Victoria at the Falklands

by Jack Tollers

  Chapter Eighteen

  A vision

  It was autumn once again, and it was raining.

  The water bounced on the bright paving stones of Belgrano district’s time-honoured streets. There was little light, although it was only six in the afternoon.

  Thick drops of rain slid slowly down the misty bow-window panes and through them one could have possibly perceived the drawing room’s main features in a dim light.

  It was raining.

  Suddenly some white knuckles cleared the blurred window making a kind of porthole through which one could clearly see a young blue eyed girl. She was looking out at the rain. She seemed to be crying, but perhaps it was only an illusion because of the drops on the outside of the windowpanes.

  There was a dark green armchair behind her at the back of the room and a big woolly white dog sleeping next to it. By the doorway that led into the room a red-haired young man leaned against the open door, slightly balancing himself to and fro. He was looking at the chimney-place in front of him where a fire was blazing away. He was looking sad too. He was stooping a bit, and his worn out brown tweed coat seemed wet. So was his curly red hair. Every now and then he shrugged, as if it were a nervous twitch or something.

  Outside it kept raining.

  He shrugged one last time and—but the windowpanes were blurring once again.

  It wasn’t exactly cold. Just miserable, that’s all.

  A minute later the main door opened and the two young people took leave of each other. He seemed to be about to kiss her but she shook her head. The dog had woken up and looked towards the street with big dreamy eyes.

  The young red-haired man shrugged yet once more and walked out slowly into the unsheltered street, his hands in his pockets. The yellow tree-leaves on the sidewalk seemed brighter than ever. It was nearly dark by now, and he walked all alone.

  And it was still raining.