“Is The Nightingale good?” I asked Rosalie last month, when I noticed the bestseller on her coffee table.
“It’s not great literature,” she said, “but, yes, it’s really good. Take it.”
I was startled, but as Rosalie gave the tour of her lovely Park Avenue apartment, I realized that she was serious. The apartment is beautiful, fabulous, even. It does, though, have New York proportions. “We are the only apartment in the building with outdoor space,” she said when she showed our group her lovely little deck and barbeque. Her son’s piano—we got a mini concert—is one octave smaller than standard to fit in their son’s room.
No space for every book one might want to read. So I accepted the book, happy to have something fresh to read on the plane.
“Isn’t it great?” a fellow passenger pointed at The Nightingale as I was getting settled in an exit row.
“Haven’t started it yet.”
“Oh man, I’m about halfway through and have been balling my eyes out.”
High praise, clearly.
It’s taken me a bit longer to read than usual…life has dealt a complicated hand lately. It’s nice, though, sometimes to escape the present, even if it’s to go back to Nazi times, as two sisters work in the French resistance. And I felt satisfaction as I identified the scene, on page 260, that caused my fellow passenger such emotion.
And now that I’m finished…
I’m going soon to arrive, in a few hours, to visit Myrta.
She’ll like it I think.