Read A Veil of Glass and Rain Online
Authors: Petra F. Bagnardi
tasting the salt of my tears and a hint of
lipstick. “Pharmacy. Now.”
As he gazes down at me, fury fades away
from Eagan's expression, and a shady intensity
replaces it. He parts his lips, but he doesn't
utter any sound. Eventually, he nods.
In the pharmacy I fall into pieces again.
The young pharmacist, who's bravely
working the night shift, stares at me with
compassion mingled with fear. His eyes dart
repeatedly from my face to the door.
My tale is a messy tangle of sobs and words.
“He hates me. I know he does. Of course he
does. There's really something wrong with me.
I'm a very dangerous person!”
Then I just weep, while the confused
pharmacist keeps looking at me and then at
the door. Luckily I appear to be his only
costumer tonight. At length, I manage to calm
down and I ask for the medical supplies I need.
Eagan is sitting on a bench right outside the
pharmacy.
I sit beside him, then I gently take his
injured hand and place it in my lap. As I
medicate the wound and I wrap it with gauze,
Eagan's lips brush along my naked shoulder.
“Have you been crying again?” His warm
breath teases my skin.
I shrug. “A little. I'm sorry, Eagan. About
everything.”
I lift his now-bandaged hand and I bring it to
my mouth, so that I can kiss each one of his
fingertips.
Eagan heaves a shaky sigh.
“Don't hate me,” I beg him, as I cradle his
hand in my lap again.
“I don't hate you, Brina,” he says softly.
I run my fingers over the gauze. “But you
hate my driving.”
“You drive like a crazy person. And my best
friend died in a car accident. I don't want to
lose you in the same way, or in any other
way.” His tone is empty and emotionless,
despite that his words seep through my skin
and turn my blood into an icy stream.
I stare up at him. “What?” I gasp.
“David died.”
“I know that.”
“But you didn't know how he died.”
I shake my head.
It all happened a few months after the
concert and the stolen kiss in the park. When
Bea called to tell me about David's death, I
didn't ask questions. Bea didn't give me many
details, because she wanted me to talk to
Eagan. I didn't contact him though, because I
still felt too ashamed. I just ran away.
“I'm a coward. And I'm an awful friend,” I
tell him.
I search his face for disappointment and
anger, but I don't find them. I don't find
anything, and that scares me even more.
Eagan gives me a small and sad smile. “No,
you're not. You just live a lot inside your own
head. But I need you in the real world. With
me. I really do, Brina.”
I bury my face into the hollow of his neck
and I wind my arms around his broad
shoulders.
Eagan links his left arm around my waist.
“I'm so sorry, Eagan,” I murmur against his
skin.
“I know,” he whispers into my hair.
Our embrace lasts for a long time. I feel the
coldness and sorrow melt away from my skin. I
never want this closeness to end, but it has to,
for there's something else I have to fix tonight.
The silence before a performance. It is one of
the numerous reasons why I left music school.
It is a particular kind of silence, for it is
filled with anticipation. The audience expects
you to be amusing, surprising, memorable. But
if you aren't, you're presented with another
kind of silence, which is full of tedium,
disappointment, and resolve to forget about
you.
The audience I'm about to meet is quiet and
already upset. That's because they're Eagan's
friends and colleagues, and they've all seen me
hurting him and arguing with him.
I don't have only the brief music school
experience with me, I also have Ivan and
Alessio's teachings. The twins are very talented
composers and musicians, but more
importantly they are entertainers. They know
how to please a crowd, even a difficult one.
I have to make sure each one of my
spectators feels personally involved in my
show. In this specific situation my audience is
physically very close to me; hopefully, I can
turn this proximity into an advantage.
With only the sound of my footsteps and the
wild beating of my heart as accompaniment, I
approach the baby-grand piano and sit on the
stool. As soon as my fingers stroke the black
and white keyboard and give life to the first
song, the string quartet joins me.
I play and sing well known English and
Italian tunes for a while, then I look up at the
people around me and I smile. They smile
back. I play with just my right hand, and with
the left hand I motion for them to come closer
and to be part of the show. Some of them
accept the invitation, others hesitate.
Then I hear Enrico's distinctive voice. When I
glance at Eagan's portly friend, he winks and
begins to sing.
Finally, everyone joins the performance,
even Sara.
I don't see Eagan, but I can feel his eyes on
me; his gaze is a comforting caress along the
back of my neck.
When I sense that my audience needs some
kind of turning point, I kneel on the stool, as
gracefully as possible, then I reach inside the
soundboard to pinch and pluck the strings with
my fingers, while I keep singing. The
unexpected move pleases the spectators; they
laugh and they applaud.
I sit back on the stool. I conclude the song. I
take a small bow.
Afterward, along with the quartet, I keep
playing a soft accompaniment for Eagan and
Sara's presentation. The other guests are
gathered around them. I listen to Eagan's
familiar voice, but I don't really follow his
speech, I just pay attention to his sure and
controlled tone.
