Robert Wallace Paolinelli
705 VAllejo St. NO.6
San Francisco, Ca 94133
415-986-8026
"Youth is a blossom whose fruit is love;
happy is he who plucks it after watching
it slowly ripen."
--Pindar
A Room Full of Memories
By
Robert Wallace Paolinelli
If Adriana had
not died, this room would be filled with her very presence and the things she
loved. But she died.
I look around
the room and what do I see? Cousin Silvia's harpsichord, given to me by sweet
Silvia before she went off to be a Carmelite nun. She gave away everything she
owned except the clothes she wore the day she left for the convent to take the
veil and vow of silence. She gave me the harpsichord because I loved to sit and
hear her play it. I cannot play it; though I know by heart the repertoire
played thereon by Silvia, whom I shall never see again, whom I've not seen
in--how long? Too many years have passed for me to remember. She must be gray
and bent by now--and how beautiful she was in her youth. Grandmother used to
call her "Angel face."
We loved each
other so much, Silvia and I. In our youth we even discussed marriage. How
foolish we were. Yet we loved one another as only youth can love. But as we
grew older and "more sensible" as grandmamma used to say, we cooled
our ardency--it was for the best, though. We went our own ways. She had a
tragic romance with Gaetano and after his accident, wherein he lost both legs
and one eye--and she barely escaped death herself--she sought refuge in the
church, and after ten years of paternosters and living an austere life to rival
that of St. Teresa de Avila, she made her decision to take up holy orders. But
it was through her that I met Adriana; and that meeting, of course, changed
everything for me, drew me away from my family, my work and made me follow her
all over the world, while she roamed about with her cameras and bags of
photographic equipment.
The harpsichord
was made in France, in the year 1750, in Tours, by an unknown craftsman who
inscribed only his initials on the inside: C De V., 1750, Tours. How it got to
Kansas City, where father bought it, we never knew. When Silvia was six, and
had come with Aunt Fioretta to spend the summer with us in the wilds of New
Mexico, where father at last "put down roots," as he said, she fell
in love with Monsieur De V.'s superlative instrument, and every morning she
would go to it after breakfast and play it. That is how we discovered we had a
child prodigy in the family. She astounded everyone with her heretofore unknown
talent. Father, being the kind of man he was, at his own expense, engaged a
teacher, much to the proud delight of portly Aunt Fioretta, who was convinced
Silvia Maria would grow up to be another Wanda Landowska--alas, that never
happend, although Silvia did have a musical debut at age fifteen in Chicago.
But Silvia, my sweet Silvia, talented that she was, did not wish to pursue a
musical career, much to the chagrin of her unhappy mother, my father's sister.
During one of
our numerous long walks which we used to take during her many summer-long
visits (the rest of the year we carried on a lengthy correspondence) she
confessed to me that although she loved playing the harpsichord--especially for
me--she added, she felt her true calling was in literature, and she was
convinced (in her own genius) beyond doubt, she would become a famous novelist.
A year later, when she was seventeen, she told me she'd changed her mind about
becoming a novelist and, instead, would study medicine, heal the sick, deliver
healthy babies and find a cure for a half dozen incurable maladies. That was
the summer that we declared our love for one another. Until that season, long
ago, we had never said anything, never touched each other except in cousinly
embraces and kisses on the cheek as is common in Italian families. But, oh,
that summer, while hiking in the mountains, unable to contain myself, I blurted
out, "Silvia, I love you and I want to marry you." She looked at me
with widely opened eyes from which tears suddenly began to form, and she threw
her arms around me and declared, "Corrado, I've loved you since I was a
little girl," whereupon, we kissed and kissed until we ran out of breath.
I became terribly aroused, and so did she, but being both innocent of sex and
very ignorant, we didn't do anything (that day) except embrace, kiss and hold
hands. A week or so later, again in the mountains, we swam naked in a cold
stream. And afterwards, we lay close to one another; but did not consummate
that ardency because we knew nothing about birth control, but knew enough about
life to know that making love caused pregnancy and she didn't want a baby until
after her medical studies were over. That whole summer we were lovers, of a
sort--but still virgins, the both of us, although I will admit we did other
things which might not have qualified us as such. Be that as it may, the summer
ended, she and Aunt Fioretta readied for their return. Grandmother, mother's
mother, who had come to live with us the year before, being an astute observer,
called us, Silvia and I, to her a few days before Silvia left for Chicago,
saying she wanted us to walk with her, not anything unusual. So the three of us
went for a walk, and, when we were out of sight and sound of the house, she
stopped for a rest and, being a very blunt woman when she felt she needed to
be, told us that she had observed us all summer closely and--she did not mince
words--asked us if we were in love and had we done anything?
