Read Online Lost Words by Nicola Gardini - Free Book Online

small acts of kindness, hoping to learn a little bit about her life and get a peek inside her apartment. But she proved immune to their flattery, not to suggest that she was ever discourteous. To keep them at arm’s length, all she had to say, in English, was “No, thank you.” Not even the seamstress succeeded in gaining entry, though she was convinced she had won her over with an offering of her famous bread pudding. Miss Lynd uttered her kind refusal through an opening in the door. To the
no, thank you
’s by which she became known, the Maestra enjoyed adding a bizarre allusion, a literary quotation, in English or Latin. So in a very short time, one week at the most, she had been demoted from the rank of duchess to that of oddball, and indeed a genuine crackpot, who had something bizarre to say every time she opened her mouth.
    â€œFor me she’s the type that likes to have a sip . . .” Terzoli speculated.
    *.
    At my mother’s demand I offered to help Miss Lynd unpack the last of her boxes. For once, she accepted without protest.
    â€œ
Thank you, my boy
,” she said, “
thank you, indeed!
Otherwise,
chi sa
, who knows, how long they would have sat here unopened!”
    Novels, poetry collections, dictionaries in different languages, colored-glass vases, ancient statuettes, and black-and-white photographs passed through my hands . . . How could I not compare that refined private museum—which condensed a lifetime of travels and encounters—to the knick-knacks that occupied the shelf of my foldaway bed, the horrendous souvenirs that the signore brought back to us from their annual vacations? The Tirolese baby-doll, the old man with the pipe, the gondola music box, the little chest covered with seashells, the Sicilian wagon, the Sardinian nuraghe, the plastic Alpine star: an Italian menagerie that shook every time I got into bed.
    The Maestra described to me the provenance of a small Lalique vase, the life of Flaubert or Cicero, the travels of Herodotus,
Bouvard et Pécuchet
,
Middlemarch
,
Anna Karenina
. . . How the hours flew by! Never before had I spent such beautiful, wondrous afternoons . . .
    Of the various photographs in her possession, I was most taken by the portrait of a very serious bearded man. I asked if he was her husband. “Oh, no,” she laughed, “that’s Sigmund Freud!” She explained that Dr. Freud was the father of psychoanalysis, and that he had been her neighbor in London many years earlier. They used to have tea together and converse about any number of subjects, although he was gravely ill and had to struggle to form words.
    â€œHe disliked his own face. That’s why you never saw him smile. But he had such an
interesting
face, don’t you agree?”
    Before going back downstairs, I was rewarded with a nice bowl of custard. She didn’t even try a spoonful. It was an exquisite custard, saffron yellow, into which she’d crumbled a cinnamon stick with her bony fingers. I adored it. I adored
her
. Her every gesture, even the way she beat the milk and eggs and stirred the wooden spoon in the dented old pan, had something incomparable that transcended the act itself and elevated her above anyone I’d ever known. There was no one like her on any of the maps where I had lived my life till that day.
    By the end of the week the Maestra’s one-bedroom apartment was ready, but that didn’t end my visits upstairs to see her. She wanted to have me there regularly for afternoon tea, she said. When I arrived, the kettle would already be on the stove, the smell of cookies filling the air. Sometimes I might even find the delicious custard again, steaming in the blue and white bowl from India.
    At home I talked about her all the time, like someone in love: the Maestra knew everything, had read everything, had original opinions about everything . . . “
Lies!
” is how she would rail