The Love of My Youth Read Online Free PDF Page A

politics were too great, and here you are now, forty years later, wondering what to say to each other. There is probably more to it, the kind of thing Valerie enjoys keeping from me, I would guess another woman, but we won’t go into that. But you see I know about you and your political past, so I can only imagine what you think.”
    “I don’t have an opinion,” Miranda says.
    “From what I know of you, this is a falsehood. Don’t condescend to me because I’m old. I can take your ideas. I’m not afraid of what you have to say.”
    “I didn’t think you were afraid for a minute,” Miranda says.
    “What did you think, then?”
    “That you believe that I don’t know enough to have an opinion that’s worth anything to you.”
    “I can just imagine what you’re really thinking, what you’re afraid to say for fear of making a scene. You think that everyone who was not your idea of a hero should be punished as a criminal. This is an American arrogance spoken by a people who have never had to resort to difficult choices.”
    There is a sound of breakage, a sound that almost comically expresses what everyone feels. Only gradually, Miranda understands that she has broken her glass by grasping it in the effort not to say what she really means.
    “What has happened?” the old lady asks.
    Adam is sure she knows, but wants to hear the words. Her lips have disappeared with a spite or pleasure she feels no need to hide.
    “Miranda has cut herself,” Valerie says, her hands fluttering, as if she’d never seen anything like this before.
    “Valerie, Valerie, che succede ,” Giancarlo shouts, running out of the room. “Non po sopporla.”
    “Niente, caro,” Valerie says, running after him to some room whose entrance is invisible.
    Adam sees that no one intends to do anything about what has happened to Miranda. He takes his handkerchief and wraps Miranda’s fingers. Her fingertips are bleeding, but he sees she isn’t severely hurt.
    “Take her to the bathroom, she mustn’t stain the furniture,” the old lady says.
    He can hear Giancarlo weeping in the kitchen. “Non ti preoccupare,” he hears Valerie saying.
    “Valerie, are there Band-Aids in the bathroom?” Adam asks, sticking his head into the room into which she and Giancarlo have disappeared.
    She nods and points, holding her husband halfway on her lap.
    Adam takes Miranda’s hand and leads her into the bathroom. He opens the medicine cabinet, takes out a tube of antiseptic ointment, puts her hand under the water, spreads the ointment, and bandages each of her wounded fingers. He sees that she is crying, and he knows that she hates that she is crying and hates that he sees.
    “Let’s get out of here,” he says.
    She nods.
    “I’ll see Miranda home,” he says to Valerie, who nods, still absorbed in her weeping, trembling husband.
    “I’m taking Miranda back to her apartment,” he says to the old woman, who is holding in her hand a half-eaten cracker.
    “Such a shame,” she says. “I was looking forward to the evening.”
    Miranda and Adam don’t speak or look at each other in the brass cage of the elevator. Silently, they walk to the massive door leading to the street. It slams behind them like a door in a room constructed for the Inquisition. They press on the outer door. It doesn’t open. They press again. Nothing.
    Miranda begins to laugh.
    “I remember what Valerie said now. In order to open this outer door you first have to press a button outside the inner one.”
    “So we’re here for the rest of our lives?”
    “Or until someone comes in.”
    “Jesus, poor Valerie,” he says.
    “And here I was imagining her living la dolce vita. And I was irritated by her chirpiness. Now it seems heroic. Is there such a thing as heroic chirpiness?”
    “And the mother. Dear God.”
    “Do you think she’s evil? Or just batty.”
    “We always disagreed about that, whether things were signs of madness or wickedness.”
    “Which side was I on?