Cryptonomicon

by Neal Stephenson

“With us,” he explains brightly, “what you just said isn’t a polite greeting.” “Oh,” Waterhouse says, “what did I say, then?” “You said that while you were down at the mill to lodge a complaint about a sack with a weak seam that sprung loose on Thursday, you were led to understand, by the tone of the proprietor’s voice, that Mary’s great-aunt, a spinster who had a loose reputation as a younger woman, had contracted a fungal infection in her toenails.” There is a long silence. Then everyone speaks at once. Finally a woman’s voice breaks through the cacophony: “No, no!” Waterhouse looks; it’s Mary. “I understood him to say that it was at the pub, and that he was there to apply for a job catching rats, and that it was my neighbor’s dog that had come down with rabies.” “He was at the basilica for confession—the priest—angina—” someone shouts from the back. Then everyone talks at once: “The dockside—Mary’s half-sister—leprosy—Wednesday—complaining about a loud party!”