Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

My Mother’s Tears

Several times, I was proclaimed King of the Merry- go-round! I could have kissed Romaine—I was dying to—but there again, out of a pride that was no more than shyness, I always headed towards other girls. My excessive desire made me stubborn. In the end I considered my behavior cowardly, shabby, unworthy of the King of the Merry-go-round, and I promised myself one morning that on my next victory, come what may, I would approach Romaine and prove my preference with a fervent kiss. There was a tournament two days later. Romaine was one of the spectators. I was able to make the last round without much effort. Only the final, fatal confrontation was left. No one knew my rival, a stranger in the neighborhood, a Greek boy whose family was passing through our town. Short and chubby, with a cheerful face and no neck, he was immediately drawn to our contest and wanted to join in. The Greek boy was hardly impressive. But how did he make it to the final round? He must have used up all his resistance to make it that far or maybe the others, sensing my determination, didn’t have the guts to face me. How wrong I was! The Greek didn’t steal his victory. He was there because no one could match him. Clutching the metal frame with his plump hands, he kept pumping the merry-go-round faster and faster, as if being on the spinning rocket didn’t cause him the slightest fear or discomfort. His cheerful expression never faltered. It was enough to make you sick. The merry-go-round

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