The Reader on the 6.27 Read Online Free Page A

improvisation. You can’t cheat with a line of twelve syllables, kiddo.’ After so many years of practice, Yvon had become a master in the art of delivery. Drawing himself up to his full height, the security guard came out of his hut:
‘ Many a supplier has come to know my wrath,
But just get here on time and my voice will be soft.
Unload your consignment, and don’t look so amazed,
Ended is the torment you caused with this delay.
‘ Do try in the future to turn up here on time,
Legendary patience will not always be mine.
No matter what the hour, no nuisance is so great
As to accept receipt of new freight at this gate.
‘ Do not drive me crazy, warning is now given,
Within lovely ladies, furies can be hidden.
I remain your servant, yet hardly need to state
That within this precinct, I’m master of your fate. ’
    By now, the lorry driver was looking seriously worried. All of a sudden, he was no longer watching Yvon Grimbert, lowly security guard, but the all-powerful high priest of the temple. Beneath his greying moustache, Yvon’s crimson lips delivered the defiant lines without trembling. The driver ventured a guarded reply and tiptoed back in his cowboy boots to the cab of his Volvo for protection against the avalanche of rhymes. Yvon pursued him. Standing on the running board, he hurled great volleys of verse into the cab while the panic-stricken young driver frantically wound up the window:
‘ When you are in distress, a juggernaut will serve
To hide your shame and stress until you find your nerve.
If you wish to silence the language of the muse,
Do not look so aghast and present your excuse! ’
    Defeated, his forehead resting on the wheel in an attitude of submission, the driver mumbled a string of garbled words that sounded like an apology. As he made his way back to his glassed-in shelter, Yvon fired off one parting quatrain:
‘ I’m on my way right now to raise up this barrier
And quietly bring down my level of anger.
Now move this truck along, empty out its contents
May the shredder live long, after you are gone hence. ’
    So saying, Yvon opened the way for the huge vehicle, which snorted a cloud of exhaust fumes. Guylain deserted his poet friend for a moment to supervise the unloading. Still in shock, the driver disgorged his load half onto the platform, half onto the car park. His delivery note stamped, he left, only too happy to see the barrier rise without his having to suffer further assaults from Yvon Grimbert, who was already back in his kingdom of Castile watching out for the Moors by Chimene’s side.

7
    It was time to clean up – the moment Guylain so loathed. It was no easy task being swallowed whole by the Thing in order to scour its innards. Every evening he had to force himself to go down into the tank, but it was the price he had to pay in order to carry out his mission with complete impunity. Since Kowalski had installed CCTV cameras all over the place, Guylain had not been able to remove samples as easily as before. Giuseppe’s accident had given the boss the excuse to equip the entire plant with six state-of-the-art digital cameras, tireless eyes that spied on the workers’ every movement all day long. ‘To prevent another such tragedy ever happening again,’ Fatso had said, his voice full of sorrow. A feigned sorrow that had not deceived Guylain. That bastard Felix Kowalski had never shown an iota of sympathy for the elderly Giuseppe Carminetti, considering him nothing but an unproductive alcoholic, a millstone. Above all he had taken advantage of the unhoped-for opportunity afforded by Giuseppe’s accident to carry out what he had always dreamt of doing: spying on his entire little kingdom without having to move his buttocks off the leather armchair he lounged in from dawn till dusk. To hell with Kowalski and his surveillance cameras.
    After putting the Zerstor out of action, Guylain would slip down to the base of the funnel. The image of a panic-stricken rat clawing at the