...of awkwardness

...Everything she said, as we walked towards the cafe, sounded as though it was spoken by someone on the verge of madness. Hardly had we sat down on the terrace than I became aware of how embarrassing the situation was, and I no longer knew how to react. The little Canellas girl was no help at all: she had understood nothing of what had just taken place and simply gazed out of the window. I didn't understand her behaviour, since it was obvious what kind of person was sitting with us at the table, someone in the grip of the most terrible despair. But to the young Canellas girl, who, like all Spanish women, was unused to finding herself suddenly sitting at a table with a stranger, the whole situation was embarrassing. I felt ashamed, unable to say a word, searching for words but not finding a single one, and reproaching myself for having perhaps forced someone, in a positively brutal manner, into doing something she didn't want to do: the young woman perhaps didn't want to sit drinking coffee at the same table with either me or the Canellas girl, neither of whom could in the least concern her, just because she had been compelled to do so by my invitation, delivered in a tone which, if not callous, had at least been far from sensitive. I was ashamed and unable to start a single conversation, even to utter a single word, let alone to take up anything the young woman had already said in her extreme despair and confusion. That's just how somebody sits who has been compelled to do so, I thought. The young Canellas girl must have felt as I did, because for a while she didn't look once in my direction. But my sense of shame gave me no chance of escaping from the situation I had created...

[Concrete, Bernhard, T.]