THE RED POINT, Excerpt 7

A small Italian restaurant on a side street behind the University. Orange
tablecloths with woven blue placemats. The sound of a capaccino machine
hissing and sputtering loudly behind the counter.

I order a Studentenpizza and reach in my shoulder bag for The Moviegoer.
I have kept this thin blue-and-white paperback by my side for the last six
months. I found it at the airport in New York when Monika and I were waiting
for the connecting flight to Pittsburgh. My attachment to the book is due in
no small measure to my having discovered it by accident. I had never heard
of Walker Percy, and chose the novel because of its title. I am an avid
moviegoer myself.

The food arrives. I lay the book flat on the table and prop it open with the
edge of an ashtray. Halfway through the pizza, there is a tap on my shoulder.
I turn around and look up. It is Klaus Wuetrich, my composition teacher.

"Gr dich, Paul," he says in his singsong Swiss dialect. "Schn, da du
wieder da bist."

We shake hands and hug. He looks wonderful -- long silver hair, rosy skin,
smiling blue eyes -- a central-European Santa Claus. At his side is a short,
powerfully built Oriental man with a portfolio under his arm. No doubt a
new member of Wuetrich's compositional flock.

"Na, Paul. Wie geht es Dir?"

"Ganz gut."

"When did you get back?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Sehr schn. And you are here to stay?"

"I hope so."

Klaus takes out his calendar and we agree on a time for a private lesson.
He peers at me above his bifocals and pats lightly on my shoulder.

"It's good to see you again, Paul. We were worried about you." His eyes are
receptive and warm. They seem to see me. Shortly before I left Freiburg,
I heard a rumour about his first marriage, how it had ended in some kind
of morbid tragedy. Has he spent time in the Abyss?

We shake hands again and nod goodbye. Klaus leads his disciple to a table
in the back room, and I return to my pizza and Walker Percy.