Silvia burst
into tears and I turned my head away in shame. Grandmother, usually a gentle
woman, grabbed me by the shoulder, spun me around and slapped me hard on the
cheek. "Have you dishonored your cousin?" she asked in a voice which
made me tremble Then turning to Silvia, whom she also slapped, she said,
"Did you dishonor yourself with your rascal cousin?" We were in a
state of shock both from her slaps and her words, and we were weeping so much
in shame that it was at lest a full five minutes before either of us was able
to speak, and it was Silvia who spoke first. "I love Corrado, and he loves
me--and we want to marry someday--but Grandmother, I am still a virgin--and so
is he--we have not dishonored the family." Technically, Silvia was correct
(of course we both knew otherwise).
Seeing how
upset our grandmother was, whose comportment was always serene, or close to it,
I fell on my knees and admitted to kissing and touching Silvia in an intimate
way. I felt that if I did not at least admit to some transgression, she would
pull it out of me. Silvia rushed to my side and fell on her knees and put her
arms around me. "We love each other. Is it wrong to love,
Grandmamma?" Her voice was so passionate, so humbly honest that
Grandmother's entire demeanor changed: One minute she had been the outraged
matriarch, the next she was the loving, almost saintly, doting grandmother whom
we both loved. "My children, my poor misguided young souls, this love you
have, alas, is wrong--it is forbidden by tradition since days of old. Yes, love
one another, for did not our Lord admonish us to do exactly that? But carnal
love between cousins is wrong, and you must promise me you shall cease at once
and never, ever kiss or touch one another again." Her voice was filled
with kindness and love. She was no longer (in our eyes) the angry matriarch;
and she began to cry and then all three of us were crying and hugging each
other in reconciliation and she apologized for having slapped us.
That was the
end of our ardent summer. We exchanged letters per usual, but we knew we would
never again be lovers.
As I look
about this room and see the things which occupy its space, I can't but marvel
at the number of things which clutter and gather dust on the shelves. Next to
Silvia's harpsichord is a bookshelf; among the books is an old atlas which
belonged to my late father. Not long ago, after having read an ancient history
text, I wanted to see where Sogdiana was, that place where once a Roman Legion
faced a Chinese army around 36 B.C. or so.
I found
Sogdiana, satisfying my curiosity and was about to close the atlas when I
decided to see if a certain small town in Spain, near Salamanca, was on the
map, for it was there that Adriana and I met.
Having been
graduated in architecture with no distinction from a most prestigious
university, my father, a lover of travel, decided that after four years of
academic incloister, I, too, should travel, and see something of the world and
how others lived. He, therefore, subsidized me and sent me on my way.
Silvia and I,
now much "older," and having lost our ardor--but not our genuine and
deep affection for each others--nevertheless, still kept up our correspondence.
She was in Italy, about to start her study of medicine in Bologna. I wrote to
her saying I was off to Spain and that I would go to Italy and visit her. I
received her reply while I was in New York waiting for my ship to arrive
(father insisted I go to Spain by sea) and was staying with my mother's relatives
in White Plains.
What a thrill
it was to read her news. She was a fine correspondent, her letters being filled
with historical anecdotes, glimpses of street scenes, her philosophical
confusions and her vivid descriptions of the people she'd met. In this
particular letter she told me about la friend named Adriana Visconti, who would
(also) be going to Spain that very summer, and that the two of us should meet,
perhaps in Madrid. I will always remember what she wrote about Adriana:
"She is as beautiful as one of Botticelli's graces in his La Primavera, as
sharp-tongued as an inquisitor when she needs to be, as compassionate as a
Buddha and as fiery as a Gypsy dancer bent on seducing a pious Calvinist."
