“What are you doing with those books?”

“I read them, between fares.”

Fair enough-a stupid question deserves a short answer. What does anyone do with books but read them?

“I asked because it’s a little… unusual to see books in a taxi, especially so many of them.”

“That’s not true, actually. Lots of cab drivers like to read.”

He spoke an almost unaccented Italian, and he seemed to choose his words deliberately. He handled his words with caution, as if they were delicate-even slightly dangerous-objects. As if they were razor sharp.

“I’m sure you’re right. But you have a whole library up there.”

“That’s because I like to read several books at once. I switch depending on my mood. So I bring a lot of books with me, and then I forget to take home the ones I finish, and before you know it I’ve got a whole pile of them.”

“I like to read several books at once, too. What are you reading now?”

“A Simenon novel. One reason I like it is that part of it takes place in a car, and I spend all my time in a car. That helps me appreciate it. Also, some Garcia Lorca poems. I really like poetry, but it’s pretty challenging. And when I’m tired, I read that one.” He pointed at one of the mass-market mysteries. He named neither the title nor the author of the last book, and rightly so, I thought. I felt as if there were a complete aesthetic-precise, incisive, and well-defined-in the way he had discussed, and tacitly classified, his current reading list. I liked that. I tried to get a look at his face, from the elusive glances I caught of his profile as he drove and from his reflection in the rearview mirror. He was about thirty-five and pale, with a hint of shyness to his eyes.