Free The Young Bride by Alessandro Baricco, Ann Goldstein Page B

Comandini
had no idea about
something struck him without warning, since to that basically modest but marvelously pragmatic man he owed the conviction that every question had an answer, maybe inexact, but real, and sufficient to scatter any possibility of dangerous bewilderment. So he looked up at Comandini, astonished. He saw in his face an unfamiliar expression, and then he heard a creaking in his delicate heart, he smelled a sweetish odor that he recognized, and knew absolutely that at that moment he had begun to die.
    Find him, he said.
    I’m trying, sir. Besides, it’s also possible that we’ll see him arrive safe and sound at the door, one of these days, maybe married to an Englishwoman with milky skin and splendid legs, you know, the creator has given them incredible legs, since he couldn’t dream up for them anything decent in the way of tits.
    The usual Comandini had returned. The Father was grateful.
    Do me a favor, never use that word again, he said.
    Tits?
    No. “Disappear.” I don’t like it. It doesn’t exist.
    I happen to use it often in regard to my savings.
    Yes, I understand, but applied to humans it disorients me, humans don’t disappear, at worst they die.
    That’s not the case with your son, I’m sure.
    Good.
    I feel I can promise you, said Comandini, with a slight hesitation.
    The Father smiled at him, with infinite gratitude. Then he was seized by an inexplicable curiosity.
    Comandini, do you understand why you always lose at poker? he asked.
    I have some hypotheses.
    Such as?
    The most heartbreaking was suggested by a Turk I saw lose an island in Marrakesh.
    An island?
    A Greek island, I think, it had been in his family for centuries.
    You’re telling me you can bet an
island
at the poker table?
    It was blackjack, in that case. Anyway, yes. You can even bet an island, if you have the necessary courage and the necessary poetry. He did. We returned to the hotel together. It was almost morning, I had also lost quite a bit, but you wouldn’t have said so—we were walking like princes, and without even saying it to each other we felt very handsome, and eternal.
The extraordinary elegance of a man who has lost
, said the Turk.
    The Father smiled.
    So you lose as a matter of elegance? he asked.
    I told you, it’s only one hypothesis.
    There are others?
    Many. You want the most reliable?
    I’d like that.
    I lose because I play badly.
    This time the Father laughed.
    Then he decided that he would die slowly, carefully, and not in vain.
    Â 
    At seven on the dot the Mother was waiting for her, doing what she usually did at that hour, that is to say refining her own splendor: she confronted the night only in absolute
beauté
—she would never allow death to surprise her in a state that might disappoint whoever happened to discover her ready for the worms.
    So the young Bride found her sitting at the mirror, and saw her as she never had before, wearing only a light tunic, her hair loose over her shoulders, falling to her hips. A very young girl, almost a child, was brushing it: the strokes all descended at exactly the same speed, each time burnishing a gilded brown highlight.
    The Mother turned slightly, just enough to bestow a look.
    Ah, she said, so it’s today, I had a suspicion that today was yesterday, it happens to me quite often, not to mention those times when I’m sure it’s tomorrow. Sit down, sweetheart, you wanted to talk to me? Ah, her, the child, her name is Dolores, I want to underline the fact that she’s been a deaf-mute since birth, the sisters of Good Counsel dug her up for me, God rest their souls, now you’ll understand why I have a devotion to them that at times must seem excessive.
    She must have had a suspicion that her reasoning might not be completely comprehensible. She conceded a rapid explanation.
    Well, never have your hair combed by someone who has the power of speech, that’s obvious. Why