The Book of Summers by Emylia Hall

Author:Emylia Hall
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2012-10-07T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Within my view, a casual game of football had started up. A light breeze was stirring, carrying the shouts of the players with it. Boys and men with their shirts off ran around in waves, the ball bobbing and soaring expertly, as though on a string. I watched them absently, my eyes following the game. I caught nicknames and admonishments, applause and rallying cries. It struck me how very alive they all were, as they dashed about chasing the ball and one another. How their chests may be heaving and their eyes smarting but in the microcosm of the game they had such purpose and feeling. I thought of Tamás as he might be now. I couldn’t help it, not when faced with football. Long legged and strong, with a sheaf of hair the color of straw. Did he know, about Marika? Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, had he worn a jet-black suit and stood in line as the coffin passed? Perhaps laying a gentle hand on Zoltán’s arm, as beside him the old man’s steps faltered.

My insides buckled. Tucked inside the front pages of the book was Zoltán’s letter. I took it in my hand and I read through it again. I imagined him as he might have written it. Bent at the table on the terrace, in a crumpled denim shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. His brush of thick gray hair falling forward, his wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. Old Zoltán. He would be in his seventies now, a face tanned and creased, with a pair of paint-smeared thumbs. Playing French jazz records, studying the folds with his brow crinkled. Chewing on cigars at dusk, watching the dark come down to the woods’ edge.

He should have forgotten me long ago, they all should have. He must have written because he felt duty bound; otherwise, why would he? He never had before. Had Marika whispered that he should, as she lay dying? I quickly admonished myself for this vanity, that I should think I was ever in her thoughts. Before me I saw ashes blowing and reforming, like vapor from a genie’s lamp. A tiny puff of cloud covered the sun for a moment, and the light in the park faded a little, then it blew on and the sun burned as brightly as before. I sat in shadow, the game forgotten.

* * *

In the picture it is 1995 and I am fourteen years old. I am sitting on the edge of the veranda with my knees pointing. There is a carefulness to my pose, a stillness that goes beyond the frozen photograph. The black-and-white cat, the same one that I am cradling in the very first image in the album, is crouching beside me. Her paws are together and her tail swept low. We are new friends, still feeling our way. My face is wiped clean with wonder as I watch her. The sun falls in a puddle at my feet.

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