Juggling the Stars Read Free

indifferent as to what big sister might think.
    But obviously Massimina had liked them, because now she was wrestling the phone from her sister.
    â€˜Morri!'
    â€˜Caral!
    Ti
ringrazio tantissimo, tantissimo, sono bellissimi, mai visto fiori cost belli.’
    Two lessons’ worth, Morris thought. The worst of all seasons for roses. But at least they seemed to have done the trick. Morris wasn’t actually sure whether he really would marry Massimina, even if her family were to let it go that far. He imagined probably not. He’d have to be crazy. Yet he was tantalized. And it wasn’t pure mischievousness, it really wasn’t. He wanted to test the water, to see if such a thing was feasible, to see if in the final analysis he might expect to save himself in this way. He had had a growing sensation of late that something was changing inside himself, that new paths of action were opening to him, paths that in the past he would simply never have dreamed of. Even that silly business with the document case, for example. It was as if a fundamental inhibition had finally been removed.
    â€˜Scusami cara?’
He had lost track of what Massimina was saying.
    Her mother wanted to meet him, have a word about it all.
    'Fine. When?’
    â€˜She says as soon as possible, Morrees. Like tomorrow night. She’d like you to come over to dinner. She’s a bit concerned, not having met you and so on.’
    He was working late tomorrow, Morris said. Clearly that was the right impression to give. Hard-working man.
    'The next night then, or Friday?’
    Morris thought quickly. He was going to have to charm the pants off the old battle-axe, obviously. And he could do it. He really could. He was feeling very confident in that department these days. The only thing was, to go when
he
felt up to it. Not when they wanted.
    'The thing is Mamma says I’m not to go to any more lessons untill she’s approved of you!’ Massimina wailed, and was clearly upset. Morris was really beginning to like the girl. She wasn’t at all like those tweed-skirted, toffee-nosed types one had felt obliged to court in one’s student days, always ready to air some opinionated opinion on any and every subject, the spirit of contradiction prompt and bristling under their powdered Oxbridge skins should.you try to do the same. He’d be over there Wednesday, he promised, voice as soft as it could go. Or absolute maximum, Thursday.

2
    Morris’s large blue Moroccan leather diary was dated 1977, but the days of the week were the same as for 1983. He had found the thing in his little flat along with various other papers left by the late last tenant. After marking off lessons done and earnings taken, Morris sat in the bath and considered tomorrow. The same rush around town. The school twice, then Alberto, then the school again, Matilde, the school again. In the morning he must do something about the zip on his best trousers., get some cream for the document case, get some food, cheese, bread, some more dish-washing liquid, something for his dandruff (him, Morris, with dandruff!) and some more tickets for the bus of course. He soaped shaved armpits, tracing time-saving itineraries across an imaginary map of the city.
    No, it was awful. He was living from hand to mouth, from one day to the next, one month to another, week in week out. From the point of view of career, social advances, financial gain, the last two and a half years had been completely wasted. More than that, they had left him physically exhausted and mentally addled by all these stupid lessons, besieged by boredom and mediocrity. Did he have one bright student? Even one? Was there any of them recognized Morris’s uncommon talents (the way he could make up exercises on the spot, invent the wildest stories for listening comprehension)? Did any of them have any idea of his calibre? No, the only thing he had truly gained these last two years was the ability to speak