Kristopher Jansma - The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards

And then her eyes fall onto an untidy stack of papers at the next table. Now that she has a better view, she knows exactly what it is. She knows a manuscript when she sees one. Manuscripts are her roommates and best friends. They live on the floors of her apartment and the spare chairs of her office. Stacks and stacks of stories and words.

She looks around but there is no one else sitting anywhere nearby.

It sits patiently on the table. It is all it can do. She checks her watch again. Slowly she stands up and, still starting, checks the watch— her watch — again.

This is where that man was sitting, she thinks. The one who just bolted out of here. The one who looked just like—

Reaching over, she picks it up by one corner and looks around her. No one takes any notice of her at all. Tentatively she studies the title page. “The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards.” There is no author’s name — no address or phone number — no e-mail. But she knows that title. She’s seen it before.

“… two thirty-seven to New York is now… ”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out another stack of pages. These, she stole them from the luggage of the man who owned the watch. Before she left Africa the first time. She’s carried them around ever since, and has read them so often that she could recite them by heart. She sets the stolen pages down beside the ones she’s just found. They seem to be about the same height. The same consistency. She lifts away the title page and places it gently on the table beside her glass of ice. She begins to read the Author’s Note and as she does the world of Terminal B falls silently away around her: her flight, her gin glass, the watch repairman. The only noise she can hear is the faint ticking of the watch. She lifts each page up to the shortening light; her hand leaves faint red smudges on their margins. Steadily, she runs her finger beneath the opening line and begins reading: I’ve lost every book I’ve ever written. I lost the first one here in Terminal B, where I…

This book would not exist today if not for the generosity, time, and faith of practically everyone I know. Most especially I’d like to thank my wife, Leah Miller, who has been my secret weapon for twelve years and counting. Immense thanks to Chelsea Lindman, Maggie Riggs, Clare Ferraro, Timothy Lane, Hal Fessenden, Paul Buckley, Alison Forner, Alissa Amell, Elaine Broeder, Lindsay Prevette, Carolyn Coleburn, Nancy Sheppard, and everyone else at Viking/Penguin and the Nicholas Ellison Agency who believed that this novel could be turned into a book.

Many thanks to my parents, Deborah and Dennis Jansma, who sent me to summer writing camps and at least two universities so I could learn how to do this. Thanks as well to Oma, Jonathan, Jennifer, Dennis Miller, Susan Braunhut, Theodore Fetter, and all the rest of my family.

I’m lucky to have had many great readers along the way, including Elizabeth Perrella, Andy Dodds, Neil Bardhan, Robin Ganek, Rachel Panny, Kara Levy, John Proctor, and David Hellman. Thanks to Jordan Dollak for composing all the music in my podcasts out of the goodness of his heart, and to the brilliant photographer Michael Levy, who makes me look good. Thanks also to the many people who checked my facts and translations: Hanna Miller, Emily Ethridge, Natalya Minkovsky, Sadena Thevarajah, Kelly Johnston, Jennifer Breithoff, and Chantal Flammang at the Luxembourg City Tourist Office, and of course the tireless and thorough John Jusino. I’m grateful to Martin Marks and Ariel S. Winter for inspiring me since day one of freshman year and to The Doug for keeping me honest for just as long.

This book is what it is today because of the generous people at Johns Hopkins University, Columbia University, the New York Public Library, and, especially, B Cup Café. Great thanks to my colleagues at Manhattanville College and SUNY Purchase, including Andrew Bodenrader, Jeff Bens, Catherine Lewis, and Monica Ferrell.

Absolutely none of this would have happened if not for Mrs. Inglis, my seventh grade writing teacher at Oak Hill Academy, who gave me my first C on a paper, because she knew I could do better if I tried.