Loves of Yulian Read Online Free Page A

the attention of numerous people in the last few months, when Mother wore it. A lot of the time it actually spent in the lining of Mother’s dress, just below the waistband, where there were some tucks and a bulge wouldn’t show. A woman mother had met in Yugoslavia had fashioned a little pocket for her there, so she could get it in and out without resorting to needle and thread each time, which Mother wasn’t very good at. Actually, there were several pockets like that in the dress, but they were all empty now except for one that held the round, diamond broach, which Grandmother had given Mother just before the war began, and which Mother said she would die before selling because, someday, my wife would wear it. This sentiment was one that, at my age of eight and a half, I did not appreciate the way she did, and hoped that, if the need to sell it arose, as I could well see it happening, Mother would change her mind.
    But, while the broach almost never came out of its secret pocket, there were many times when Mother would display her double-diamond ring. As she had explained to me, she and my stepfather had been planning to divorce before the war, so the engagement ring had only monetary value for her. And in restaurants and hotels, I had seen many eyes attracted to the stones, which, I understood, was Mother’s intention. But as for Mr. Kosiewicz, there was something in his expression that seemed to say something more than mere admiration. Right then and there I decided that I didn’t like the man, and it occurred to me that, as a result, in my thoughts and when talking to my friend, Meesh, who was in our cabin at the moment, I would refer to Mr. Kosiewicz not by his name, but, simply as Mr. K.
    Meesh was a small, white teddy bear, though he was turning a little gray now. I had acquired him just before our escape from the Bolsheviks, when I was still seven and a half. At that time, I had considered him my son, and I would carry him everywhere, in the crook of my elbow. When we were escaping over the mountains, he had been in my backpack. But we were both older now, and Meesh spent most of the time in our room. When we traveled, he now rode inside my suitcase, rather than in the crook of my arm, because he really didn’t like meeting new people. But we could still talk to each other, even across a large room, though not through walls, in our silent language. We spoke to each other in words and sentences, just the way other people talk to each other, except that we did not need to say them out loud. And, when I got back to our cabin this evening, I would tell Meesh about meeting the greedy-looking Mr. K and his shy, pretty wife, whose first name I didn’t yet know, but didn’t want to call by Mr. K’s name.
    Now, as Mother and M. Gordet conversed in French with Mr. K., I noticed that Mrs. Kosiewicz, sitting on my left, sat quietly in her chair looking down at her hands. When the waiter came to take a drink order, Mr. K ordered something for her without even asking what she wanted. It occurred to me then that maybe she did not speak French. If this were so, then my duty as a gentleman, I knew, was to engage her in a conversation in Polish. The duties of a gentleman, such as pulling chairs out for ladies, picking their napkins up when they dropped them, opening doors, entertaining them at the table, and keeping your own nails clean and your hair combed, were things that Mother had been lecturing me on ever since we had arrived in Hungary. But exactly how one went about beginning a conversation with a lady one doesn’t know, was something I had not learned yet.
    On the other hand, I did have one weapon that had served me well a number of times in difficult social situations. That was the copper washer that I kept well-polished and in my pocket at all times. A man to whom we had given a ride in our truck, when we were escaping from Warsaw and the bombs, had taught me how to palm a coin, making it disappear and appear