player. He has always seen himself as socially awkward, a loner, the antithesis of his glib elder brother. Now, in the early weeks of his bereavement, Ivan meets Margaret, an older woman emerging from her own turbulent past, and their lives become rapidly and intensely intertwined. For two grieving brothers and the people they love, this is a new interlude - a period of desire, despair and possibility - a chance to find out how much one life might hold inside itself without breaking. Readers love Intermezzo: ????? 'An intimate and emotional read . I put the book down feeling that I am richer for having read it.' Megan ????? 'A beautifully written book with characters that capture the heart of the reader.' Sinead ????? 'I'm envious of anyone yet to read this, you're in for a treat.' Anon ????? 'The characters are brilliant; complex, heartful, raw and impactful.' S. Payne ????? 'Shows dazzling skill but also heart-wrenching compassion and humanity.' Tom Sally Rooney's book Intermezzo was a bestseller w/c 30/09/2024

Sally Rooney is an Irish novelist. She is the author of Conversations with Friends, Normal People and Beautiful World, Where Are You.

Textauszug

1

Didn’t seem fair on the young lad. That suit at the funeral. With the braces on his teeth, the supreme discomfort of the adolescent. On such occasions, one could almost come to regret one’s own social brilliance. Gives him the excuse, or gives him in any case someone at whom to look pleadingly between the mandatory handshakes. God love him. Nearly twenty-three now: Ivan the terrible. Difficult actually to believe the suit on him. Picked it up perhaps in some little damp-smelling second-hand shop for the local hospice, paid in cash, rode it home on his bicycle crumpled in a reusable plastic bag. Yes, that in fact would make sense of it, would bring into alignment the suit in its resplendent ugliness and the personality of the younger brother, ten years younger. Not without style in his own way. Certain kind of panache in his absolute disregard for the material world. Brains and beauty, an aunt said once. About them both. Or was it Ivan brains and Peter beauty. Thanks, I think. He crosses Watling Street now towards the apartment that is not an apartment, the house that is not a house, eleven or is it twelve days since the funeral, back in town. Back at work, such as it is. Or back anyway to Naomi’s place. And what will she be wearing when she answers the door. Slides his phone from his pocket into the palm of his hand as he reaches the front step, cool tactility of the screen as it lights under his fingers, typing. Outside. Evenings drawing in now and she’s back at her lectures, presumably. No reply but she sees the message, and then the predictable sequence, the so familiar and by now indirectly arousing sequence of sounds as behind the front door she comes up the old basement staircase and into the hall. Classical conditioning: how did it take so long to figure that out? Common sense. Not that. Everyday experience. The relationship of memory and feeling. The opening door.

Hello, Peter, she says.

A cropped cashmere tank top, thin gold necklace. And black sweatpants fitted slim at the ankle. Not elasticated, she hates that. Bare feet.

May I come in? he asks.

Down the staircase and into her room without seeing any of the others. Fairy lights glowing dim pinpricks against the wall. Takes his shoes off, leaves them by the door. Laptop lying splayed open on the unmade mattress. Fragrance of perfume, sweat and cannabis. In whose blent air all our compulsions meet. Curtains hanging closed, as always.

Where have you been? she asks.

Ah. I’m afraid something came up.

She’s looking at him, and then not looking, with a scoff. Off on a late summer holiday, were you? she asks.

Naomi, sweetheart, he says in a friendly voice. My dad died.

Stunned, she turns to look, saying: Your— Then she falls silent. Jesus, she adds. Oh my God, fuck. Peter, I’m so sorry.

Do you mind if I sit down?

They sit on the mattress together.

Christ, she says. Then: Are you okay?

Yeah, I think so.

She’s looking down at the soles of her feet, crossed on the mattress. Blackened with the dirt that never seems dirty exactly. You want to talk about it? she asks.

Not really.

How’s your brother doing?

Ivan, he says. Do you know he’s about your age?

Yeah, you told me. You said you wanted to introduce us. Is he okay?

With love, irresistibly, Peter smiles, and to avoid the spectacle of smiling with irresistible love at Naomi herself, he smiles instead, as if humorously, at the inside of his own extended wrist. Oh, he’s doing— I actually have no idea how he’s doing. What did I tell you about him before?

I don’t know, you said he was ‘a curio’ or something.

Yeah, he’s a complete oddball. Really not your type. I think he’s kind of autistic, although I guess you can’t say that now.

You can, if he actually is.

