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    Airmail
    Airmail
    Airmail
    Ebook91 pages1 hour

    Airmail

    By Naomi Bulger

    3.5/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Reclusive old Mr. G.L. Solomons favorite things are single malt whiskey, Steve McQueen movies, and gingersnap cookies. He hates processed cheese, washing detergent commercials, and the way the teacup rattles in the saucer when he picks it up. Solomon has become accustomed to his lonely routine in Sydney, Australiauntil the day he begins sporadically receiving letters in his mailbox from a complete stranger.

    On the other side of the world, Anouk is a mentally delicate young woman living in New York who insists she is being stalked by a fat woman in a pink tracksuit. When Anouk declares to Solomon that she is writing from the Other Side, the old man breaks away from his daily grind of watching soap operas and reading Fishing World and travels to New York to find her. As he is drawn into Anouks surreal world of stalkers and storytelling, marbles and cats, purgatory and Plato, Solomon has but one goalto unravel the mystery before it is too late.

    A story of mismatched individuals in a world where magic touches the diurnal.
    Christine Nagel Literary Services
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateMar 14, 2011
    ISBN9781450235501
    Airmail
    Author

    Naomi Bulger

    Naomi Hulbert is an Australian journalist who moved to New York for adventure and found love instead. She now lives in Sydney, Australia, with her partner, two step-daughters, and a dog. This is her first novel.

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    Reviews for Airmail

    3.5/5

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    • 4/5
      Anouk is currently living in New York City and writes letters about her life, sent via airmail, to a complete stranger in Australia. Mr. G.L. Solomon is that stranger. He's an elderly retiree and his life is centered around highly structured albeit empty days. This life of his is given a lift when he starts receiving letters from this strange woman in New York City. His life takes an unexpected turn when he the letters begin to state that they are being written from the "other side."There's a bit of quirkiness and the strange woven into this tale that borders on paranormal or fantasy without quite taking the step fully into either of those genres. Ms. Bulger presents us with two lives, Anouk and Mr. Solomon, that seem incomplete without the other even though they don't really know one another. They both seem to be biding their time and waiting for something miraculous to happen. I wasn't quite sure what to expect with this story and was pleasantly surprised throughout my reading. This story kept me on edge, never knowing what was going to come with the next line or what the characters would do. If you're looking for something different to read, then please add Airmail by Naomi Bulger to your list.
    • 3/5
      CoverTo make the cover look like a postcard was ingenious. I think it original and shows the creative imagination of one smart individual.Plot/Main CharactersAlthough this book was short, it causes a reader to think while, and after, reading it. It was definitely ... interesting and different.Anouk is a strange person. She writes letters to a person she doesn't know and spills out all her feelings. I have yet to figure out why she includes a memento with each letter, but I do think it a neat idea.Mr. Solomon is an older gentleman stuck in his routinely ways. I won't say he's lonely because he seems rather content on his own. For some reason, though, one of Anouk's letters causes something in the old man's brain to spur him into action. As a result, he travels to New York on his very first trip out of his Australian homeland.What then results is that the old man changes ... he becomes more outgoing and constantly experiences new things. Will he find Anouk? Can he help her?OverallThis was a smartly written book. Definitely an entertaining quick read that will make you think "what if ..."
    • 3/5
      Airmail is an enigmatic yet engaging journey from the ordinary to the surreal.In Sydney, Australia, Mr G L Solomon lives a life of quiet routine, sipping tea and whiskey, watching daytime television and hissing at his neighbor's cat. Yet every so often an envelope arrives in his mailbox containing a rambling letter and perhaps a trinket, from a stranger in New York. Anouk lives in a small apartment in Manhattan and writes letters to Mr G L Solomon in a desperate bid to anchor herself as she begins to quite literally 'lose her marbles'. Caught between reality and glimpses of divine interference Anouk withdraws, her letters stop and a concerned G L Solomon eschews his everyday routine to solve the mystery of his vulnerable acquaintance.I was immediately intrigued by the protagonists of Airmail. Anouk's state of mind is shrouded in as much mystery as the identity of the woman in the pink velour tracksuit about whom she writes. Her emotional and mental vulnerability incite empathy and I thought her desperation to connect with her past a fascinating motivation for writing to Mr Solomon.Mr Solomon's stoicism in honouring the missives he receives from a complete stranger is equally as interesting. Here is a forgotten old man who forms an ethereal connection with a young woman whom he cannot even directly contact but nevertheless he is willing to abandon his familiar life in order to rescue her. For both Anouk and GL the shift from an abstract relationship to a personal acquaintance is a catalyst for personal change and redemption.Airmail is a quirky novella with a premise that takes a decidedly surreal turn. Bulger explores themes of communication, connection and alienation from both others and self. It has a dark tone intertwined with moments of humour and tenderness. It's not the story I was expecting when I accepted the book for review from the author, I wouldn't identify it as magical realism but something more speculative and abstract, nevertheless I found it an engaging story. Airmail is not a light novel despite being a short read at just 103 pages as the author keeps the reader off balance by softening the boundaries of reality. To be honest, I'm not sure I fully comprehended the author's message but I did find it a thought provoking tale and readers with a philosophical bent will likely find Airmail an entertaining novel.

