Portico of Galician Literature
  • Home
  • Writers
  • Books in English
  • History
  • Rights
  • Translation Grants
  • Contact

Writers

  • Xavier Alcalá
  • Marilar Aleixandre
  • Fran Alonso
  • Diego Ameixeiras
  • Rosa Aneiros
  • Xurxo Borrazás
  • Begoña Caamaño
  • Marica Campo
  • Xosé Carlos Caneiro
  • Fina Casalderrey
  • Francisco Castro
  • Cid Cabido
  • Fernando M. Cimadevila
  • Alfredo Conde
  • Ledicia Costas
  • Berta Dávila
  • Xabier P. DoCampo
  • Pedro Feijoo
  • Agustín Fernández Paz
  • Elena Gallego Abad
  • Camilo Gonsar
  • Xabier López López
  • Inma López Silva
  • Manuel Lourenzo González
  • Andrea Maceiras
  • Xosé Monteagudo
  • Teresa Moure
  • Miguel-Anxo Murado
  • Xosé Neira Vilas
  • Xavier Queipo
  • María Xosé Queizán
  • Anxo Rei Ballesteros
  • María Reimóndez
  • Manuel Rivas
  • Antón Riveiro Coello
  • María Solar
  • Anxos Sumai
  • Abel Tomé
  • Suso de Toro
  • Iolanda Zúñiga

THE SECRET WORLD OF BASILIUS HOFFMAN: THE DREAM SNATCHER

  • font size decrease font size decrease font size increase font size increase font size
(Page 1 of 8) « Prev Next »

YIDAKI

 

When cats dream, they assume the august attitudes of mighty sphinxes stretched out in solitude and they seem to fall into a sleep of endless dreams. Magical sparks burst from their fertile loins and particles of gold, like fine grains of sand, dimly sparkle in their mystic eyes.

Charles Baudelaire

 

There was only a week to go before the start of the Christmas holidays when Peter found out that his holidays were going to be different this year. His parents had promised to pick him up that evening at six, but, as usual, they didn’t keep their promise. He waited for them at the gates to his boarding school for some time, watching how other boarders left school for the holidays, how the old iron gate closed and how night spread its cloak over the city. It was not one of those pleasant afternoons when you want to go for a walk in the park, but one of those wet and cold afternoons you get in winter when darkness devours the day before its time and the best spot in the whole world is next to the fireplace at home.

Peter sat waiting on a bench for hours and hours with a pile of suitcases next to him, his body shrinking from the cold as he hoped the small drop of rain that had just fallen on his nose was not the beginning of a downpour.

When the family limousine finally arrived to pick him up, he was hardly able to move a muscle and, cold to the bone, he got into the car with chattering teeth.

His mother gave him a kiss on the cheek, giving one of her usual excuses for being late, which he barely paid attention to. The truth was he didn’t care. More than three months had passed since they’d last seen each other, and that had been on his first day at the school.

When we think of boarding schools, we tend to think of grey buildings like bunkers or youth detention centres, but that could not be further from the truth in this case. This particular boarding school was very prestigious and was housed inside an old stone monastery, boasting velvet curtains and oak tables. But this didn’t mean that the school didn’t have timetables to adhere to or rules and punishments, strict teachers with too much wax in their ears, students whose only topic of conversation was how rich their families were and a strict reverence for discipline, a reverence that was both absurd and excessive at the same time. At that time, all bad things considered, Peter was happy to be leaving, even if he was only to be gone a few days and to be spending some time with his parents.

It was then that his mother told him, using that tone of voice that meant nothing good was about to come, ‘Peter, your father and I have to go away on urgent business.’

Those two words, ‘travel’ and ‘urgent’, were the two words he had heard most often in his lifetime. Peter’s parents had an absolute fortune, but this meant they had very little time as they spent most of it making sure their fortune didn’t vanish overnight in a bad investment or a ruinous business.

‘We thought it would be best for you to stay with my brother, your Uncle Basilius,’ added his mother.

His parents, like almost everybody else’s, always did what they thought best for their child. For Peter that meant travelling often, changing schools every five seconds and sleeping in a different hotel room every night. All this didn’t do much for his academic performance so, after a while, they decided that ‘the best thing for him’ would be to send him away to boarding school for the best part of the year.

‘Uncle Basilius?’ he asked, feeling displeased. ‘I don’t want to go to anybody’s house. I’m better off at school if that’s the only option.’

‘Come on, Peter,’ said his mother in a caring way. ‘Don’t you remember what a good time you used to have there when you were little? You spent all your time running around the house and playing out in the garden.’

His mother was a very beautiful woman who knew how to use her powers of persuasion to get what she wanted, but Peter was already well aware that she could talk a lot and make empty promises, and he wasn’t about to let himself fall into that trap again.

‘Mum, I’m twelve years old. I don’t enjoy running up and down stairs anymore. It’s actually quite dangerous.’

‘I know, Peter, but this is really urgent business,’ said his mother, carefully touching up her make-up.

‘He doesn’t even have a television,’ retorted Peter.

‘Did I hear you say TV?’ interrupted his father, taking his eyes away from one of the reports he was reading, something he rarely did. ‘Young lad, after all those poor marks you got, do you really think we’re going to let you watch TV?’

‘Your father’s right,’ said his mother while absent-mindedly twirling her spectacular blonde hair.

Peter’s father, Mr Hillman, was a very rigorous man. He didn’t like surprises or improvisation, everything had to go exactly as planned, and nothing annoyed him more than something coming up out of the blue or taking him by surprise. So, when something like Peter’s studies didn’t meet his expectations, he set out to resolve it as soon as possible.

‘Do you know how much it costs to send you to such a prestigious school?’ his father asked. His father had a small moustache, and his hair was slicked back. He didn’t look like the kind of man who could take a joke.

He didn’t wait for an answer and went back to his papers.

‘I thought the state paid for prisons…’ muttered Peter quietly though he felt that, even if he were to shout, his parents wouldn’t hear him.

He knew it didn’t really matter what he thought or said. It felt as though what annoyed his father most wasn’t that he was failing, but that he was wasting his money. His parents organized their lives so efficiently, always deciding what would be better or worse for Peter. But when things didn’t turn out how they planned, they blamed him, calling him lazy and telling him he would never be successful. Their relationship had changed a lot over the years, and memories of going for walks with his parents or spending afternoons at home together were nothing but a distant illusion.

He decided not to try again and rested his head against the window, watching the wooden and stone houses of the old part of the city pass by as he caught glimpses of windows lit up by orange glows and tables already laid for dinner by the warmth of the fire.

  • Start
  • Prev
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
  • 6
  • 7
  • 8
  • Next
  • End
More in this category: « THE SECRET WORLD OF BASILIUS HOFFMAN: THE DREAM SNATCHER synopsis
back to top
Back to top

Copyright for all materials on this site remains with their authors.
© 2019 Portico of Galician Literature

  • Home
  • Writers
  • Books in English
  • Contact
created by bettermonday