“Angelo, are you telling me that last night instead of ending up in the room of your most beloved 18-year-old nun to indulge her virginity, so to speak, you ended up in a small decrepit chapel?”
He was furious. His voice was raspy; his dark curly hair disheveled; his shirt open. Nesting on his chest that gold cross of his which he never took off. I pulled the white sheet to my neck and retreated toward the head of the bed.
“Oh, no, Clara, I am telling you that somebody changed the room number that she gave me with another number.”
He raised his voice.
“Precisely the point. You did not ask ‘why’ you asked ‘how’. You tell me how, Clara.”
“Are you implying …”
Miguel entered the bedroom.
“What on earth…”
The whole scene must have looked ridiculous: Angelo in the middle of the room gesticulating, his eyes rotating in his head like those of a mad man or like those of a prophet – ah, that city in which the difference between mad men and prophets was blatantly blurred – and I, under the bed sheet, knees to my chin, trying not to laugh.
Through the open window the morning wind brought the sweet earthy smell of the dark olive groves, which for years have lain on right side of the mansion.
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”/draft