The Woman With the Bouquet Read Online Free Page A

One day he told me the funniest thing: all the men who had tried to court Aunt Emma had gotten the hell out as fast as they could.”
    “Why?”
    “She was forever spouting such nasty things at them.”
    “She was nasty?”
    “That’s what he kept saying, Uncle Jan. You can see the result! Nobody would have her.”
    “If you analyze what your Uncle Jan said, it’s more a case that she wouldn’t have any of them.”
    Gerda was struck dumb by this point of view. I continued: “If she was anywhere as demanding with men as she is with writers, it’s easy to understand why no one found grace in her eyes. As she never met any who were good enough, she found a way to discourage them. In reality, your aunt wanted to remain independent.”
    “I suppose,” conceded Gerda reluctantly.
    “What’s to prove that, if she sent them all packing, it wasn’t to make it safe for the one man she was protecting, the only one she didn’t talk about?”
    “Aunt Emma? A double life? Hmm . . . poor woman . . .”
    Gerda grunted, skeptical. Her aunt was only interesting to her as a victim, and the only affection she had for her was pity, or even a touch of scorn; the moment you suggested there might be a rational reason or a source of fulfilment behind her behavior, Gerda no longer paid attention. The mystery did not intrigue her, and explanations only did insofar as they were small-minded. Gerda belonged to those people for whom understanding is a kind of self-abasement, and anything romantic or sublime was so much vapor to her.
    I would have liked to plod along all day, but the weather curtailed my excursion. Not only did a nasty wind trouble my concentration, before long, dark low clouds released a downpour with thick, cold drops.
    Two hours later, I sought refuge back at the Villa, and when I came in the door, Gerda assailed me, panic in her voice.
    “My aunt is in the hospital, she’s had an attack!”
    I felt guilty: she had been so distraught when I left her that the emotion must have brought on a mild heart attack.
    “What do the doctors say?”
    “I was waiting until you got back to go to the hospital. Now I’ll go.”
    “Would you like me to come with you?”
    “Hey, she’s the one who’s sick, not me. And have you got a bike? The hospital isn’t exactly next door. Wait here. It’s better. I’ll be back.”
    I decided to make the most of her absence to explore the living room. In order to calm my anxiety, I studied the contents of the shelves. While there were classics of world literature, there were also complete editions of authors who had had their season of glory, but to whom nobody in the present day showed the slightest veneration. Consequently, I began to meditate on ephemeral successes, and the transitory nature of fame. I felt crucified by such a prospect. Just because I had readers today, would I have any tomorrow? In their stupidity, writers assume they can escape the mortal condition by leaving something behind them; but does that something last? And while I may know how to talk to a reader in the 21st century, what can I know about a reader in the 23rd? And isn’t this question itself rather arrogant? Should I not proscribe it? Should I not rid myself of this pretension? Accept the fact that I live in the present, and only in the present, and enjoy what there is without hope of what will be?
    Unaware that such thoughts, by analogy, were increasing my anxiety regarding Emma’s health, I lapsed into a sort of prostration which destroyed all notion of time.
    I was startled when Gerda shouted loudly, slamming the front door behind her, “Not too serious. She’s woken up. She’ll recover. Not this time round!”
    “Oh, good. A false alarm, was it?”
    “Yes, the doctors will keep her under observation for a while, and then they’ll send her back to me.”
    I looked at rustic Gerda, her shoulders as wide as her hips, her face splattered with freckles, her short arms.
    “Are you very attached to your