nod from Mrs. Ewing. I stare out the window and don't hear anything more she says. A student starts reading: "My father's work in the Cut..."
I can't bear to listen. I have bigger problemsâI may never see Federico again (that dark feeling is back). I know where he lives and I have no excuse to go there. It's simple. It's not a question of attitude or endurance or even of learning from failure. I'm failing again for lack of imagination and my positive attitude is gone. I've lost hope, this time for good. Horse sense is telling me I won't see Federico again and it's a fact I'd better accept.
I sit in class hot, bored, and numb.
Muchas Gracias, Dr. Freud
Thirty-Five
We meet in front of the Tivoli!
Luck. Pure luck.
It's early one evening, Mother's inside the hotel, and I'm sitting on a bench reading
The Interpretation of Dreams.
It's tough going and I'm concentrating, probably frowning. I turn back a page to reread something and realize there are rope-soled shoes in front of me. They're at a respectful distance but definitely pointed toward meâthe shoes of a Spanish worker. A voice says, "Pardon," and I look up.
It's Federico.
He's dressed in clean clothes, politely holding his beret in front of him. I'm completely calm (and aware that I'm calm), and I can see he doesn't remember me. He's thinkingâprobably about approaching me, and the book, and what to say. Then his expression changes and he does remember. He smiles and looks relieved.
"Ah. You were with the enumerator."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry to bother you. I noticed what you're reading ... Did you get the book here?" My plan is working! Weeks of thinking about him, conniving to meet him, dreaming of him day and night, giving up hope, and now he's standing in front of me and wants to know where the book came from. The book!
"It's from the American library. Here, take it." I hold it out to him. I'm calm and bold.
"No, no, no, no ... I only wanted to know where you got it."
"The library. Go on, take it. You'll be doing me a favor."
"I only wantâ"
"Take it. Really." I hold the book toward him again and he sees I mean it. "It's a little over my head. Read it and tell me what you think." I lightly touch his hand with the edge of the book. "Please." (I amaze myself.)
Federico takes the book. He opens it, scans the pages, and eases onto the bench beside me, totally absorbed. I feel the warmth of his body next to me and then there's his scentâthe soap used in Panama. He's been in the shower. The shower. Concentrate.
"I have a Tolstoy at home," I say.
"The Death of Ivan Ilych."
He looks up quickly.
"A beautiful story."
"Do you want it?"
"Well..." Hard for him to resist.
"I can get almost anything. I put in a request and it comes on the next boat. Just tell me what you want." I shrug at the simplicity of it and don't care at all if he knows what I'm doing, that I'm making myself available and attractive to him. But really it's the books that interest him. I know that.
He smiles. He's got to be astonished at this piece of luckâan evening like the others, when he's walking along, and what comes into his view but Dr. Freud's book, which he must know about and want but doesn't have a prayer of getting. "You're too generous," he says.
"Not at all. I'm always at the library..." I smell the wool of his beret. (Wool in Panama!)
"Yes. Then, yes," he says. I've changed his life in half a minute. "I won't keep it long."
"Keep it as long as you want."
I've got to revel in thisâit's too good to be true. And I'm so calm; where did that come from?
He starts talking about what books he wants, but I'm drifting and hear only the clipped English accent, and I relax in the closeness of him. I am myself. I don't think I've ever been myself before, not like this. He's talking about books, of course, and he's enthusiastic and at ease, not like he was when Harry and I first saw him so cool and aloof in his cabin. I picture him in his makeshift shower,
I can't bear to listen. I have bigger problemsâI may never see Federico again (that dark feeling is back). I know where he lives and I have no excuse to go there. It's simple. It's not a question of attitude or endurance or even of learning from failure. I'm failing again for lack of imagination and my positive attitude is gone. I've lost hope, this time for good. Horse sense is telling me I won't see Federico again and it's a fact I'd better accept.
I sit in class hot, bored, and numb.
Muchas Gracias, Dr. Freud
Thirty-Five
We meet in front of the Tivoli!
Luck. Pure luck.
It's early one evening, Mother's inside the hotel, and I'm sitting on a bench reading
The Interpretation of Dreams.
It's tough going and I'm concentrating, probably frowning. I turn back a page to reread something and realize there are rope-soled shoes in front of me. They're at a respectful distance but definitely pointed toward meâthe shoes of a Spanish worker. A voice says, "Pardon," and I look up.
It's Federico.
He's dressed in clean clothes, politely holding his beret in front of him. I'm completely calm (and aware that I'm calm), and I can see he doesn't remember me. He's thinkingâprobably about approaching me, and the book, and what to say. Then his expression changes and he does remember. He smiles and looks relieved.
"Ah. You were with the enumerator."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry to bother you. I noticed what you're reading ... Did you get the book here?" My plan is working! Weeks of thinking about him, conniving to meet him, dreaming of him day and night, giving up hope, and now he's standing in front of me and wants to know where the book came from. The book!
"It's from the American library. Here, take it." I hold it out to him. I'm calm and bold.
"No, no, no, no ... I only wanted to know where you got it."
"The library. Go on, take it. You'll be doing me a favor."
"I only wantâ"
"Take it. Really." I hold the book toward him again and he sees I mean it. "It's a little over my head. Read it and tell me what you think." I lightly touch his hand with the edge of the book. "Please." (I amaze myself.)
Federico takes the book. He opens it, scans the pages, and eases onto the bench beside me, totally absorbed. I feel the warmth of his body next to me and then there's his scentâthe soap used in Panama. He's been in the shower. The shower. Concentrate.
"I have a Tolstoy at home," I say.
"The Death of Ivan Ilych."
He looks up quickly.
"A beautiful story."
"Do you want it?"
"Well..." Hard for him to resist.
"I can get almost anything. I put in a request and it comes on the next boat. Just tell me what you want." I shrug at the simplicity of it and don't care at all if he knows what I'm doing, that I'm making myself available and attractive to him. But really it's the books that interest him. I know that.
He smiles. He's got to be astonished at this piece of luckâan evening like the others, when he's walking along, and what comes into his view but Dr. Freud's book, which he must know about and want but doesn't have a prayer of getting. "You're too generous," he says.
"Not at all. I'm always at the library..." I smell the wool of his beret. (Wool in Panama!)
"Yes. Then, yes," he says. I've changed his life in half a minute. "I won't keep it long."
"Keep it as long as you want."
I've got to revel in thisâit's too good to be true. And I'm so calm; where did that come from?
He starts talking about what books he wants, but I'm drifting and hear only the clipped English accent, and I relax in the closeness of him. I am myself. I don't think I've ever been myself before, not like this. He's talking about books, of course, and he's enthusiastic and at ease, not like he was when Harry and I first saw him so cool and aloof in his cabin. I picture him in his makeshift shower,
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