Like a sort of smile

On Sunday, my niece came to Florence to see The Cure at the Cascine. They were the closing act of the three-day Firenze Rocks Festival. Apparently, there were 40,000 people in the audience, all standing, happy. She told me that a friend’s aunt asked her if she was related to me. “He’s my grandad.” “Oh, and is he still alive?” She – my niece – said yes.

She told me about The Cure, and played me the song that goes: “I don’t care if Monday’s blue, Tuesday’s grey, and Wednesday and Thursday too – it’s Friday, I’m in love. Monday you might fall apart, Tuesday and Wednesday break my heart, oh, Thursday doesn’t even begin – it’s Friday, I’m in love. It’s Friday, I’m in love. As for Sunday, she says it always comes too late.”

In return, just for fun, I read her one of my short stories; I’d only just written it. It’s very short, a bit like "The Old Man and the Sea", but with an even older man, and even shorter. The old man lives alone on the outskirts of Willemstad and is watching the match on Sunday from 1 pm Curaçao time – 12 noon Houston time. At 1.06 pm, Nmecha scores for Germany, making it 1–0. The old man strokes his beard. A quarter of an hour later, at 1.21 pm, Livano Comenencia scores with his left foot to equalise, 1–1. The old man’s heart leaps into his chest.

When his granddaughter pops round later, as she does every day, she’ll find him with a crease running down his face. Like a sort of smile.