The Year of Pleasures Read Online Free PDF

like trying to hold back a full-body sneeze.
    When my order was ready, I paid and walked quickly toward home. Outside the Bank of Boston, I saw Burt the Bum (not an unkind appellation—it was what he called himself) sitting in his usual spot to the left of the door, wearing his usual outfit: a suit with a T-shirt, running shoes, and a battered fedora. I’d heard rumors that he’d been a very successful stockbroker at one time, but then he began having a little difficulty with that old bugaboo, reality. “Hey!” he called out. “Where’ve you been?”
    I hesitated, then walked slowly over to him. “John got very sick.”
    “That’s too bad. Is he okay now?” He leaned closer to the bag I carried, and sniffed. “Leftovers?”
    “He died,” I said, and the simplicity of it stunned me. Two words. Whole story.
    Bert’s eyes widened. He took off his hat. “Aw, man. That’s a pisser. I always liked him.”
    “And he you.” It was true. I used to grow impatient sometimes, waiting for John to finish his conversations with Bert so that we could go home. John had appreciated what he called Bert’s clear-mindedness, though it seemed obvious to me that Bert’s mind was far from clear. Still, he was unfailingly interesting, and he had the habit of truth about him.
    “So . . . how are you doing?” Bert asked.
    I shrugged, then handed him the bag of food. “Would you like this?”
    He shook his head. “Just lost my appetite.”
    “Yeah, me too.” But I opened the bag and looked inside.
    “Probably pretty good, though,” Bert said.
    “Have you eaten today?”
    “I had a donut.”
    “When?”
    “Yesterday morning.”
    “That’s not today.” I took out the foil dish, lifted the lid, and handed him the plastic fork. “Here. Eat some.”
    He looked up at me, put his hat back on, and took a bite. “Not bad,” he said. “Sure you don’t want some?”
    “No, you go ahead.” It did smell good. I leaned against the building, pulled my coat closer around me.
    “Too bad I drank all my wine,” Bert said. He chewed thoughtfully, then leaned back against the wall, put his fist to his diaphragm, and belched. “Oh. Sorry.” He looked up at me. “Guess life goes on.”
    “I guess it does.” I smiled at him. And then, suddenly, I blurted out, “I’m going to move.”
    “Really. Where to?”
    “I don’t know. I’m going to sell my house and put my stuff in storage and drive to the middle of the country. When I find some small town I like, I’ll buy a house.”
    “Uh-huh. You think that’s a good idea?”
    “John wanted to do it, too. We talked about it a lot. He asked me to do it without him.”
    “Oh. Well, that’s all right then.” He took another bite of eggplant, spoke with his mouth full. “This from Agostino’s?”
    “Yes.”
    “They’re all right, but Donatello’s is better. Donatello’s puts a little something extra in their sauce, maybe allspice. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that this isn’t good.”
    “You enjoy it,” I said, moving away from him.
    “You going?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What are you going to do tonight?”
    “I don’t know. I . . . don’t know.”
    “You get lonesome, you get too sad, you come and sit with me. I wouldn’t mind anything you did.”
    I smiled at him.
    “I mean it!”
    Something occurred to me. I had always thought maybe we should invite Bert to our house—to have a proper meal, to take a shower. But John had thought it was a bad idea, so we’d never offered. But then I said, “I live two blocks down, Bert. Would you like to come over?”
    “Thanks, but I wouldn’t enjoy it, Betta. No offense.”
    “I could offer you a guest room for a night.”
    “I’m used to this.”
    “I just thought you’d like—”
    “I wouldn’t enjoy it, Betta.”
    “Okay.” I drew in a long breath. “So, I guess I’ll get going then.”
    He struggled up from his sitting position and offered me his hand. I shook it, then wiped away tears that had begun