The Dogs and the Wolves by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781407065397
Publisher: Random House

17

Two years later, Harry was waiting for Laurence at the corner of the street where she lived. Laurence would come out alone; no one suspected their meetings, which, although innocent, filled her with remorse. Each guilty step she took was hampered by an innate hesitation which meant she was unable to enjoy anything that was not strictly permissible. As a child, she had never taken delight in being disobedient. She could only live and breathe in a world where everything was precise, clear and well defined, with no grey areas and no guilty pleasures. In spite of that, she agreed to keep seeing Harry. She loved him.

For a long time, she had feared this love. It was not in her nature to allow her heart to be filled by an emotion that was so overwhelming and so passionate without mistrusting it. The excessive, romantic, dramatic side of such passion, which she would smile and call ‘like the Capulets and Montagues’, seemed to her, if not actually ridiculous, at least strange. And, like her father, she disliked anything that seemed, at first glance, strange, foreign. No, she didn’t welcome this love, the way Ada would have done, as the dried-up land soaks in the rain, but rather with insight, discernment and reserve: just as certain beautiful roses in the gardens of France can be drenched by a storm and still not lose a single leaf or petal. The driving rain covers them in huge drops that only penetrate them gradually, gently, until they reach the rose’s heart. In his mind, Harry had often compared Laurence to those fresh, hardy roses, their petals tightly furled. It had not been easy working his way into her secretly rebellious heart, but he had accomplished it now, and he reigned there. It was his reward for his long fidelity, his passionate love. He loved her so much. He walked beside her down the empty street (it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, there was no danger of being seen; she was going to classes), and the expression on his face was so tortured, so strange that Laurence murmured:

‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Why not? There’s not a soul in sight.’

‘You sometimes look at me in a way that makes me feel ashamed.’

He knew that her modesty was not feigned. He also knew that it was not coldness, but rather the sign of a passion so burning and alive that she feared its force. He took her hand and squeezed it, sliding his fingers between her glove and bare skin.

‘Harry,’ she said, pulling away, ‘I’ve spoken to my father again.’

He stopped, turning pale. Never had she seen a human face express so many nuances of sadness, from fear to wounded pride, yet he possessed neither words nor gestures when it came to joy. She felt sorry for him; she wanted to see him radiant, childlike, if possible, but his serious, tortured face always made him look older than he was. He stood anxious and incredulous as she spoke:

‘He’s given his consent, Harry.

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