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In the haze of the late summer heat, Josef reads to him from Faust. The September sun still blazes bright and Roberto lies dizzy on the grass, watching the clouds drift overhead. He's loathe to admit it, but every few lines or so he finds his mind's ear wandering. As much as he can judge such things, Goethe seems somewhat long-winded to him. Poet or not, he says things in twice the words necessary. It makes Josef happy, though. He likes to read aloud. His voice is clear and there is something he does with the tone of it that makes each speaker sound distinct. What were senseless words on a page take on life when he reads; Roberto can envision worlds that breathe.
"Another hand-clasp! There!" Josef lowers himself to lie beside Roberto, book spread out between them. "If to the moment I shall ever say: 'Ah, linger on, thou art so fair!' And here Josef smiles, so gently it makes Roberto's chest ache. "Then may you fetters on me lay," Reciting from memory alone, Josef rests the back of a hand against his cheek. "Then will I perish, then and there."
Something horrible lurches in Roberto's chest then, though he knows it's only a story. He feels as if he could choke on the feeling, feels it threatening to empty his stomach. The corners of his eyes burn where the tears begin to gather. Josef begins to fumble in his pocket for his handkerchief.
"I'm sorry," tells Roberto. "I didn't think-- was it something about the story?"
"I...I don't know," Roberto says. "It just seems so terrible. For a second's happiness, he'd throw everything away." That isn't it, not all of it, though Roberto can't find the words to give the horror shape. It's as if good enough is not enough to live for. There's unthinkable darkness to the notion, such darkness Roberto can feel it welling up in his guts and threatening to spill over.
Josef lets him cry as long as he must.
Tired as he is, he still wakes in the night. Unease sits cold in his stomach and he cannot drive it away. Roberto can only wash his face and watch the small hours tick past. He tries to read. He tries to distract himself with the world beyond his window. In the darkness beyond the glass, he can almost see Josef's book, almost see the piercing eyes of Faust, leveled at him in accusation. At his shoulder, Mephistopheles had watched-- patient as millennia of man's sin.