When he finishes, and his colleagues show
their appreciation with words and an applause,
I end my piece and lift my fingers off the
keyboard.
Then I glance behind me. Eagan, hands in
the pockets of his slacks, walks toward me
with a serious expression on his face. I stand
and meet him halfway. For a moment we stare
at each other without saying anything, then I
give him a tentative smile.
“How did it go?” I demand.
“Very well. Thank you for your music. It
really improved the mood,” he says, but his
expression remains somber.
“I love you. You know that, right? I mean,
you're my family. And I love you,” I blurt out.
Eagan's jaw tightens. “You should go home.”
“What?” Suddenly, I feel like I'm
suffocating.
“Go home, Brina.” He walks away from me
to join his friends.
I do as he asks. I leave.
13.
In the story of Eagan and me two lonely kids
reach out for one another from across the
ocean. They give each other trust and love.
They use kind words and simple gestures to
make each other happy.
When I fell in love with Eagan, I ruined
everything, because all of a sudden I didn't
know how to be his friend any longer. The
moment I walked away from him I wasn't
protecting our friendship, I was shielding my
weak heart. I behaved like a coward. I should
have stayed and I should have told him the
truth. Eagan would have understood, and he
would have even helped me deal with my
complicated feelings. And then, I would have
been there for him when he was in pain, after
David's death.
Fear is another hideous dress to wear. It is
stained with mistakes and wrong choices. It is
so ugly, Eagan can barely look at me.
Eagan doesn't love me anymore. The painful
thought keeps pulsing inside my head, and the
grief is making me numb.
After parking my yellow car in the reserved
spot in front of my building, I kill the engine
and I rest my forehead against the steering
wheel.
The scent of cinnamon still lingers, and I
want to lose myself in it before it fades away.
I've been crying a lot tonight, but I don't
intend to do it anymore. I'll let the ache choke
me, but then I'll catch my breath again and I'll
try to find a way to make everything good
again. I'll be resilient, for Eagan deserves a
strong friend.
And he deserves the truth. I'll tell him
everything. I hope he will forgive me.
As I force myself to abandon my yellow
cocoon, the television set crashes down onto
the sidewalk.
The story of Clémentine and Marco is about a
Canadian girl, who moved to Rome to study
performing arts. Then she met a sweet Italian
guy and she fell in love.
But then the girl found another love:
Theater. This new love took almost all her
time and her heart, making the Italian boy feel
neglected.
Marco, in a clumsy attempt to regain Clém's
attention, began to flirt with Virginie, one of
his girl's best friends.
Clémentine found out in the most hurtful
way; she saw them in a moment of
uncontrolled lust. So Clém returned to her
apartment and threw the television set out of
the window, because it was a gift from her
disloyal boyfriend. She also threw away her
love and her trust.
Curled up in bed with Clém, I stroke her hair
until she falls asleep.
Then I quietly leave her room to call Ivan.
“What can we do?” He asks me.
“Come over tomorrow. Keep her company.
Cheer her up,” I answer.
“Sure. We can have a
resurrection
party.
What about you?”
“There's something I have to take care of.
Then I'll get junk food for our party. A lot of
junk food.”
“Sweet. We'll bring wine.”
“Seriously?”
“Fine. We'll bring beer.”
After the phone-call I begin to tremble. It is
a sort of coldness that blooms within my core,
then it unfurls and crawls underneath my skin
I'm unable to dispel it. I take a hot shower, I
wear my warmest sweats, I hide under a
mountain of blankets, but nothing works.
The ice bites my heart and marks it with
hurtful words.
He doesn't love me anymore
.
As soon as I emerge from the darkness of the
subway, the sun blinds me and I shield my eyes
with my hand. I stand for several moments in a
semi-blind status, drowning in the crowd and
in the bright light.
I don't feel anything.
In truth, I haven't really felt anything in a
long time. I've been walking on numb feet
since the day I stole the kiss from Eagan, and I
ran away.
I'm crumbling; food tastes like ash, there's
the constant feeling of icy fingers worming
under my skin, and my love for music is fading
away. Without Eagan in my life I am a frozen
pond reflecting the sun, but never absorbing
its heat.
I drop my hand and I stare up at the
Colosseum; my resilient giant, with its
numerous arched windows open to the world
and all that comes with it: Sorrow, pain, joy.
And still it stands.
I find a grassy spot, where I can sit. I dig my
phone out of the front pocket of my jeans and
I send a message to Eagan, asking him to join
me for lunch.
I want the Colosseum to witness my small
act of courage. I'm going to be honest with
Eagan. I hope he'll understand. I hope I can
save our friendship.
Eagan's answer arrives almost immediately.
He's coming right away. I check the time on my
phone screen; it's the middle of the day.
The turf is humid. My legs are cold. My
jeans don't seem to offer any protection. I'm
wearing a black T-shirt, but it appears to
deflect the warmth of the spring sun, instead
of holding it in.
I need a distraction. I look around and focus
my attention on the tourists. They're speaking,
their lips move, but I can't hear them. The rush