The Secret Lives of People in Love

The Secret Lives of People in Love by Simon van Booy Page B

Book: The Secret Lives of People in Love by Simon van Booy Read Free Book Online
Authors: Simon van Booy
Tags: Contemporary, General Fiction, Collections
Ads: Link
request in the friendship was that Saboné bring home any spare or used train tickets, which Oncle liked to arrange very prettily in cloth-covered books.
    Oncle knew the train timetables by heart, and it often occurred to Saboné that Oncle would have been a far superior ticket dispenser than he if his friend were able to leave the apartment.
    One wet Sunday afternoon, after a lunch of cold meat and beer, Oncle puffed on a cigar and mulled over Saboné’s predicament regarding the girl in the shop. Finally, with rain upon the window like a thousand eyes, Oncle said sensibly, “Go into the shop, Saboné, and politely enquire.”
    The thought of entering the shop filled Saboné with such fear that, following lunch with Oncle, he immediately went to bed and was carried away by dreams, like a leaf falling from a branch into a slow river.
    He awoke in the early hours of the morning, and although it was still dark, his room glowed with the soul of the snow that lay outside upon the streets and smoky roofs.
    Saboné slid into his robe and crept to the window.
    The courtyard and the fountain below were in a deep sleep. Sabonéimagined bringing her back to his apartment. He imagined carrying her across the wedding cake snow of Paris and then her face when she saw the fountain.
     
    The gray city was completely smothered by snow the next morning. The shop bell rang loudly as Saboné entered, kicking snow off his shoes as he went.
    There were racks of dresses. There were feathered hats upon the walls like exotic birds. Inside the shop, there was no sound.
    As Saboné made his way over to the window to see the girl, something appeared from between a dark rack of furs.
    Saboné was not sure if it was a woman or a painted doll, but a small trembling creature suddenly appeared before him. The woman’s lips were bloodred, and her skin was very white.
    “Yes,” the woman stated as though answering a question. She raised her cane at Saboné. “You have come to see the furs, have you?”
    Coffee was brewing in the back of the shop.
    “Well,” she said, “do you see anything that pleases you?”
    A thick paste of makeup moved when her mouth did.
    “I’ve been noticing the girl in the window on my way to work every morning, Madame,” Saboné remarked.
    “I’ll bet you have,” the woman barked, “and you’re not the first young man to politely enquire.” Then breathlessly, “Reminds you of someone, does she?”
    The floor of his soul creaked, as though in the silence that followed Saboné’s quivering lips imparted the secrets of his loneliness, which even he did not understand.
    “Who, the girl?” he said in a high-pitched voice.
    They both turned to the window and watched the snow as it soundlessly found its place upon the earth.
    “What is one to do?” the woman remarked. “The city gardens are quite impassable at this time of year.”
    “Did you know there are flowers there that bloom in darkness?” Saboné asked.
    “But who goes to the gardens at night?” She snorted.
    Saboné felt anger spread through his body like fire but said quietly, “I don’t suppose anyone does.”
     
    As he stepped into the street, he lost his footing and jarred his head against the ledge of the shopwindow. A few spots of blood appeared in the snow. Saboné bent down in awe. His very own blood lay before him. It had been inside him for almost four decades. It had passed through his body and lubricated his dreams. The object of his desires peered coldly from the window at the few drops. He knelt down as more drops collected in the snow, and then he fingered the soft gash in his head. His forehead turned numb from the pain, and every few steps Saboné looked back at the red dots—at the eyes of his soul in the snow of the street.
    When he arrived at the ticket office—late for the first time in thirteen years—the head ticket dispenser inspected him from above his spectacles. Saboné felt a line of blood warm his cheek.
    “My dear

Similar Books

Illusions of Death

Lauren Linwood

Justin's Bride

Susan Mallery

Lizardskin

Carsten Stroud

Hooper, Kay - [Hagen 09]

It Takes A Thief (V1.0)[Htm]