Down There by the Train - Softcover

Sterns, Kate

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0676973884 ISBN 13: 9780676973884

Verlag: Vintage Canada, 2002

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Packed with magic, comic misunderstandings and metaphorical brilliance, Down There by the Train tells the story of ex-con Levon Hawke and his encounter with the red-haired giantess, Obdulia Limb, grieving for her mother ten years dead. Witty and wistful, this is Canadian Gothic romance at its finest, and most unique.

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�ber die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kate Sterns was born in Toronto in 1961 and grew up in Kingston, Ontario. Her first novel, Thinking About Magritte, was published to acclaim in 1992. She lives in Montreal.

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“Imagination, huge dollops of it. Generous scoops of laughter.... All of it served up with such a feel for pacing, for structure, for the deeper pleasures of significance that you can’t help thinking, here is a writer born to it.” — National Post

“Down There By the Train is a rich treat.” — Chatelaine

“Sterns firmly holds the reins over her bucking cast of eccentrics until the last scene, which ends, cleverly, surprisingly, with one of the most chilling double-entendres in recent fiction.” — The Toronto Star

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An old-fashioned Coca-Cola sign hung above the door, creaking in the breeze. Red plastic letters that could be removed or scrambled to make new words were slotted into ledges, like a child's learn-to-read toy. The first line said Sweeney's Diner. Reputable since 1955. Underneath that was an advertisement for the $2.99 breakfast. Served all day. And then: Go d eats here.

He blinked twice, speculating as to whether Sweeney had succumbed in his old age to an uncharacteristic bout of religious fervour. Levon's aunt, Anna-Lee, had switched from the Anglican church to the Pentecostal after her divorce (More action! she claimed), and now spoke in tongues. Without stopping, his father grumbled.

Levon soon identified the problem: there was a gap between the o and the d. A letter had slipped in its mooring and sailed off on the wind. A missing, what, consonant? Gord eats here. No, of course not. A vowel, then. An o. That was it. The sign should have read Good eats here. God was meant to be good. How scandalized Anna Lee would be at the notion that He was a mere typo: an error. An absence. Levon guffawed. Religion, Harvey's great discovery, grief - that's all boiled down to in the end: a red o. A bloody circle with nothing at the centre of it.

To occupy his time while waiting for Sweeney's to open, Levon decided to search for the letter. First, he looked about at his feet but saw no telltale splash of red.

He'd have to seek it further afield.

The snow on the pavement was worn down and grubby as an old bar of soap. Ice, partially thawed, then frozen again, felt nubbly on the soles of his shoes. He trod accidentally on a patch of smoother ice and his feet shot forward while his upper body jerked back, as if a rug had been yanked out from under him. His arms windmilled in an undignified effort to right himself. He would have to watch his step. His shoes were prison-issue after all, designed to stick only to the straight and narrow.