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(...) A mostly empty wine
bottle stands on the table. The bar is deserted. Sachs can’t remember when he was last this drunk, or
this tense and relaxed at the same time: relaxed, because an intelligent young woman is enjoying his
company; tense, because he is ready to lance the boil on his conscience. To Sachs’s wry surprise, he
is attracted to Luisa Rey, and he sorely regrets they met in these circumstances. The woman and the
reporter keep blurring into one another.
“Let’s change the subject,” Sachs says. “Your car, your”–he does a Hollywood SS officer accent–“ ‘Volkswagen .’ What’s its name?”
“Let’s change the subject,” Sachs says. “Your car, your”–he does a Hollywood SS officer accent–“ ‘Volkswagen .’ What’s its name?”
“How do you know my Beetle has a name?”
“All Beetle owners give their cars names. But please don’t tell me it’s John, George, Paul, or
Ringo.” God, Luisa Rey, you’re beautiful.
She says, “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I, Isaac Caspar Sachs, solemnly vow not to laugh.”
“You’d better not with a middle name like Caspar. It’s Garcia.”
They both shake, noiselessly, until they burst into laughter. Maybe she likes me too, maybe
she’s not just doing her job.
- Cloud Atlas (David Mitchell, 2004)
