Book of My Mother Read Online Free Page B

finery. I can still see her long black-lace gloves, her frilly bodice with its pleats, puffs, and tucks, her little veil, her feather boa, her fan, her long wasp-waisted skirt with flounces which she held up with her hand, revealing little boots which had mother-of-pearl buttons with a tiny metal ring in the middle. In short, for that Sunday outing we were dressed like singers at an exclusive afternoon garden party, and all we needed to complete the picture was to hold a scroll of music.
    When we reached the stop marked “The Beach,” which was opposite a casino rotting with damp, we alighted and, feeling excited and awkward, solemnly installed ourselves on iron chairs at a green table. From the waiter of the little refreshment kiosk, which bore the sign “Sea-lect Snax,” we timidly ordered a bottle of beer, plates, forks, and, to win him over, green olives. When the waiter had gone – that is to say when the danger had passed – we exchanged contented smiles, my mother and I slightly embarrassed. Then she unwrapped the provisions she had brought, and, somewhat uncomfortable if other customers were watching, served up all kinds of Eastern wonders: spinach balls, cheese puffs, botargo, currant rissoles, and other sublime delicacies. She handed me a lightly starched napkin at the thought, while she ironed and hummed a tune from Lucia di Lammermoor , that tomorrow she would be off to the seaside with her son. She is dead now.
    We started to eat politely, gazing self-consciously at the sea, so dependent on one another. It was the grandest moment of the week, when my mother’s dream came true, her passionate desire was fulfilled: she was dining by the sea with her son. In a whisper, because she had an elephant-sized inferiority complex, poor darling, she told me to take deep breaths of sea air, to stock up on fresh air to last a week. I obeyed, for I was just as simple as she was. The other customers stared at the little imbecile who conscientiously opened his mouth and gulped down the Mediterranean air. We were foolish, yes, but we loved each other. And we talked all the time, making remarks about other customers, in whispers, very discreet and well bred; we kept on talking, happy, though less so than when preparing for our outing at home, happy but with an unspoken sadness due to perhaps a vague sense that each was the other’s sole company. Why were we so isolated? Because we were poor, proud, and foreigners, and above all because we were naïve creatures who knew nothing about social niceties and had not the minimum of guile needed to make acquaintances. In fact, I believe our awkward haste to show affection, our too obvious vulnerability, and our shyness had put off potential friends.
    Seated at the green table, we watched the other customers and tried to hear what they were saying, not out of vulgar curiosity but because we were thirsting for human company and wanted to be just a little bit their friends, albeit at a distance. We so wanted to belong. We made up for things as best we could by listening. You do not think that nice? I beg to differ. What is not nice is that on this earth it is not enough to be kind and uncomplicated to be welcomed with open arms.
    Seated at that green table, we talked on and on to take our minds off things. Our eternal subjects of conversation were the two of us, my father, and a few relatives in other towns, but never other, stimulating people, people really other than ourselves. We talked on and on to disguise the fact that we were a little bored and not quite sufficient company for each other. How I would like now, far from the Very Important People I mix with when I feel so inclined, to have Maman back again and be a little bored in her company.
    On the Sunday I am thinking of now, I suddenly imagined, poor little chap, that I was all at once magically endowed with the ability to jump twenty meters into the air and that just with a flick of the heel I would rise and soar over the