The Summer of Katya by Trevanian

rage and shame, but I never dared to challenge the bigger lad until my wise old uncle took me aside and explained that, while the bully was strong, I had the advantage of being quick and adroit. And, what is more, I would be strengthened by the rightness of my cause. So, the next time that fat butcher’s son hectored me, I put up my fists and took a stand… only to experience the soundest thrashing of my life, with my nose bloodied and my lip broken. And when I reported the event to my uncle, he shook his head and advised me not to be so stupid in future as to pick fights with bigger boys. And she told me of the shadow of a tree branch at night on the wall of her bedroom that looked like a monkey and used to frighten her each time a storm made it dance, rippling insanely over the draperies. She would hide under her covers and peek out through a little hole, fascinated, horrified, but unable to look away from the dancing monkey because she had convinced herself that it could not harm her so long as she kept her eyes on it. She dared not even blink. And I told her of the one time I cheated in school and…
    There is no purpose in recounting everything we shared. I am sure the reader has been in love, and remembers.
    There was no physical intimacy between us, to be sure. We didn’t kiss; I didn’t even hold her hand. Our only contact was when she slipped her hand into the crook of my arm as we walked down to the summerhouse or back from it. But even now, years later, I can still feel the pressure and warmth of that hand, as though my nerves had memories independent of my mind.
    There was one occasion when she did touch me, come to think of it. We were chatting when she suddenly put her hand upon mine and hushed me with a gesture.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    She remained perfectly still for a long moment, looking to the side of the summerhouse with close attention. Then she looked back to me and smiled. “You didn’t see her?”
    “Her? Who?”
    She evaluated me quizzically, as though wondering if I were trying to trick her. Then she shrugged, “Oh, never mind. It’s nothing.”
    “No, tell me.” Then a thought crossed my mind. “You didn’t see the ghost that’s supposed to haunt this garden, did you? Is that it?”
    “She’s not a ghost.”
    “Oh, yes. I forgot. Spirit, then.”
    Katya gazed at me for a moment; then she shook her head and smiled. “I really must be getting back to the house. The local girl working for us requires reminding, or she would never start supper, and poor Father would have to go to bed hungry.”
    “Stay with me a little longer. Send the ghost to remind her. It’s an experience she’ll never forget.”
    “I won’t have you joke about the spirit… poor thing. Now you go along. But if you wish, you may join us for dinner tonight. Father has asked after you.”
    “I accept with pleasure.”
    Before we parted on the terrace, I remembered that I had forgotten to give her that day’s pebble. It had become a joke—and a little more than a joke—between us for me to present her with a pebble upon each meeting. I found it in my pocket and offered it with the comically sober ceremony we had fallen into.
    “Thank you very much, Jean-Marc. It’s the finest pebble I’ve received since… oh, I can’t remember when. Yesterday, I think.”
    “I’ll see you this evening, then?”
    “Yes. Until then.”

    * * *

    It rained that evening, and once again I arrived with dripping hair and sodden jacket. During dinner there were the expected jokes about my bringing the rain with me whenever I visited. I felt a bit uncomfortable at the table, because Katya, fearful that I would catch a cold in my wet coat, had insisted that I change it for one of Paul’s brocade smoking jackets, which was a little too small for me and a great deal fancier than anything I was used to wearing.
    Paul squinted at me across the table. “I wonder, Montjean, if I look that silly in my smoking jacket. Or are you