Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the fifth part of my short story?
The next morning, my wife did not show any improvement. She sat on the bed staring at the opposite wall. I felt pity for her and sat beside her. I put my hand on her thigh trying to comfort her. Although her face was lined with a myriad of wrinkles and her hair had lost its lustre, I still felt the same love as forty years ago.
“What bothers you, love?” I asked. “Please tell me; you’ll feel better.”
She slowly turned her head towards me, gave me a contemptuous glance and said, “You’re not the father of our Mario.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Have you taken some new medicine? Are you losing your mind?” I asked her while my heart pounded wildly.
She stared into my eyes with such a fierce look I never saw before. “I’ve told you the truth. The father of our Mario is an Italian man; a plumber from Sicily.”
My mind started spinning. I held my head in my hands to compose myself. I did not want to believe what I just heard. We had been living like two bodies with one soul. I could not remember the last time we quarrelled or had any kind of argument.
“How could you do that to me?” I asked. “Have I ever hurt you? Have I ever hit you? Have you ever missed anything in your life?”
“You old fool,” she yelled. “You travelled around the world to build your bridges, leaving me alone. Don’t you remember what you did every time you returned? You took your binoculars and went bird watching.”
“Yes, I built bridges and sweat in the hottest African and Asian countries so that you’d be able to buy things your friends could only think about. And look how you repay me.”
I did not cry since childhood, but now I felt tears forming in my eyes. Something was going to explode inside me and tear me apart. I could not stand her presence around me. She disgusted me. I grabbed my jacket and rushed out into the street. I could not think rationally anymore. The noise of the morning traffic roared in my head as if amplified ten times. The exhaust fumes made me nauseous. Despite my painful legs, I hurried towards the seashore. I ran away from people and their trickery and duplicity. How could I be so naive? How could I not see that Marco’s aquiline nose and dark curly hair was not mine? Would I ever be able to look him in the eye and shake hands with him? I was a wild animal chased by dark thoughts.
As I approach the beach, I heard seagulls screaming and I smelt the sea. A voice ordered me, “Go and kill yourself!” I walked like a somnambulist towards the sandy beach. The waves were breaking against the shore, but they felt unreal, like in a dream. I was going to walk into the water and let the waves cover me and carry me into the open sea. At least some fish were going to gorge themselves on my old, illness-riddled body. I was a few meter from the water when a voice shook me from my trance, “Hey, mate!” I halted in my tracks. A pair of benevolent eyes looked at me. An old man around my age was holding a white boll in his hand. “Would you like to play some volleyball with us?” Behind him stood a group of old men and women, looking at me invitingly. Blood rushed into my face. A deep sense of shame jolted me like an electric shock. “Thank you for invitation,” I hardly managed to say. “I have painful knees. I only wish to get some fresh air.”
The old man nodded wishing me well, and he and his companions returned to their game. I stood on the beach, looking at the open sea where a bright cruiser was gliding across the horizon. A couple of colourful sails of windsurfers skipped on the waves. I heard children playing in the sand, dogs barking, crunching of shoes and the voices of the volleyball players, and I felt embarrassed. Life around me was in full bloom. Everyone was striving and fighting and I was getting ready to kill myself. What a coward!
I walked back to the hotel with butterflies in my stomach. I did not know how she was going to react if I ask her more questions. Was there anything more to ask? I met Mr Schulz in the lobby, his face swollen as if stung by a swarm of bees. A bandage covered his nose; his eyes were hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses; his right hand hung in a sling. He sat still and silent on a chair with a pair of crutches at his side, looking more like a sculpture from a contemporary art gallery than a human being. As I walked by the reception desk, Mr John Smith said, “Excuse me, sir; I have to tell you that your wife has already left.” I thanked him and rushed into the room, where I discovered that both my wife and her suitcase had disappeared.
TO BE CONTINUED
The next morning, my wife did not show any improvement. She sat on the bed staring at the opposite wall. I felt pity for her and sat beside her. I put my hand on her thigh trying to comfort her. Although her face was lined with a myriad of wrinkles and her hair had lost its lustre, I still felt the same love as forty years ago.
“What bothers you, love?” I asked. “Please tell me; you’ll feel better.”
She slowly turned her head towards me, gave me a contemptuous glance and said, “You’re not the father of our Mario.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Have you taken some new medicine? Are you losing your mind?” I asked her while my heart pounded wildly.
She stared into my eyes with such a fierce look I never saw before. “I’ve told you the truth. The father of our Mario is an Italian man; a plumber from Sicily.”
My mind started spinning. I held my head in my hands to compose myself. I did not want to believe what I just heard. We had been living like two bodies with one soul. I could not remember the last time we quarrelled or had any kind of argument.
“How could you do that to me?” I asked. “Have I ever hurt you? Have I ever hit you? Have you ever missed anything in your life?”
“You old fool,” she yelled. “You travelled around the world to build your bridges, leaving me alone. Don’t you remember what you did every time you returned? You took your binoculars and went bird watching.”
“Yes, I built bridges and sweat in the hottest African and Asian countries so that you’d be able to buy things your friends could only think about. And look how you repay me.”
I did not cry since childhood, but now I felt tears forming in my eyes. Something was going to explode inside me and tear me apart. I could not stand her presence around me. She disgusted me. I grabbed my jacket and rushed out into the street. I could not think rationally anymore. The noise of the morning traffic roared in my head as if amplified ten times. The exhaust fumes made me nauseous. Despite my painful legs, I hurried towards the seashore. I ran away from people and their trickery and duplicity. How could I be so naive? How could I not see that Marco’s aquiline nose and dark curly hair was not mine? Would I ever be able to look him in the eye and shake hands with him? I was a wild animal chased by dark thoughts.
As I approach the beach, I heard seagulls screaming and I smelt the sea. A voice ordered me, “Go and kill yourself!” I walked like a somnambulist towards the sandy beach. The waves were breaking against the shore, but they felt unreal, like in a dream. I was going to walk into the water and let the waves cover me and carry me into the open sea. At least some fish were going to gorge themselves on my old, illness-riddled body. I was a few meter from the water when a voice shook me from my trance, “Hey, mate!” I halted in my tracks. A pair of benevolent eyes looked at me. An old man around my age was holding a white boll in his hand. “Would you like to play some volleyball with us?” Behind him stood a group of old men and women, looking at me invitingly. Blood rushed into my face. A deep sense of shame jolted me like an electric shock. “Thank you for invitation,” I hardly managed to say. “I have painful knees. I only wish to get some fresh air.”
The old man nodded wishing me well, and he and his companions returned to their game. I stood on the beach, looking at the open sea where a bright cruiser was gliding across the horizon. A couple of colourful sails of windsurfers skipped on the waves. I heard children playing in the sand, dogs barking, crunching of shoes and the voices of the volleyball players, and I felt embarrassed. Life around me was in full bloom. Everyone was striving and fighting and I was getting ready to kill myself. What a coward!
I walked back to the hotel with butterflies in my stomach. I did not know how she was going to react if I ask her more questions. Was there anything more to ask? I met Mr Schulz in the lobby, his face swollen as if stung by a swarm of bees. A bandage covered his nose; his eyes were hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses; his right hand hung in a sling. He sat still and silent on a chair with a pair of crutches at his side, looking more like a sculpture from a contemporary art gallery than a human being. As I walked by the reception desk, Mr John Smith said, “Excuse me, sir; I have to tell you that your wife has already left.” I thanked him and rushed into the room, where I discovered that both my wife and her suitcase had disappeared.
TO BE CONTINUED
