The Lesson

The First Visit, 2

Beyond the door, the street was also extremely concerned with the hour of eleven, and with waiting. The street was solemn in that way, observant of the hour. The boy was very solemn at first, too, and strove to walk slowly, at the pace that Loring set, but at the canal he could not help but climb onto the lip and run with wildness back and forth. Loring said nothing in warning, and did not discourage him in the slightest. You must have imagined that she would permit behavior of this sort! It is quite clear from her character, as someone might tell you who knew her well, or who had known her. If you would speak to such a person about her, they might tell you a story such as this:

Why, once, on a bet, in younger days, she had stolen an automobile. She had been that sort of young woman — and nothing was too much for her. Someone tried to rob her once, an Italian, and she had brandished a knife at him. Do you see?

But now the boy had found a piece of glass. He brought it to her, in this way, saying,

— A piece of glass.

She took it and looked at it. Much of the deep depression that surrounds us in life has to do with this one thing — that we can’t even see the smallest plainest objects.

— Not much use, she said, unless you put it on top of a wall where someone might climb and cut themselves. The walls in old parts of Spain are like that. The tops are all broken bottles.

This was the sort of fact that a boy likes to hear, she thought to herself.

— Looking down a hill at the old stone houses with their intermittent walls, one can see the sun setting fire to the tops of those in the distance, when the sun strikes properly.

— Can I have it back?

— Of course.

She handed him the glass and he took it. In the exchange, she touched his hand, and as during their bargain, was momentarily shaken. It was a child’s hand. This was an odd thing to recall when looking at a child, when speaking with a child, but you must understand, already the boy was not entirely a child. And yet the hand restored it all again.

— But I don’t want to carry it, he said. And I can’t put it in my coat.

— Why don’t you hide it? she said. Put it somewhere. You can get it on the way back.

He looked around for a spot, but was having trouble.

— Well, the best place is probably wherever it was. If you can find that spot, exactly, I’m sure it will all go very well for you.

He looked around on the ground for that spot. At this moment a man came up.

— Have you lost something? he said.

The situation was explained to him. He frowned.

— Throw it into the canal. It will go somewhere, and if you find it again, then it will really mean something.

This was as good a suggestion as any, and so Stan threw the glass into the canal. He was at first worried that he had thrown it too much, and not let it drop enough, because he wanted it to be as much seemingly the will of the glass, as his own will. And yet it went off and was gone, and that was enough.

The man also went off and was gone.

— The people, you see, said Loring, who walk by the canal, are quite different from the regular run of people. Why this man, for instance, fit the bill. Not always is it the case that people come with a worthwhile suggestion.

— Fit the bill?

— Of the place — he joined the category of people who are interesting enough to want to walk by the canal, even though it is a bit dingy and old and doesn’t get cleaned nearly often enough.

— Well, I like the canal.

— I’m glad of that, said Loring. I used to walk here every day. I still do. I still do. But I used to walk here with my husband. Every day.

And so they passed on along the canal and out into a square. Across the square they went and there in a building, Loring claimed something or other, a package of some sort, something she had left and was now obtaining, perhaps repaired or restored. The details are not all clear. Out into the street she went, and with Stan, she made her way to a stall where sandwiches were made. Finest Quality, it said.

— Can I ask you another question?

— When we are through eating.

— But if I ask now, will that be all right? You can answer later.

— Go ahead.

— What things end up in dreams? I remember some things that have happened that happen again. But other dreams are things that never happened, or terrible things — nightmares. But even the nightmares — why are they of one sort and not another? Why one night am I falling and another night being chased?

They ate their sandwiches and Stan’s became a bit of a mess.

— Is it true about the sandwiches? Are these good?

— There was a cafe that used to be here. Their sandwiches were quite wonderful, but they came cut into many pieces and served on china. One would get tea with them, and sometimes little pastries.

— Where is it?

— It’s gone.