Read Bravado's House of Blues for Free Online

a string quartet playing Mozart. A few couples danced. Most split off to gather in small groups, clusters of men and clusters of women scattered about the ballroom.
    Agnes walked the room, picking up bits of conversation. The widespread devastation in Europe, the latest Chaplin film, the new Nash 681 touring car on the streets. Nothing here for her.
    A voice rose above the others and she gravitated towards it for some reason that she could not fully grasp.
    “Russia,” the voice said, “is just the beginning.” She moved towards it. “Certainly it’s not perfect. But the idea is there. By God, I hope they pull it off. I hope it spreads like a fire. We could all use some idealism that works for a change.”
    Agnes reached the edge of the conversation. She saw a plain suit, dark hands, but a small knot of men obscured the speaker’s face.
    “Not ‘by God’ if your Marx is correct about religion.”
    “Being the opiate of the masses, Father Reynolds?” the voice asked. “Mark my words, inside thirty years cinema will replace it as such.”
    The group laughed. Even Agnes stifled a chuckle. The heads moved and she nearly didn’t recognize him with his neatly trimmed beard and his short curly hair. The eyes and smile gave him away. He looked up at her, surprise registering on his face. “Miss Barnham?”
    She took a step back, a sudden heat rising to her cheeks.
    “Miss Agnes Barnham?” He stepped toward her, nodding to the priest. “Please excuse me, Father Reynolds.”
    “Ah,” she said, “So I see you’ve turned up again.” She smiled and offered her hand. “Mister . . .?”
    “Schonfeld,” he said. “Jacob.” He grinned. “What a nice surprise.”
    “Indeed,” she said, recovering. “You quite vanished, you know.”
    “Mysterious of me, yes? Unfortunately, my visa ran out rather . . . unexpectedly.” His eyes smiled. “But I’m glad you looked for me.”
    She snorted. “You flatter yourself, Mr. Schonfeld. I merely wanted to thank you for returning me home safe and sound.”
    “Ah,” he said. “That’s all?”
    She nodded, eyes tracking the waiter with his bobbing tray of glasses. She needed a drink. Quickly. “How’s the painting?”
    He shrugged. “It passes the time suitably. Annoys the parents adequately. And the poetry?”
    She felt her cheeks grow even hotter, remembering that spontaneous stanza so many months before. “Poetry?” The waiter dodged by. Her hand snaked out and grabbed a drink as he passed.
    “It’s quite good,” he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the last issue of the New England Poet. It had been only out two weeks; how could he possibly know? Her knees went to water. Then she remembered the rest of the poem, scribbled out furiously in a cafe near the cathedral in the weeks that followed.
    No, she thought. Not this; anything but this. Involuntarily, she started looking for an escape route.
    “I was hoping,” he said, as he opened the digest to a dog-eared page, “that you would grace me with an autograph.”
    Those flecks of gold in his eyes danced with amusement. She swallowed. “How in the world did you—”
    He interrupted. “Actually, it really is quite good. Especially this bit.” His finger traced a path down the text and he cleared his throat:    

    “Arms strong to save and eyes to pierce
    A smudge of sky on olive cheek
    The Virgin’s Son in Mexico my
    Lost soul to seek.”

    He looked up from reading. “I’ve never been in a poem before.”
    That trapped feeling of embarrassment took on sharpness that spilled over into her voice. “Again, you flatter yourself.”
    He held out the digest and a pen. “As a Marxist and a Jew I was terribly offended,” he continued, grinning. “But as a man, I was quite captivated.”
    She took the pen, scribbled a few words across the page and handed it back to him.
    He read it and laughed. “‘You’re an ass, Affectionately, Agnes Barnham.’” He bowed his head. “Thank