The Tiny Wife

The Tiny Wife
Andrew Kaufman

A remarkable short novella, a modern fable that is weird, uplifting and romantic all at the same time.A robber charges into a bank with a loaded gun, but instead of taking any money he steals an item of sentimental value from each person. Once he has made his escape, strange things start to happen to the victims.A tattoo comes to life, a husband turns into a snowman, a baby starts to shit money. And Stacey Hinterland discovers that she’s shrinking, a little every day, and there is seemingly nothing that she or her husband can do to reverse the process.The Tiny Wife is a weird and wonderful modern fable. Small, but perfectly formed, it will charm, delight and unnerve in equal measure.

ANDREW KAUFMAN

The Tiny Wife

Illustrated by Tom Percival

Dedication

For the extremely patient,and exceedingly tall, Marlo

Contents

Cover (#u8bbc97f6-4b1c-5a33-be4d-e595b2b0ae12)

Title Page (#uecf0b05a-6ce4-5e42-8ddb-b6df0cda0c12)

Dedication (#ue862bc06-bb85-5b43-8584-ed7f868f3c49)

Book One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Book Two

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Book Three

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Book One

Chapter 1

he robbery was not without consequences. The consequences were the point of the robbery. It was never about money. The thief didn’t even ask for any. That it happened in a bank was incidental. It could have just as easily happened in a train station or a high school or the Musée d’Orsay. It has in the past and it will in the future, and shortly after 3 p.m. on Wednesday 21st February it happened inside Branch #117 of the British Bank of North America.

The bank was located at the corner of Christie and Dupont in downtown Toronto, Ontario, Canada. There were thirteen people inside when the thief entered: two tellers, the assistant manager, and ten customers waiting in line. The thief wore a flamboyant purple hat and brandished a handgun. Having a flair for drama, he fired a single shot into the ceiling. Bits of plaster fell from it and got caught in the fake fur fibers of his hat. Everyone was quiet. Nobody moved.

‘While this is a robbery …’ the thief said. His accent was thick and British, the kind that makes North Americans feel slightly ashamed. He flicked his head and a cloud of plaster dust swept into the air. ‘I demand only one thing from each of you and it is this: the item currently in your possession which holds the most sentimental value.’

With a wave of his gun the thief directed the bank personnel to come around the counter and get into the line where the customers waited. At the front of this line stood David Bishop, a penguinesque man of forty-five, who trembled slightly as the thief came so close that the brim of his purple hat brushed against David’s bangs.

‘Well?’ asked the thief.

David reached inside his jacket, removed his wallet, and pulled out several hundred dollars.

‘You expect me to believe that money is the object currently in your possession holding the most sentimental value?’

David Bishop became confused. He continued to hold the bills high in the air. The thief placed his gun against the man’s left temple.

‘What is your name?’ the thief demanded.

‘David. David Bishop.’

‘David David Bishop, rip the money into little pieces and throw the pieces into the air.’

Pausing briefly, David did as the thief demanded. Pieces of money fell to the floor.

‘Now, David, think. You have a lot riding on this. What is the most significant, memory-laden, gushingly sentimental object currently in your possession?’