Ешь, молись, люби

Chapter 82

           Yellowandcrumblingandmusty,theylooklikedisintegratingpilesofautumnleaves.Everytimeheturnsapage,heripsthepage.

           "Ketut,"Isaidtohimlastweek,holdinguponeofhisbatterednotebooks,"I’mnotadoctorlikeyouare,butIthinkthisbookisdying."

           Helaughed."Youthinkisdying?"

           "Sir,"Isaidgravely,"hereismyprofessionalopinion-ifthisbookdoesnotgetsomehelpsoon,itwillbedeadwithinthenextsixmonths."

           ThenIaskedifIcouldtakethenotebookintotownwithmeandphotocopyitbeforeitdied.Ihadtoexplainwhatphotocopyingwas,andpromisethatIwouldonlykeepthenotebookfortwenty-fourhoursandthatIwoulddoitnoharm.Finally,heagreedtoletmetakeitofftheporchpropertywithmymostpassionateassurancesthatIwouldbecarefulwithhisgrandfather’swisdom.IrodeintotowntotheshopwiththeInternetcomputersandphotocopiersandIgingerlyduplicatedeverypage,thenhadthenew,cleanphotocopiesboundinaniceplasticfolder.Ibroughttheoldandthenewversionsofthebookbackthenextdaybeforenoon.Ketutwasastonishedanddelighted,sohappybecausehe’shadthatnotebook,hesaid,forfiftyyears.Whichmightliterallymean"fiftyyears,"ormightjustmean"areallylongtime."

           IaskedifIcouldcopytherestofhisnotebooks,tokeepthatinformationsafe,too.Heheldoutanotherlimp,broken,shredded,gaspingdocumentfilledwithBalineseSanskritandcomplicatedsketches.

           "Anotherpatient!"hesaid.

           "Letmehealit!"Ireplied.

           Thiswasanothergrandsuccess.

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