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Anna (continued from preceding page)
It’s important. A girl needs her father as much as a
son does. I’m sorry to hear that. It’s all right, he says. It happens. What’s she like, your daughter?
A firecracker, he says. I think she’s destined to be a performer of some sort. She has a very forceful per- sonality.
How old is she?
Six, he says. Six and already an adult. Do you have a photo of her?
Of course.
As he removes his wallet, he can’t believe what’s hap- pening, that he’s about to show this woman a photo of his daughter. He removes the small photo from
his wallet and hands it to her. She takes it, her hands slightly trembling as she tries to focus on it, moving it further away from her eyes.
Oh, she’s a doll, she says. What’s her name? Anna, he says.
Anna... That’s my name, too. Well, that’s the name I adopted, anyway, what most people call me. Is Anna her mother’s name?
No, her name is Cynthia. You just liked the name. You can say that, he says.
He doesn’t reveal she’s named after her, that Cynthia was always aware of his obsession with the actress, and accepted that he wanted to name their only child after her. Besides, Anna is a pleasant name and she saw no reason to object.
You can tell she’s full of life, she says. It’s in the eyes. Full of fire and passion. Is she Spanish? She looks Spanish.
Her mother is. I’m Italian.
So she’s full of fire and passion, I can see that.
She hands the photo back to him, her eyes again play- ing upon his face.
I know your daughter’s name, your wife’s name, but not yours.
Max, he says.
Anna extends her hand and he takes hold of it. It’s a small, frail hand, as if he could crush it if he squeezes too hard. She maintains eye contact and he doesn’t want to let her hand go but he does so.
She sips her Aperol, takes another long drag from her cigarette, then takes a deep breath through her nose.
I love autumn, she says. It’s probably my favorite time of the year. It always reminds me to make the best of things, that nothing is permanent.
She looks at him, again her eyes playing upon his face.
Make sure your daughter understands that, she says. She has the whole world open to her. Don’t discour- age her. One day she’s going to be somebody. You can tell from her photograph. She’s a special little girl.
She signals the waiter for the check.
It was nice talking to you, she says. I would love to talk more but I have an appointment I need to get to. I’m not as young as I used to be.
She gathers her belongings, places her pack of ciga- rettes into her pocketbook, then removes a black wool scarf from her lap and wraps it round her neck. She rises from her seat and looks at him and smiles, her eyes playing upon his face again.
It was nice talking to you, she says again, leaves the money for the bill, then begins walking away, to- wards the river, her gait slow and deliberate, her shoulders slightly hunched. It’s the walk of an old woman but he can’t help notice the light surrounding her, the light which Godard was once able to bring out through his films. She still possesses it, even
after all these years. He keeps watching her until she disappears into the crowd, then turns his attention back to the street musician, who has finally finished his performance and gathers up the stray coins and euro notes from his open guitar case. Another breeze comes in off the Seine. The autumn leaves falling in a spiral to the ground.
Gallo is the author of Existential Labyrinths, Last Tondero in Paris, The Penguin and The Bird, and other novels. His short fiction has appeared in The Sultan’s Seal (Cairo), Exit Strata, Budget Press Review, Indie Ink, Short Fiction UK, P.S. I Love You, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Coming of The Toads, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Angles, Verdad, Modern Literature (India), Mediter- ranean Poetry (St. Pierre and Miquelon), and Borderless Journal (Singapore).
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