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györgy spiró
afternoon, and even though
he had nothing to do and
was quite free to withdraw
to his hovel and go to sleep
whenever he wanted, he felt
guilty about it nevertheless.
It was as if reading were a
penance, a humiliating duty,
for some ancient sin that he
had not even committed. Yet
he liked reading; it was the
only thing that he really liked
to do.
Scroll in hand, he got up to
his feet, stretched his aching
back, turned his head around
and cracked his neck, shrugged
his shoulders repeatedly, bent
down, then gazed out the
window.
Uri shivered in the damp
and chilly darkness of Rome
in early February. Images
from his dreams were still
drifting around in his mind,
sinking ever deeper like fish
burrowing into the Tiber’smud
and merging with the murky
halos in the yard. The dream
cannot have been altogether
disagreeable, because a
pleasant feeling lingered, a
hopeful image, though there
was no point trying to recall
it. It was as though his real
living was done in his dreams.
There were people sauntering
around in the yard, but too far
off to recognize; he saw them
only in blurred outline. At this
hour of the day they were
probably women, because the
menfolk were still going about
their business.
Uri had poor eyes.
His leg was bad too. Ever since
he was small, walking had hurt
his feet and ankles. His back
usually hurt also. His right hip
had turned out bigger than
the left, but it was his eyes
that were plagued worst of