Read Online Electrico W by Herve Le Tellier - Free Book Online Page B

the water and stared at Antonio and then at me, as I too crossed toward the terrace, clumsily, trying not to slip on the mossy paving stones. She jumped to her feet and when she looked me in the eye I realized she reminded me of Irene, because of her black, almond-shaped eyes, olive skin, and other indefinable qualities.
    “Are you two lost? You realize this is my house, here, my island?”
    Antonio smiled. “Your island?”
    “Yes. It may not actually be completely an island but it is mine. I come here whenever I like, even when it’s closed. Ihave the keys to the little door at the end. That’s where my father keeps his machines. I always do my studying here. Textile drawings, but not printed patterns. I mean I do designs for woven fabrics. Do you know what I mean? Look.”
    She opened her sketchbook at random. Every inch of paper was covered with sketches of geometric designs. One area looked like the cubist weave of cotton, another like pencil-drawn stitches in wool.
    She stood on tiptoe and smelled the flowers on Antonio’s lapel.
    “That’s pretty.
Clivia minata
. And where was it stolen?”
    “Some kid just gave it to me,” Antonio apologized, embarrassed. “It’s a good luck charm …”
    “Really? A good luck charm? Do you believe in good luck, then?”
    She pirouetted on the spot.
    “At night I sometimes light the little blue suns,” she said, pointing to ultraviolet lights on the roof arches.
    “At night?” Antonio asked, smiling and running his hand through his red hair in a rather contrived, affected way.
    The girl crouched, closed her sketchbook, and started clearing the pastels scattered over the paving stones into the violin case.
    “Don’t you believe me? Are you laughing at me?”
    “No, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    She looked down, arranging her oil pastels in order like the colors of the rainbow. Antonio knelt beside her, pickedup a few crayons, and handed them to her. Without looking up, she took them and said, “And do you two have names? You, what’s your name?”
    “Antonio, Antonio Flores. And my friend is Vincent. Vincent Balmer.”
    I introduced myself with a bow.
    “Vincent Balmer? Are you English, then?” Aurora asked, but not waiting for a reply, she turned to Antonio: “And what about Flores? Is that really your name? Is that why you’ve come to see your cousins the flowers? That’s Jewish, isn’t it? They say all flower and tree names are Jewish. My name’s Jewish too, it’s Oliveira. And my middle name’s Judith. But I was baptized. Gods are so complicated.”
    Of all the pastels she chose cyan and ran it along her forearm, tracing a streak of azure, like war paint.
    “I’ll draw a bird for you Antonio, okay?”
    She snatched Antonio’s wrist like a bird of prey launching itself at a mouse. In one fluid movement she drew a beak and a neck on his palm, created the line of a wing on his thumb, then another on his little finger, and, on his index finger, a long tail like a magpie’s, pointing upward. She put down the blue crayon, picked up a sunny yellow one, and, with a roll of her fingers, created the eye in the middle of his palm where his heart line and luck line crossed. She let go of Antonio’s hand and put away the pastels.
    “Bird-hand, by Aurora Oliveira,” she laughed. “A good luck charm, and this one’s real. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you know.”
    Antonio moved his hand and the bird came fleetingly to life, spreading its wings, ready to fly. Antonio opened and closed his hand slowly, fascinated, unable to say a thing, and Aurora watched him closely, smiling. In the golden light, Antonio’s hair looked almost brown, and for the second time I thought him handsome, even more so. Then he turned to Aurora, and his whole voice had changed, husky but gentle too: “How old are you, Aurora?”
    “Twelve.” Antonio opened his eyes wide and she burst out laughing: “No, I’m not, I’m thirty. What about you? Don’t say a