Boots in a Flowerbed

7. Sunday

He has tidied his room and the kitchen he shares with his co-tenant turned girlfriend. All the dishes are washed, dried, put in their proper places. He has wiped the tables and doors and swept the floors. He has gone through his wardrobe, washed and hung the smaller ones, packed the bigger clothes - those that are too large to dry in their tiny bathroom - into a canvas bag for taking out to the laundry. He's rearranged everything in his little room, changed the bed linen and remade the bed. He's even contemplated taking a peek into her room, but she wouldn't like that. Besides, she's of course tidied it herself on Friday afternoon, before grabbing her bag and hurrying to catch the coach that has taken her to see her parents, some forty miles away.

He's done all that, now he can't think of anything else to do that wouldn't involve going out. And still the clock isn't even half past one yet. Not that he'd have looked at the clock, oh no, that's something that he resolutely has not done. But the City Council Hall is not too far away, and he can hear the clock that chimes in its tower. He's heard the chime at one, and at quarter past, but not the half-hour yet. How can the day drag on so slowly? Days-off usually seem to fly away, so why is this Sunday different?

Of course he knows the reason if he stops to think, and even if he doesn't. One o'clock on Sunday, the man said, and he promised to go. But caution has finally won over impulsiveness, and he's woken up in the morning fully determined to just forget about that stupid promise. Besides, the man probably wouldn't be there either. It was just a joke, something the man has forgotten before even driving away. And so he's shrugged it off and set out to do something else.

But every minute until one has seemed long as a full day, the minutes after it even longer. He can't help thinking of the man, and tries to tell himself that he's crazy. So what if a suspect millionaire is disappointed in his wicked hopes? He must look after himself.

And yet he can't help thinking of that smile, the horses, the stylish cabriolet, those warm brown eyes. The bell chimes half past one and he swallows. It's no use thinking about it now. He's already late, and a rich man doesn't waste his time waiting. Why would he? Not that the man would've been there anyway... But he promised to go. And he was totally crazy to do so.

At twenty to two he jumps up from the chair where he's curled up to stare blankly at a book, tears a pair of trousers and a clean shirt out of the cupboard, changes with trembling hands, jumps into his town shoes, grabs a jacket. He almost forgets to check that the keys are in the pocket before rushing down the stairs, out of the heavy door into the narrow street, past the janitor sweeping the sidewalk. His strides lengthen, he reaches the street corner and starts to run. His heart is pounding. Of course the man is not there, but at least he has to go and see it for himself. He runs.

The clock begins to chime two and the man looks up at it, shoulders sagging a little. He waits until the last echo of sound has died, then slowly picks up his driving whip. The horses in front of the small carriage are dozing off but perk up when they feel him touch the reins.

The boy runs faster, dashes across the street, and the man notices him. Guilt almost crushes him when he sees how the face brightens, how the man tosses his head to swing heavy blonde bangs away from dark eyes and smiles.

"I'm so sorry!" he pants when he's close enough. "I'm so awfully sorry... there was... something I needed to do... took me longer... please forgive me!"

"Never mind!" The man offers a long-fingered hand, he slips his tanned one into it and is pulled up to sit next to the man. Oh how soft the leather-cushioned seat is. "Don't you worry, the main thing is that you could make it!" And how delighted the man looks. "Where would you want to go? Do you know the surroundings of Uman at all?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, how about driving to the east side then? There are some really nice side roads, we might speed a little!" The man chuckles. "And there are nice spots for a picnic, too. How's that sound?"

"Good," he says and takes a deep breath as the horses come to life. The man drives well, he holds the reins and whip with such confidence. A steady grip, firm but gentle, he can see it. This man is used to driving, and he enjoys doing it. They pass by trees, people, other vehicles, a slight breeze tousles the boy's hair and he smiles.

"By the way," the man says, glancing at him, "I'm afraid I seem to have forgotten all my manners, seeing that I've not even introduced myself. My name's DelChaim, but please call me Chaim."

The boy almost laughs - really, it hasn't even occurred to him that the man really doesn't know his name. And here they are going on a picnic together.

"Neakim," he says. "I'm Neakim, though I'm usually called just Kim."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Kim!" The man nods formally, then grins.

Kim laughs aloud. He doesn't want to be on his guard, not now, and he pushes away the little voice trying to remind him that it's not a clever thing to think like that.