Stella Read Online Free PDF Page B

was happy to launch into an account, describing the armada of Optimist-class sailing dinghies casting off from the bridge to race for the Hirtshafen Cup, and mentioning his “accident.” Stella suggested “misfortune” as the right word for it. While Georg was still speaking, I sought words I could put together to describe my own most interesting experience over the vacation, but I wasn’t called upon. Stella didn’t say anything like “But now we’ll listen to Christian.” Georg’s account was enough to satisfy her, and she went on to ask what we had found out about the life of George Orwell, whose novel Animal Farm we were going tostudy next. I was determined not to raise my hand. I looked at her legs, felt her slender body lying next to me again, the body I had embraced, I couldn’t forget what had happened. I wanted the memory we shared to be confirmed by a gesture, a glance; close to her as I was, I didn’t want to be alone with those thoughts. She did not seem surprised when I spoke up, but asked, “Yes, Christian?” So I told the class what I had found out about the author: his time with the police in Burma, his resignation in protest against certain governmental measures, his years living in poverty in London and Paris. As she listened to the information, there was a strange brightness in her eyes, a gleam of recognition or involuntary memory. I thought I saw not just approval but also understanding there, and when she came over to where I was sitting and stood in front of my desk I was expecting her to put a hand on my shoulder—her hand on my shoulder!—but she didn’t; she didn’t venture to touch me. However, I imagined her touch, and I also imagined myself standing up and kissing her, to the amazement of our whole class, and maybe not just them, I thought it possible that some of the young men who I knew had girlfriends would react with a knowing smile or evenapplause. I’d have expected some funny reactions from my own class.
    Even after class, out in the hallway, you didn’t look up as you passed me. I thought I sensed your displeasure with me for trying to attract attention by standing out from the other students. It may have been her turn to supervise recess, but anyway, she sat on the green bench in the school yard by herself, lost in thought, or at least taking no notice of the smaller kids playing catch and scuffling the whole time.
    Just as the school choir was about to sing again, a barrel organ started up out in the street. The younger kids standing by the open windows couldn’t help looking down at the man turning the barrel organ and at his instrument itself; they pushed and nudged each other, and some of them waved to the man, who was playing the tune of “Wooden Heart”: Can’t you see/I love you?/Please don’t break my heart in two . Mr. Kugler nodded to me; it was a request to follow him, downstairs and outside. The organ-grinder, a small man with inflamed eyes, was standing under a chestnut tree. He couldn’t understand why Mr. Kugler was asking him to take his barrel organ somewhere else, pointing to a side street leading down to the river, and even whenMr. Kugler explained that he was disturbing a solemn hour of remembrance, he was unwilling go away. He said he had tunes for all occasions in his mixed repertory, including some lovely sad pieces. Mr. Kugler ignored this hint, saying, “Just please go away,” and put a two-mark piece into the little tin dish resting on the instrument. The man didn’t thank him, but moved slowly toward the low wall running around our school yard, sat down on it, and smoked.
    I was the one who threw the first coin on the “Around Bird Island” excursion. I was steering our Katarina , with guests from the Seaview Hotel on board, and a few lads from the Hirtshafen gang, barefoot and wearing only bathing trunks. She was on board as well, Stella, sitting in the stern looking relaxed and beautiful. When she climbed in we had merely grasped