Well, not clinically or whatever. But he’s a chess genius, so. Peter lies back on the bed now, looking up at the ceiling. You don’t mind, do you? he adds. I have to head on somewhere else in a bit.

From outside his line of sight, Naomi’s mouth answers: That’s cool. A pause. He toys with the inseam of her sweatpants. She lies down beside him, warm, her breath warm, the scent of coffee, and something else. Her breasts warm under the little cashmere top. Which he bought for her, or the same one in another colour. ‘Paris grey’. Letting him touch with his fingertips her damp underarm. Chalky scent of deodorant only masking the lower savoury smell of perspiration. Hardly ever shaves anywhere except her legs, below the knee. He told her once that back in his day, the girls in college used to get bikini waxes. That made her laugh. She asked if he was trying to make her feel bad or what. Not at all, he said. Just an interesting development in the sexual culture. She’s always laughing. Those Celtic Tiger years must have been wild. Anyway, you like it. And it’s true, he does. Something sensual in her carelessness. Cold feet. Soles always black from walking around this kip half-dressed, smoking a joint, talking on speakerphone. She murmurs softly now: I’m so sorry. His fingers under the cashmere. Eyes closing. Everything very languid and dreamy like this. Her skin unseen beneath his hands with that soft downy quality almost velvet. He asks what she got up to while he was away. No answer. His eyes open again and find hers.

Listen, she says. I feel stupid telling you this. But some stuff came up a few weeks ago. Like for college, I had to buy some books. So I needed money. It’s not a big deal.

Slowly he nods his head. Ah, he says. Okay. I could have helped you out, if I’d known.

Yeah, she says. Well, you weren’t really replying to my texts. Screws her mouth up into a pained smile. Sorry, she adds. I didn’t know about your dad, obviously.

Don’t worry, he says. I didn’t know you needed money. Obviously.

They look at one another a moment longer, embarrassed, irritable, guilty. Then she turns onto her back. It’s cool, she says. I didn’t even have to do anything, the pictures were from ages ago. Feeling his body tired and heavy he closes his eyes. One of these guys who comments on all her posts, probably. The emoji of the monkey covering its eyes. Or some sad married man with a credit card his wife doesn’t know about.

That’s fucked up about your dad, she says. When was the funeral?

Last week. Two weeks ago.

Did your friends all go?

He pauses. Not all, he says. After another pause: Sylvia. And a few others.

I guess you didn’t want me to be there.

He turns to look at her face in profile. Full lips parted, sweep of freckles on her cheekbone. Silver stud glinting in her ear. The image of youth and beauty. He wonders also how much the guy paid. No, he says. I guess not.

Without looking at him she grins. What did you think I was going to do? she says. Try to seduce the priest or something? I have been to funerals, you know.

I just thought people would probably ask me who you were, he says. And what was I going to say, we’re friends?

Why not?

I don’t think anyone would believe me.

Thanks a lot, she says. I don’t look classy enough to be friends with you?

You don’t look old enough.

Tongue between her lips now, grinning. You’re sick in the head, you know, she says.

I know, but so are you.

She stretches her arms thoughtfully, and then settles the back of her head down on her hands. Do you have a girlfriend or something? she asks.

He says nothing for a moment. Since in any case she doesn’t seem to care, and why should she. Thinks of saying: I did, once. And now might be the time to tell her about that, mightn’t it. About the funeral, and afterwards. Not that anything happened. Just the feeling, memory of a feeling, which was nothing in reality. In the car found himself mumbling stupidly: Don’t leave me alone with Ivan, will you. That was why she stayed. Only reason. Up in the old childhood bedroom, throbbing against her like a teenager. Too dark blessedly to look her in the eyes. She slept beside him, that was all. Nothing to tell. In the morning she was up before he was. Downstairs in the kitchen with Ivan, speaking in soft tones; he heard them from the landing. What did they have to say to each other? Nice little outpost for the knight on d5, was it? She probably would too. Humour him. Forget about it.

If I did, he says, why would I be hanging around with you?

Turning her body to face him, she touches with a fingertip the thin gold chain at her neck. Because you’re sick in the head, remember? she says.

He remembers, yes, and remembering touches his hand to her small face, his palm resting on her jaw. Is she laughing at him also. Yes, of course, but is it only that. At her birthday party in the summer when he brought champagne and she drank from the bottle with her painted lips. In the kitchen her friend Janine said you know I think she likes you Peter. Different...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 24.9.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-571-36549-3 / 0571365493
• ISBN-13: 978-0-571-36549-4 / 9780571365494