Read Online The Young Bride by Alessandro Baricco, Ann Goldstein - Free Book Online
Authors: Alessandro Baricco, Ann Goldstein
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other direction it wouldnât be easy to make him understand what she wanted from him.
Forgive me, but I donât think I have the necessary boldness to be useful to you, he had defended himself, keeping his eyes away from the neckline.
Donât talk nonsense, youâre a tailor, right?
I generally devote myself to male fashion.
Badly. Your business must feel the effects.
In fact.
Devote yourself to women, it will undoubtedly bring you advantages.
You think so?
I have no doubt.
I believe you.
Then look at me, good Lord.
Baretti looked at her.
You see here?
Here
was where the fabric followed the curve of her breast, conceding something to the gaze and suggesting much to the imagination. Baretti was a tailor, so nudity was not indispensable to himâhe knew how to read bodies under the cloth, whether they were the bony shoulders of an old notary or the silky muscles of a young priest. So, when he turned to examine the problem, he knew instantly how the Motherâs breasts curved, how the nipples turned them slightly outward while drawing them upward, and that the skin was white, spotted with freckles that were just visible in the uncovered area but that certainly descended to where it was impossible for most men to see them. He felt in the palms of his hands what the lovers of that woman had felt, and he sensed that they had known perfection, and certainly despair. He imagined them squeezing, in the blindness of passion, and caressing, when all was lost: but he couldnât find in the entire natural kingdom a fruit that even distantly recalled the mixture of fullness and warmth that they must have found at the conclusion of those acts. So he uttered a sentence that he would never have believed himself capable saying.
Why so high-necked?
I beg your pardon?
Why do you wear a dress with such a high neckâitâs a sin. An unforgivable sin.
You really want to know?
Yes, said Baretti, against every conviction he had.
Iâm tired of incidents.
Incidents of what sort?
Incidents. If you want Iâll give you some examples.
I would like that. If it wonât bother you, in the meantime Iâll try to operate on these darts, which seem to me completely out of place.
Thus Barettiâs
Index
had its origin, first composed of the examples that the Mother generously provided, and later supplemented by extremely copious testimonies, gathered over the years and arranged in a single liturgical narrative that some called a
Saga
, others a
Catalogue
, and Baretti, with a pinch of megalomania, an
Epic Poem
. The subject consisted of the curious effects produced over the years by having touched, glimpsed, grazed, intuited, or kissed the Motherâs bosom, in those who had embarked, incautiously, on one of the aforementioned five operations: what the Mother called, in a rare display of synthesis, âincidents.â Barettiâs skill lay in memorizing everything, without hesitations; his genius in reducing the multifaceted and infinite case histories in question to a formulaic scheme of undoubted effectiveness and a certain poetic value.
The first section was fixed:
It should not be forgotten that
Between âshould notâ and âbeâ there often appeared, for musical reasons, an adverb.
It should not, however, be forgotten that
It should not, moreover, be forgotten that
It should not, of course, be forgotten that
There followed a brief situating in time or space
the eve of Easter
at the entrance to the Officersâ Club
which introduced the mention of the protagonist, most of the time shielded by a minimally generic expression
a noncommissioned officer in the engineer corps
a foreigner who arrived on the 6:42
but sometimes cited by name
the notary Gaslini
Following this came the statement of the facts, which Baretti insisted be rigorously checked
He danced the fourth waltz of the evening with the Mother, twice squeezing her hard enough to feel her breast
Forgive me, but I donât think I have the necessary boldness to be useful to you, he had defended himself, keeping his eyes away from the neckline.
Donât talk nonsense, youâre a tailor, right?
I generally devote myself to male fashion.
Badly. Your business must feel the effects.
In fact.
Devote yourself to women, it will undoubtedly bring you advantages.
You think so?
I have no doubt.
I believe you.
Then look at me, good Lord.
Baretti looked at her.
You see here?
Here
was where the fabric followed the curve of her breast, conceding something to the gaze and suggesting much to the imagination. Baretti was a tailor, so nudity was not indispensable to himâhe knew how to read bodies under the cloth, whether they were the bony shoulders of an old notary or the silky muscles of a young priest. So, when he turned to examine the problem, he knew instantly how the Motherâs breasts curved, how the nipples turned them slightly outward while drawing them upward, and that the skin was white, spotted with freckles that were just visible in the uncovered area but that certainly descended to where it was impossible for most men to see them. He felt in the palms of his hands what the lovers of that woman had felt, and he sensed that they had known perfection, and certainly despair. He imagined them squeezing, in the blindness of passion, and caressing, when all was lost: but he couldnât find in the entire natural kingdom a fruit that even distantly recalled the mixture of fullness and warmth that they must have found at the conclusion of those acts. So he uttered a sentence that he would never have believed himself capable saying.
Why so high-necked?
I beg your pardon?
Why do you wear a dress with such a high neckâitâs a sin. An unforgivable sin.
You really want to know?
Yes, said Baretti, against every conviction he had.
Iâm tired of incidents.
Incidents of what sort?
Incidents. If you want Iâll give you some examples.
I would like that. If it wonât bother you, in the meantime Iâll try to operate on these darts, which seem to me completely out of place.
Thus Barettiâs
Index
had its origin, first composed of the examples that the Mother generously provided, and later supplemented by extremely copious testimonies, gathered over the years and arranged in a single liturgical narrative that some called a
Saga
, others a
Catalogue
, and Baretti, with a pinch of megalomania, an
Epic Poem
. The subject consisted of the curious effects produced over the years by having touched, glimpsed, grazed, intuited, or kissed the Motherâs bosom, in those who had embarked, incautiously, on one of the aforementioned five operations: what the Mother called, in a rare display of synthesis, âincidents.â Barettiâs skill lay in memorizing everything, without hesitations; his genius in reducing the multifaceted and infinite case histories in question to a formulaic scheme of undoubted effectiveness and a certain poetic value.
The first section was fixed:
It should not be forgotten that
Between âshould notâ and âbeâ there often appeared, for musical reasons, an adverb.
It should not, however, be forgotten that
It should not, moreover, be forgotten that
It should not, of course, be forgotten that
There followed a brief situating in time or space
the eve of Easter
at the entrance to the Officersâ Club
which introduced the mention of the protagonist, most of the time shielded by a minimally generic expression
a noncommissioned officer in the engineer corps
a foreigner who arrived on the 6:42
but sometimes cited by name
the notary Gaslini
Following this came the statement of the facts, which Baretti insisted be rigorously checked
He danced the fourth waltz of the evening with the Mother, twice squeezing her hard enough to feel her breast
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