entering a cul-de-sac, that I could not hope for Clara to see anything more in me than a boy ten years her junior. Every day it felt more difficult to be near her, to bear the touch of her hands or to take her by the arm when we went out for a walk. There came a point when her mere proximity translated into an almost physical pain. Nobody was unaware of this fact, least of all Clara.
'Daniel, I think we need to talk,' she would say. �I don't think I've behaved very well towards you�'
I never let her finish her sentences. I would leave the room with any old excuse and flee, unable to face the possibility that the fantasy world I had built around Clara might be dissolving. I could not know that my troubles had only just begun.
AN EMPTY PLATE 1950
7
On my sixteenth birthday, I spawned the most ill-fated idea that had yet occurred to me. Without consulting anybody, I decided to host a birthday party and invite Barcelo, Bernarda, and Clara. In my father's estimation, the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.
'It's my birthday,' I answered sharply. 'I work for you every other day of the year. For once, at least, you could try to please me.' 'Suit yourself.'
The preceding months had been the most bewildering in my strange friendship with Clara. I hardly ever read to her anymore. Clara would systematically avoid being left on her own with me. Whenever I called by her apartment, her uncle popped up, pretending to read a newspaper, or else Bernarda would materialize, bustling about in the background and casting sidelong glances. Other times the company would take the form of one or several of Clara's friends. I called them the 'Sisterly Brigade'. Always chaste and modest in appearance, they patrolled the area around Clara with a missal in one hand and a policeman's eye, making it abundantly clear that I was in the way and that my presence embarrassed Clara and the entire world. Worst of all, however, was Neri, the music teacher, whose wretched symphony remained unfinished. He was a smooth talker, a rich kid from the snobby San Gervasio district, who, despite the Mozartian airs he affected, reminded me more of a tango singer, slick with brilliantine. The only talent I recognized in him was a badly concealed mean streak. He would suck up to Don Gustavo with no dignity or decorum, and he flirted with Bernarda in the kitchen, making her laugh with his silly gifts of sugared almonds and his fondness for bottom pinching. In short, I hated his guts. The dislike was mutual. Neri would turn up with his scores and his arrogant manner, regarding me as if I were some undesirable little cabin boy and making all sorts of objections to my presence.
'Don't you have to go and do your homework, son?'
'And you, maestro, don't you have a symphony to finish?'
In the end they would all get the better of me and I would depart, crestfallen and defeated, wishing I had Don Gustavo's gift of the gab so that I could put the conceited so-and-so in his place.
On my birthday my father went down to the bakery on the corner and bought the finest cake he could find. He set the dinner table silently, bringing out the silver and the best crockery. He lit a few candles and prepared a meal of what he thought were my favourite dishes. We didn't exchange a word all afternoon. In the evening he went into his room, slipped into his best suit, and came out again holding a packet wrapped in shiny cellophane, which he placed on the coffee table in the dining room. My present. He sat at the table, poured himself a glass of white wine, and waited. My invitation specified that dinner would be served at eight-thirty. At nine-thirty we were still waiting. My father glanced at me sadly. Inside, I was boiling with rage.
'You must be pleased with yourself,' I said. 'Isn't this what you wanted?'
'No.'
Half an hour later, Bernarda arrived. She bore a funereal expression and a message from Miss Clara, who wished me many happy returns. Unfortunately she would be unable to
'Daniel, I think we need to talk,' she would say. �I don't think I've behaved very well towards you�'
I never let her finish her sentences. I would leave the room with any old excuse and flee, unable to face the possibility that the fantasy world I had built around Clara might be dissolving. I could not know that my troubles had only just begun.
AN EMPTY PLATE 1950
7
On my sixteenth birthday, I spawned the most ill-fated idea that had yet occurred to me. Without consulting anybody, I decided to host a birthday party and invite Barcelo, Bernarda, and Clara. In my father's estimation, the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.
'It's my birthday,' I answered sharply. 'I work for you every other day of the year. For once, at least, you could try to please me.' 'Suit yourself.'
The preceding months had been the most bewildering in my strange friendship with Clara. I hardly ever read to her anymore. Clara would systematically avoid being left on her own with me. Whenever I called by her apartment, her uncle popped up, pretending to read a newspaper, or else Bernarda would materialize, bustling about in the background and casting sidelong glances. Other times the company would take the form of one or several of Clara's friends. I called them the 'Sisterly Brigade'. Always chaste and modest in appearance, they patrolled the area around Clara with a missal in one hand and a policeman's eye, making it abundantly clear that I was in the way and that my presence embarrassed Clara and the entire world. Worst of all, however, was Neri, the music teacher, whose wretched symphony remained unfinished. He was a smooth talker, a rich kid from the snobby San Gervasio district, who, despite the Mozartian airs he affected, reminded me more of a tango singer, slick with brilliantine. The only talent I recognized in him was a badly concealed mean streak. He would suck up to Don Gustavo with no dignity or decorum, and he flirted with Bernarda in the kitchen, making her laugh with his silly gifts of sugared almonds and his fondness for bottom pinching. In short, I hated his guts. The dislike was mutual. Neri would turn up with his scores and his arrogant manner, regarding me as if I were some undesirable little cabin boy and making all sorts of objections to my presence.
'Don't you have to go and do your homework, son?'
'And you, maestro, don't you have a symphony to finish?'
In the end they would all get the better of me and I would depart, crestfallen and defeated, wishing I had Don Gustavo's gift of the gab so that I could put the conceited so-and-so in his place.
On my birthday my father went down to the bakery on the corner and bought the finest cake he could find. He set the dinner table silently, bringing out the silver and the best crockery. He lit a few candles and prepared a meal of what he thought were my favourite dishes. We didn't exchange a word all afternoon. In the evening he went into his room, slipped into his best suit, and came out again holding a packet wrapped in shiny cellophane, which he placed on the coffee table in the dining room. My present. He sat at the table, poured himself a glass of white wine, and waited. My invitation specified that dinner would be served at eight-thirty. At nine-thirty we were still waiting. My father glanced at me sadly. Inside, I was boiling with rage.
'You must be pleased with yourself,' I said. 'Isn't this what you wanted?'
'No.'
Half an hour later, Bernarda arrived. She bore a funereal expression and a message from Miss Clara, who wished me many happy returns. Unfortunately she would be unable to
Similar Books
![Jordan Summers - [Dead World 01]](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/474996/thumbs/152x264/jordan-summers-dead-world-01.jpg)
