The Red Room (34 page)

I walked back home. Up the steps away
from the canal, along the shabby streets. Through the
windows I could see people leading their own particular
lives: a man holding a violin, bow poised;
a woman on the phone, animated, hand lifted in
the air; a naked little boy sitting in an
upstairs room, looking out over the street with a
doleful expression. I looked at people's faces
as I passed them. No faces are ordinary.
All faces are beautiful if you look at them
in a certain way.
Julie was waiting. There was the smell of
garlic coming from the kitchen, and a vase of fresh
yellow roses stood on the table. Her
rucksack was by the door, bulging, fastened up,
an airline label attached to its strap. I
sat at the table and I took out the photograph
of my mother and laid it before me. She smiled up
at me, gleaming through all the years of missing her.
Her clear gray eyes shone with promise. The
sun touched her young and happy face. I felt very
peaceful and very sad. I've never been good at
partings.

THE END