“Sir,” he said. “Well, are you some sort of famous author?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“Well.” The bellboy scratched his head. “I been asking around the pub and the lobby and the kitchen, and no one ever heard of you.”
At the door, he turned.
“But don’t worry,” he said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The door shut quietly.
I was suddenly mad for Ireland or the Whale. Not knowing which, I grabbed a cab that veered through streets filled with tens of thousands of bicycles. We headed west along the Liffey.
“Is it the long or short you’d want?” asked my driver. “The long way around or the short arrival?”
“That’s expensive,” interrupted my driver. “Long is cheaper. Conversation! Do you talk? By trip’s end, I am so relaxed I forget the tip. Besides, it’s a map, chart, and atlas of Liffey and beyond that I am. Well?”
“The long way around.”
Green Shadows, White Whale