TheBells
By
Helen Black
••• Munich
They were in Marienplatz on a Sunday morning when all the bells began to ring. They stood inthe middle of the square, where fat pigeons flocked around aimlessly wandering clumps of tourists in swift graceful fans, when all the bells began to ring. The sightseers, momentarilystunned, lifted their heads, searched open-mouthed the Baroque swells of high cathedral niches,the cornices of colorful post-war reconstructed facades, the clouds, the spires, the picturebook blue sky, as though the better to hear, as though collectively, instinctively, seeking visible focusfor this large wash of sound. Under its cover he took her hand. As musicbox peals waffled abovethem, he smoothed the hair from her forehead, and, as a silent moment fell between the strokesand clusters of strokes like those odd moments in crowded parties when nobody speaks, heplanted a kiss, like a break in the waves.Then with both hands he held her head, looking over it into the distance with knittedbrows, memorizing its shape, the weight of thick and silky hair. They listened to the bells.They were indescribably beautiful—not the functional metallic clang of a New England whiteclapboard belfry, but music, real music: sweet, rich true, a joyful noise, the Germans’consolation. Pressed against him, she smelled the wool of his sweater, then his shirt, andunderneath it, faintly, the odor of his skin; then he exhaled. “Let’s go,” he said, already moving,tucking her arm firmly under her own.“Where are we going?”He stopped. Brown flecks in yellow irises gave his gaze a perpetually startled look. “Tothe café, of course.” They turned down Rathausgasse and the bells began to fade. He pulled hercloser to his side, her hip against his leg, but she moved away. “You must not pull away, that isthe way a man and a woman walk together in Greece, you must learn it.”“Well, I’m an American, and we’re not in Greece.”
“Yes,” he sighed, “you are an American.”She laughed at him shaking her head, her gift to him the sudden vision of his comic self:the weary tone, the woebegone expression, and the thought flashed through his mind:
she is young, she does not think of the future, she is right, for the moment I must abandon this line of thought.
His brow softened, and he seized her hand and kissed it, held it aloft. To thecobblestoned street he proclaimed, “
Du lachst, und das is ein Wunder!
” You laugh, and that is awonder! “You must not be so serious, you have to keep me laughing,” he ordered, still holdingher hand in his own; then squeezing it fiercely: “My God, you make me so happy.”She smiled, detached her hand, telling him invisibly, we are here, and indeed, their theystood, in front of the café. The letters of its name formed a sparkling golden bow on largeplateglass windows which took the full brunt of the midday sun and threw it back like a mirror.Most of the white metal tables in front were still empty; he moved to one, and pulled out herchair.Few girls in Athens appealed to Theo. They were all so stupid; they threw themselvesshamelessly at the feet of any man who had money. It was the state of education, he scowled,the state of the economy. It was the culture, so backward. He tipped his chair back, nudged atthe pile of books on the floor with the toe of his sandal. And the smart ones—many of them with jobs better paying than his as a teacher—either simpered to camouflage their intelligence orflaunted their independence like cumbersome armor, refusing to retreat, brazening it out.Whenever he saw such women—women who were alert, held their heads up, perhaps carried abook or dressed a little differently—and approached one, it was always the same. She’d bristlewith anxiety and resentment as he circled in, her presence shrilling mutely: “Ha! I know I’llnever be married! I dare you, I
dare
you to court me!”Why was it so difficult to get along with people—with women—at home? He didn’t
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The Bells
This almost won a Famous Magazine's short story contest many years ago, but I'm not saying how many! Now it's time to publish it on Scribd.
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