    Book preview

    Airmail - Naomi Bulger

    CHAPTER 1

    The old man opened the stranger’s letter and started to read. You couldn’t tell just by looking whether the tension around his eyes was anticipation or just irritation. His hand shook as he unfolded the page, but that could as easily have been age as excitement.

    A U.S. penny, dated 1982, fell out, as did a cup-stained, unbranded paper napkin with the words the coffee is terrible written across it in blue ink. The ink ran at the edges. There was always some kind of memento like this. The stranger had, as usual, seemed to scribble on any paper that came to hand. This time it was the disemboweled airmail envelope itself, written on inside and out.

    Dear Mr. G. L. Solomon, it began. That was the old man’s name.

    I am being followed. How silly to be afraid of a fat-bottomed woman in a pink, velour tracksuit. She’s everywhere I go—never behind me, always in front. But I do mean always in front.

    The first time I saw her was outside a downtown bar called La Esquina. That’s a Latin-style place that used to be cool, and I read about it in Harper’s before I came. Supposedly, men would dance with you and buy you cocktails, but in reality, it’s too crowded to breathe properly, let alone dance, and all we do is sweat and buy our own damned expensive drinks. Oh, and there’s a law against dancing in this town. Seriously! Can you believe it? New York is insane.

    Anyway, I went outside for a little break, and there was a chubby black lady in a pink tracksuit having a cigarette. I noticed her because tracksuits aren’t exactly standard La Esquina gear. We shared one of those half smiles—you know—when you don’t know somebody but there’s something there and you keep eye contact longer than usual? I went back inside, and later I saw her dancing crazily (and illegally) in the back of the bar.

    So it’s two days later, and I’m at Magnolia, which is this place in the Village where you can get a hundred different types of cupcakes. The lady is already lining up for her cupcake and tea, and I recognize her straight away. She’s even wearing the same pink tracksuit.

    On Sunday afternoon, I’m catching the subway with two friends, and we’re heading up to see the Yankees play the Tampa Devil Rays from the eleven-dollar seats out in the bleachers. I notice her as we go to board the train, just in front of us, and we end up sitting three seats down from her. She’s wearing a Yankees cap, just as we all are. And she’s still wearing the pink tracksuit! I don’t look sideways, so I don’t catch her eye, but I know she’s watching me. It’s starting to freak me out. We lose her at the stadium, but I know she is there somewhere, probably in the bleachers.

    Back home in SoHo, I see her pink tracksuit backside in the weekend shopping crowd just a little ahead of me. Twice. I am definitely being followed. And I have my suspicions, but I don’t really know why.

    Yours,

    Anouk

    The old man frowned momentarily. Then he drained the last of the whiskey, warm now, which sat on the small table beside his armchair. He carefully folded the envelope back up, pulled a shoebox from under the green fabric trimming on the armchair, and placed the letter, the penny, and the napkin inside it. Already in the box was a small pile of letters in the same handwriting.

    From a faded, hand-tinted portrait in a cheap, gilt frame that hung slightly askew on the wallpaper, a prettyish young woman in old-fashioned clothes watched the old man. She watched him as he eased himself out of the chair and walked slowly into the kitchen, flipped the kettle on, put a tea bag in a china teacup without bothering with the saucer, and lit a cigarette while he waited for the kettle to boil. The old man did not so much as glance in the direction of the portrait.

    It was 10:00 AM on a Tuesday.

    * * *

    The old man finished the cigarette, was down to the last sip of his cup of tea, and thought about heading into town to purchase his regular groceries. On the other side of the world, Anouk and a small group of new friends got up to leave Café Lalo on the Upper West Side on Manhattan, New York. Her stomach was full of berries, her mouth tasted of sugar, and it had grown dark outside while she ate. Someone had just told a joke, and they all laughed as they stepped out of the café. Anouk later discovered a piece of blackberry caught front and center in her teeth that nobody told her about.

    Just ahead, waddling out of the same café and down the steps and into the twilight, she caught a glimpse of pink. Velour tracksuit. She knew it! Anouk grabbed the arm of the friend nearest to her, Sarah, and pointed with the other hand. She asked, Do you see that woman over there? The stalker! She’s here! Sarah looked around, swiveling her head in completely the wrong direction. Other way! The other way! Do you see her? But the woman had disappeared into the crowd.

    It was so frustrating. It always seemed to happen that way. Everybody missed the woman except Anouk.

    And as the group formed questions, Anouk felt the familiar isolation begin to settle heavily among the berries.

    Who could blame them for not understanding? Who would be afraid of a fat backside, phantom or flesh, in a tacky velour tracksuit? The woman hardly had the physique of a paid assassin. And to an impartial observer, it would appear that Anouk was doing the stalking, not the other way around. Yet the situation felt sinister, and Anouk felt alone. Pink Tracksuit didn’t look back as she disappeared into the early evening of the tree-lined street among the café goers and the children playing marbles by porch light on the smooth steps of the classic brownstones. But Anouk could feel her eyes.

    An hour later, alone in her tiny boardinghouse room, Anouk began to pace. Inside her head, she retraced her steps since landing at JFK International in the muggy late July—the people she had met, her regular haunts. Scouring her memory for a glimpse of anyone who may somehow be connected to the eccentric spy.

    She searched for the point at which her path first crossed with the Pink Tracksuit’s, or for the moment when the daily exercise of her new identity may have unintentionally left open a window to her old life.

    A sudden thought occurred to Anouk, and she rushed

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