2

“No, there was never a station

house. The train simply stopped when you asked.” He was curious about

the train; the rails seemed so narrow. It was a two-wagon train bearing the

royal insignia, I explained. Gypsies lived in it now. They’d been living there

ever since my mother used to summer here as a girl. The gypsies had hauled

the two derailed cars farther inland. Did he want to see them? “Later.

Maybe.” Polite indifference, as if he’d spotted my misplaced zeal to play up

to him and was summarily pushing me away.

But it stung me.

Instead, he said he wanted to open an account in one of the banks in B.,

then pay a visit to his Italian translator, whom his Italian publisher had

engaged for his book.

I decided to take him there by bike.

The conversation was no better on wheels than on foot. Along the way,

we stopped for something to drink. The bartabaccheria was totally dark

and empty. The owner was mopping the floor with a powerful ammonia

solution. We stepped outside as soon as we could. A lonely blackbird,

sitting in a Mediterranean pine, sang a few notes that were immediately

drowned out by the rattle of the cicadas.

I took a long swill from a large bottle of mineral water, passed it to him,

then drank from it again. I spilled some on my hand and rubbed my face

with it, running my wet fingers through my hair. The water was

insufficiently cold, not fizzy enough, leaving behind an unslaked likeness of

thirst.

What did one do around here?

Nothing. Wait for summer to end.

What did one do in the winter, then?

I smiled at the answer I was about to give. He got the gist and said,

“Don’t tell me: wait for summer to come, right?”

I liked having my mind read. He’d pick up on dinner drudgery sooner

than those before him.

“Actually, in the winter the place gets very gray and dark. We come for

Christmas. Otherwise it’s a ghost town.”

“And what else do you do here at Christmas besides roast chestnuts and

drink eggnog?”

He was teasing. I offered the same smile as before. He understood, said

nothing, we laughed.

He asked what I did. I played tennis. Swam. Went out at night.

Jogged.

Transcribed music. Read

He said he jogged too. Early in the morning. Where did one jog around

here?

Along the promenade, mostly. I could show him if he wanted.

It hit me in the face just when I was starting to like him again: “Later,

maybe.”

I had put reading last on my list, thinking that, with the willful, brazen

attitude he’d displayed so far, reading would figure last on his.

A few hours

later, when I remembered that he had just finished writing a book on

Heraclitus and that “reading” was probably not an insignificant part of his

life, I realized that I needed to perform some clever backpedaling and let

him know that my real interests lay right alongside his. What unsettled me,

though, was not the fancy footwork needed to redeem myself. It was the

unwelcome misgivings with which it finally dawned on me, both then and

during our casual conversation by the train tracks, that I had all along,

without seeming to, without even admitting it, already been trying—and

failing—to win him over.

When I did offer—because all visitors loved the idea—to take him to

San Giacomo and walk up to the very top of the belfry we nicknamed To￾die-for, I should have known better than to just stand there without a

comeback. I thought I’d bring him around simply by taking him up there

and letting him take in the view of the town, the sea, eternity. But no. Later!

But it might have started way later than I think without my noticing

anything at all. You see someone, but you don’t really see him, he’s in the

wings. Or you notice him, but nothing clicks, nothing “catches,” and before

you’re even aware of a presence, or of something troubling you, the six

weeks that were offered you have almost passed and he’s either already

gone or just about to leave, and you’re basically scrambling to come to

terms with something, which, unbeknownst to you, has been brewing for

weeks under your very nose and bears all the symptoms of what you’re

forced to call I want. How couldn’t I have known, you ask? I know desire

when I see it—and yet, this time, it slipped by completely. I was going for

the devious smile that would suddenly light up his face each time he’d read

my mind, when all I really wanted was skin, just skin.

At dinner on his third evening, I sensed that he was staring at me as I

was explaining Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, which I’d been

transcribing. I was seventeen that year and, being the youngest at the table

and the least likely to be listened to, I had developed the habit of smuggling

as much information into the fewest possible words. I spoke fast, which

gave people the impression that I was always flustered and muffling my

words. After I had finished explaining my transcription, I became aware of

the keenest glance coming from my left. It thrilled and flattered me; he was

obviously interested—he liked me. It hadn’t been as difficult as all that,

then. But when, after taking my time, I finally turned to face him and take

in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once hostile and

vitrified that bordered on cruelty.

It undid me completely. What had I done to deserve this? I wanted him

to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he had done just a few days

earlier on the abandoned train tracks, or when I’d explained to him that

same afternoon that B. was the only town in Italy where the corriera, the

regional bus line, carrying Christ, whisked by without ever stopping.

to be continued

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