the last book I ever read (The Bathroom by Jean-Philippe Toussaint, excerpt five)

from The Bathroom by Jean-Philippe Toussaint (translated by Nancy Amphoux and Paul De Angelis):

22. Little by little, I began to make friends with the barman. We exchanged nods whenever we met on the stairs. Occasionally, when I went for my late-afternoon coffee, we’d have a conversation. We talked about soccer, automobile racing. The absence of a common language did not bother us; on cycling, for example, we could go on forever. Moser, he’d say. Merckx, I’d remark, after a little silence. Coppi, he’d say, Fausto Coppi. I’d stir my spoon in the coffee, nodding, thoughtful. Bruyère, I’d murmur. Bruyère? he’d say. Yes, yes, Bruyère. He seemed unconvinced. I thought the conversation at an end, but just as I was preparing to leave the counter, he grabbed me by the arm and said, Gimondi. Van Springel, I replied. Planckaert, I added, Dierieckx, Willems, Van Impe, Von Looy, de Vlaeminck: Roger de Vlaeminck and his brother, Eric. What could anyone say to that? He gave up. I paid for the coffee and went upstairs to my room.