remaining always far enough behind so that she would not see him, until finally she made a turning, and he lost her.
It was a loss he could not accept.
Of course he was amazed, even horrified. How had this happened? He was haunted by what he had done, and made endless conjectures about it. Certainly there was a rational explanation. He had seen her before, in the street, perhaps, or glimpsed her profile in passing, in a window somewhere; noticed her, without noticing, at the park or the promenade; and her image stayed with him; or else it was just chance. But also it was strange, and with this Emilio was not comfortable; and I think he even believed, at the back of his mind, that he had created her, conjured her himself, coral made flesh, though this, of course, was impossible. And then it tormented him in another way, too, because he had already fallen more than a little in love with his coralline, his creation.
From this it was a very short step to thinking he must see her again, if only to prove to himself that he was mistaken. So he began to look for her, to search, in the squares, in the avenues, on the boulevards, in the gardens and the coffee shops . . . and when he found her again—as he was bound to do—again he followed her—each time he came upon her, in the shops, in the boulevards, he followed, for as long as he could keep her in sight. One day she noticed, and ran from him. She was his Daphne, and so he carved her, with coral branches for her hair, the arms and legs transformed, the beautiful Daphne turning, as she fled, into a tree all made from coral.
It was then that Emilio decided to leave Ascoli Piceno. He knew enough for this, that he could not stay. He was like a man who stands on shore and sees the wave coming, large and black, filled with terrible things, which will dash before it all that he holds dear. Gentilessa was still ignorant, busy with the baby, Anna, but for how long? And so he packed up before anybody could say anything, and took your Mama and the baby here, to this ugly place of two rocks by the sea . . . He gave up his goldsmithing; and in his perpetual mourning for she whom he has lost, now carves in honor of her memory these gruesome memento mori; and other things, too, perhaps, that you do not know of—
• • •
The cousin has more, family stories, the Dell’oro ancestor who carved jewels engraved with enigmatic runes and symbols, the remains of ancient languages only the jeweler understood, which were believed to foretell the fortune of the wearer; another who made a woman entirely of gold, so lifelike that she was believed to speak, saying
Help me—
in a voice peculiarly low, throaty, more like the painful gyration of an unoiled hinge on a rusty gate; another who created automata, beasts of the field, so realistic they could not be told from the real thing, until the slaughterer’s knife revealed what was inside, the perfect coiled springs, the gears, the ingenious, jeweled mechanism; this was not life but something else, as Giorgio might have put it, a very particular kind of life.
There was obsession in it. A tendency to obsession.
La tendenza
. These things are rumors. Distortions. Monstrosities. It is these that my father thinks about there in his berth, down in the sloshing belly. And of course: of Clotilde at the taffrail. Clotilde at the spinet. Clotilde bending over to button her boot.
But I’m not like them.
Amended. Him.
I’m not like him. I hate him—and I’ll never go back—
And then they pass, manwomanboyandspinet, into the heat of the subtropics. It is as if my father’s anger at his father, once allowed expression, has dispersed, forming now a climate through which they will all be obliged to sail.
Now begins their true journey, to which all else has been the prelude.
Many things, previously hidden, will now be revealed: my mother’s heat-bared shoulder; the wan, unshaven cheek and wild, staring eye of mal de mer–tormented
It was a loss he could not accept.
Of course he was amazed, even horrified. How had this happened? He was haunted by what he had done, and made endless conjectures about it. Certainly there was a rational explanation. He had seen her before, in the street, perhaps, or glimpsed her profile in passing, in a window somewhere; noticed her, without noticing, at the park or the promenade; and her image stayed with him; or else it was just chance. But also it was strange, and with this Emilio was not comfortable; and I think he even believed, at the back of his mind, that he had created her, conjured her himself, coral made flesh, though this, of course, was impossible. And then it tormented him in another way, too, because he had already fallen more than a little in love with his coralline, his creation.
From this it was a very short step to thinking he must see her again, if only to prove to himself that he was mistaken. So he began to look for her, to search, in the squares, in the avenues, on the boulevards, in the gardens and the coffee shops . . . and when he found her again—as he was bound to do—again he followed her—each time he came upon her, in the shops, in the boulevards, he followed, for as long as he could keep her in sight. One day she noticed, and ran from him. She was his Daphne, and so he carved her, with coral branches for her hair, the arms and legs transformed, the beautiful Daphne turning, as she fled, into a tree all made from coral.
It was then that Emilio decided to leave Ascoli Piceno. He knew enough for this, that he could not stay. He was like a man who stands on shore and sees the wave coming, large and black, filled with terrible things, which will dash before it all that he holds dear. Gentilessa was still ignorant, busy with the baby, Anna, but for how long? And so he packed up before anybody could say anything, and took your Mama and the baby here, to this ugly place of two rocks by the sea . . . He gave up his goldsmithing; and in his perpetual mourning for she whom he has lost, now carves in honor of her memory these gruesome memento mori; and other things, too, perhaps, that you do not know of—
• • •
The cousin has more, family stories, the Dell’oro ancestor who carved jewels engraved with enigmatic runes and symbols, the remains of ancient languages only the jeweler understood, which were believed to foretell the fortune of the wearer; another who made a woman entirely of gold, so lifelike that she was believed to speak, saying
Help me—
in a voice peculiarly low, throaty, more like the painful gyration of an unoiled hinge on a rusty gate; another who created automata, beasts of the field, so realistic they could not be told from the real thing, until the slaughterer’s knife revealed what was inside, the perfect coiled springs, the gears, the ingenious, jeweled mechanism; this was not life but something else, as Giorgio might have put it, a very particular kind of life.
There was obsession in it. A tendency to obsession.
La tendenza
. These things are rumors. Distortions. Monstrosities. It is these that my father thinks about there in his berth, down in the sloshing belly. And of course: of Clotilde at the taffrail. Clotilde at the spinet. Clotilde bending over to button her boot.
But I’m not like them.
Amended. Him.
I’m not like him. I hate him—and I’ll never go back—
And then they pass, manwomanboyandspinet, into the heat of the subtropics. It is as if my father’s anger at his father, once allowed expression, has dispersed, forming now a climate through which they will all be obliged to sail.
Now begins their true journey, to which all else has been the prelude.
Many things, previously hidden, will now be revealed: my mother’s heat-bared shoulder; the wan, unshaven cheek and wild, staring eye of mal de mer–tormented
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