Janusz whimpered. The stillness was only
interrupted by the clattering plates and the whishing sounds of lacey
aprons.
Until the door, forced open, let in a tremulous Janusz, his shoulders
stooping, his head askance, filling the frame with writhing
apprehension and zealous hope. The door - two planks adjoined with
sawdust - protested but Janusz didn't budge. His forehead sketched with
rain-drenched hair, his eyes exuding watery anticipation, he stood
there, sculpting with his twitchy hands an airy bust of Dinah. The
odours of decaying food and festering sweat mingled with the crispness
of the drizzle.
He tore her name from tortured chest: "DINAH!!!"
The women stifled a fearful shriek. The giant Janusz filled the room as
he progressed in pilgrimage towards Dinah, his sinewy hands extended,
the muscles rippling in his arms. There and then, we in the role of
silent witnesses, he courted her, quoting from Kafka and Freud and
Tolstoy. That night he called upon the spirits of his library, whose
books he romanced on benches under all the lampposts in the township's
parks. He sang her arias and, for a moment, he carried her away from
us. His reputation was cemented by this nocturnal recital. We didn't
understand a word he said, his music fell on arid ears.
Pages:
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63