Juggling the Stars Read Online Free PDF Page A

sense, given the circumstances, was extremely ingenuous and pointed. But that was precisely Morris’s intention. It would indicate at once his fears, his appreciation of their fears - their legitimate fears he seemed to be saying - and his explicit intimation that he was on their side and that there was no problem in his case anyway. No beads, beard or Gandhi posters with Morris. For a moment he almost wondered whether he shouldn’t finish up the story with a real moral wallop, have the poor fictitious Monica hang herself in the loos at the Gare du Nord, or turn lesbian and make porno films or something. But perhaps it wasn’t the moment for a risky self indulgence.
    Massimina smiled. ‘More
Tiramisu!'
 She was already busying herself with the great cut-glass bowl. This time Morris accepted - ‘just a spoonful’ - watching her attentively. Massimina had a curious mixture of long black hair, light freckles on a camellia textured skin, and clear big generous dark brown eyes. Her nose and facial structure had a fine sharpness about them and when she smiled she was definitely attractive., though in a kindly rather than sexy way.
    Considering the obvious wealth of her family, Morris found it odd that he should be the girl’s first suitor, but he put it down to her youth and painful shyness. One fact he had learnt from their long chats in the bar after lessons was that ever since her father died, when she was two, Massimina had slept with her mother. The thought of the two females going to bed together, the one old and heavy and stale, the other fresh, young and virgin, stirred a curious sensation in Morris that wasn’t quite excitement,or quite repulsion, but as it were an intensification of interest pure and simple.
    He prided himself on his interest in life.
    Bobo, short for Roberto, who it turned out was
Antontlh’s fidanzato
, had some more
Tiramisu
too. He was scrawny and jawless and ate rather too fast with his head right down near his plate, Morris felt definitely superior, especially when he kindly remembered to offer his arm to the infirm grandmother as they moved from the dining room to the sitting room for the coffee and cognac. He was a gentleman, damn it, despite his background, and of how many so-called gentlemen could you truly say that? The only thing he absolutely must remember was not to drink too much. Absolutely not. He’d already gone through three or four glasses of Soave from the family’s own vineyards. Just a nip of cognac now and that must be the end of it.
    In many respects the sitting room was very much like the dining room - heavily furnished and dark with an overwhelming sense of straight lines and woodenness about it. This was certainly not the nouveau riche. The floor was marble, black-and-white chequerboard squares, the furniture painfully upright in coffin quality mahogany, while ivies of the more sombre kind trailed dark leaves across a tiger rug (genuine down to the bullet hole). Yet surprisingly, the old-fashioned curiosity of the room put Morris at his ease, rather than the opposite. It was the theatricality of the place. How could you feel responsible for anything said in a room like this? And especially if it was said in Italian. He sat down on a viciously straight-backed chair, careful not to jerk his head too much lest dandruff should sift down onto his jacket.
    Apart from the decrepit grandmother, all the women were now out of the room for a moment, fussing after biscuits and petit fours. It was the moment, it seemed, for the scrawny Bobo’s interrogation.
    â€˜You’re a teacher, I hear?’
    It amused Morris no end to hear people say, ‘I hear’, of something they knew perfectly well. After all, they must be aware he had met the girl through the school, mustn’t they? But he would have to be careful with Bobo. A couple of remarks over dinner had indicated that the lad was nothing less than the son of the largest