The Schubert Connection

My fingers were stiff from the cold, and it was hard to get them around my keys, but I pulled them out of my bag at last and had just stepped toward the outer door to my building when it burst open and two familiar forms rushed out of it, straight into me. It was the Hungarians from the streetcar, and they knocked me to the ground before they disappeared into the snowy night. Everything seemed to happen at once after that, though it may have only seemed so from where I lay sprawled on the sidewalk.

I blinked, tried to focus on the contours of his face, outlined against the bright façade of the church. He pulled me off to the side, away from the people clustered around the steps, pulled me right into the circle of his arms. I tipped my face toward his, watched his lips approaching mine, but all I got was a whisper from those lips.

“Not here, Lily.” Of course not. What was I thinking? I pulled back a little and lifted my eyes to his, tried to read what was in them, but he was looking at something over my shoulder.

I’m not sure what wisdom made me say, “No, Arthur. I think I’d better follow you,” but I’m thankful I did. He started down very slowly, but soon picked up speed on the steep, slippery slope, and by the time he’d reached the end of the path, he was sliding on the seat of his pants. He hit the top of the steps to the village at full speed, and bounced down them as if he were a rubber ball, careening into the narrow walkway below and whizzing past several startled pedestrians before he came to a halt in the doorway of a small gift shop.