Read Online A Soldier of the Great War by Mark Helprin - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Helprin
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walls upon which he would stand with his heels on the rock and the rest of his boots projecting out into space.
"I don't remember when I lost my fear, but, perhaps because I'd been afraid for so long, when finally I did it never returned. I haven't been in the mountains since the war, but I don't fear heights. Over the yearsâalong the cliffs of Capri, atop Saint Peter's, climbing onto the roof to straighten a crooked tileâI've found that this part of me, at least, has remained young."
He was in as fine a heat as a youthful runner on a good day. "Do you want me to slow down?" he asked Nicolò.
"No," Nicolò answered, breathlessly, "but perhaps you should, since we are, after all, going up."
"Don't slow on my account," Alessandro warned. "I'll be devastated by morning no matter what I do, so I might as well push hard while I can. Nicolò, the world is full of tart little surprises. Here I am, seventy-four years of age, racing up a mountain, putting you to shame because you are a boy of seventeen and you're
breathing like a nonagenarian. Don't worry. In a few hours you'll probably have to carry me, but, for now, indulge me, sweat a little, follow along in the race."
"What if you keep on like this all the way past Sant' Angelo?" Nicolò asked desperately.
"Then you'll have lots of time to spend with your sister, and they'll bury me in Monte Prato. Better to be buried there than in one of those marble filing cabinets in Rome."
"Aren't you afraid to die?"
"No."
"I am."
"You're not tired."
"I'm not brave, either."
"It has nothing to do with bravery. Bravery is for other things."
"Yes, but you miss people."
"I know that."
"So there's nothing you can do about it, is there."
"You keep them alive."
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Come on!"
"You keep them alive not by skill, not by art, not by memory, but by love. When you understand that, you won't be afraid to die. But that doesn't mean you'll go to your death like a clown. Death, Nicolò, is emotional."
"So is life."
"One hopes."
"Look, Signore, you'd better not die on the road, especially if I'm not there to tell, and you'd better not die especially if I am there, you know what I mean?"
"My granddaughter will know to move me next to my wife. And she and I have a bond strong enough that it hardly matters where we are put, for we have never really parted."
"Oh," Nicolò said, unable to say more, because he was too busy breathing.
"Its true. Anyway, death awakens lawyers. They'll get busy when I go. I've left precise, typewritten instructions. I even say what to do with my suits, my papers, and the little things I have in my desk.
"Almost everything is to be burned. You live on not by virtue of the things you have amassed, or the work you have done, but through your spirit, in ways and by means that you can neither control nor foresee. All my possessions and all my papers will be burned in the pine grove behind my house.
"There I have a metal cage to prevent the flight of cinders large enough to set other things on fire. It's against the municipal code to burn refuse in the center of Rome, but I've taken care of that. I have an envelope addressed to the local inspector and one for his supervisor. I have written a carefully composed ode, in perfect
terza rima,
begging a single indulgence. When I realized that they might not care for my poetry, I thought to enclose twenty-five thousand lire for the inspector, and forty thousand for the supervisor."
"Ten thousand would have done it. Why so much?"
"Because inflation is not unknown in this country, and I may live longer than I expect. Though why I would want to is a mystery. I'm so cautious and conscientious that I feel entirely free to die. If I die on this road, just keep walking. They'll find me. Everything will be taken care of properly."
"You think you're going to die?" Nicolò blurted out between breaths. "I think
I'm
going to die."
"Don't worry," Alessandro said, infuriating him. "I'm still
"I don't remember when I lost my fear, but, perhaps because I'd been afraid for so long, when finally I did it never returned. I haven't been in the mountains since the war, but I don't fear heights. Over the yearsâalong the cliffs of Capri, atop Saint Peter's, climbing onto the roof to straighten a crooked tileâI've found that this part of me, at least, has remained young."
He was in as fine a heat as a youthful runner on a good day. "Do you want me to slow down?" he asked Nicolò.
"No," Nicolò answered, breathlessly, "but perhaps you should, since we are, after all, going up."
"Don't slow on my account," Alessandro warned. "I'll be devastated by morning no matter what I do, so I might as well push hard while I can. Nicolò, the world is full of tart little surprises. Here I am, seventy-four years of age, racing up a mountain, putting you to shame because you are a boy of seventeen and you're
breathing like a nonagenarian. Don't worry. In a few hours you'll probably have to carry me, but, for now, indulge me, sweat a little, follow along in the race."
"What if you keep on like this all the way past Sant' Angelo?" Nicolò asked desperately.
"Then you'll have lots of time to spend with your sister, and they'll bury me in Monte Prato. Better to be buried there than in one of those marble filing cabinets in Rome."
"Aren't you afraid to die?"
"No."
"I am."
"You're not tired."
"I'm not brave, either."
"It has nothing to do with bravery. Bravery is for other things."
"Yes, but you miss people."
"I know that."
"So there's nothing you can do about it, is there."
"You keep them alive."
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Come on!"
"You keep them alive not by skill, not by art, not by memory, but by love. When you understand that, you won't be afraid to die. But that doesn't mean you'll go to your death like a clown. Death, Nicolò, is emotional."
"So is life."
"One hopes."
"Look, Signore, you'd better not die on the road, especially if I'm not there to tell, and you'd better not die especially if I am there, you know what I mean?"
"My granddaughter will know to move me next to my wife. And she and I have a bond strong enough that it hardly matters where we are put, for we have never really parted."
"Oh," Nicolò said, unable to say more, because he was too busy breathing.
"Its true. Anyway, death awakens lawyers. They'll get busy when I go. I've left precise, typewritten instructions. I even say what to do with my suits, my papers, and the little things I have in my desk.
"Almost everything is to be burned. You live on not by virtue of the things you have amassed, or the work you have done, but through your spirit, in ways and by means that you can neither control nor foresee. All my possessions and all my papers will be burned in the pine grove behind my house.
"There I have a metal cage to prevent the flight of cinders large enough to set other things on fire. It's against the municipal code to burn refuse in the center of Rome, but I've taken care of that. I have an envelope addressed to the local inspector and one for his supervisor. I have written a carefully composed ode, in perfect
terza rima,
begging a single indulgence. When I realized that they might not care for my poetry, I thought to enclose twenty-five thousand lire for the inspector, and forty thousand for the supervisor."
"Ten thousand would have done it. Why so much?"
"Because inflation is not unknown in this country, and I may live longer than I expect. Though why I would want to is a mystery. I'm so cautious and conscientious that I feel entirely free to die. If I die on this road, just keep walking. They'll find me. Everything will be taken care of properly."
"You think you're going to die?" Nicolò blurted out between breaths. "I think
I'm
going to die."
"Don't worry," Alessandro said, infuriating him. "I'm still
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