Well, I was intrigued and wrote back immediately, saying I would be docking in
Valencia, and would make my way to Madrid, arriving the 3rd of July, where I
would be staying at such and such a hotel and that signorina Visconti could
contact me there.
The sea voyage
was exhilarating. Having been raised in New Mexico among mountains and mesas,
the sea was a thrill. The weather held and the voyage smooth. I never got
seasick and had a hardy appetite. I read, wrote in my journal, made friends
with the other passengers and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I made friends with a
Spanish gentleman who marvelled at my appetite. He was the owner of a large and
exclusive restaurant in Barcelona, and he invited me to visit him and his
family if ever I went to Barcelona. (I did go to Barcelona with Adriana and
looked up senor rovira--but that's
another memory).
I stayed just
a few hours in Valencia, then took the night train to Madrid. I'd not slept the
entire time from Valencia; and when I arrived in Madrid, I was, however, fresh,
alert and eager for the sights. I checked into my hotel and immediately asked
if there were any messages for me. There were no messages. After a bath and a
change of clothes and with a cafe con leche, bread and sausages under my belt,
I left the hotel to explore the capital of Spain. I bought a guide book and
went walking. By the late afternoon my fatigue caught up with me; moreover, the
heat was intense and I'd failed to buy a hat and had a miserable headache. I
took a taxi back to the hotel. As I was paying off the driver, a young woman
was just leaving the hotel, She approached the cab, asked the driver something
in Spanish and got in. I when I went to the front desk for my key, the clerk
told me I had just had a visitor who had left me a letter. I knew
intuitively--instantly-- that the woman who had got into the taxi from which
I'd just alighted had to be Adriana Visconti! I ran out the door; but the taxi
had already gone. The run to the door set my head to throbbing and I felt
dizzy. I went back into the cool hotel, asked for my key, my letter and for
some aspirin. When I got to my room, I took the aspirin, washed my face and
head with cool water, then lay on the bed, opened the envelope and read
Adriana's first letter to me.
"Caro
cugino della Silvia," Dear Silvia's Cousin, was her rather unusual salutation
in Italian, then continued in English, "I'm sorry I missed you and so
sorry I will not be able to meet you here in Madrid. Silvia has told me so much
about you--and I do want to meet you. Unfortunately, I must go to Salamanca
today on business. I shall be there for three days. If you would like to meet
me there it would be my pleasure. You will find me at Avenida de los Cipreses,
32. Until then,
Adriana
Visconti"
I reread her
letter and decided I would go to Salamanca and find this exotic friend of
Silvia's; but the gods would not allow it. Apparently the sun had been just a
bit much for me, and when I awoke the next day I had a slight fever, no
appetite and all I wanted to do was sleep, which I did that entire day and the
next. On the third day, feeling better, but not well enough to travel, I
dressed and went to the front desk and had a telegram sent to Adriana: "Am
ill Stop Unable to go Salamanca Stop What now? Corrado." That very evening
I received a reply: "Sorry you are ill Stop Am off to the countryside Stop
Will be in Aldealengua one week Stop Meet me there if possible Stop
Adriana."
Her telegram
made me feel better and that night I even slept better and, upon waking the
next day, Felt fit and ready to continue my travels. When I asked the clerk at
the desk how I might get to Aldealengua, he didn't know where it was and had to
look on a map and said it wasn't far from Salamanca and that I should have no
trouble getting to it or finding my friend because it was a small town. I went,
therefore, to Salamanca, spent the night in a modest posada and the next day
made inquiries about Aldealengua and discovered it wasn't far. Seeing that I
was on an adventure, I decided to walk there. I bought a pair of boots and a
rucksack, then set out for a walk which I expected to cover in a long day of
walking--which turned out not to be so.
I made good
time; but by midafternoon the new boots had blistered my feet and my ankles
were swollen and walking was painful. The Rio Tormes ran along the old country
road I was following, so I removed my boots and socks, soaked my feet and felt
immense relief. But when I went to put my boots back on, I could not, for the
blisters were painful and my feet swollen. My youthful exuberance had led me to
this impasse and my enthusiasm was starting to wane. But being made of sterner
stuff, I simply resolved to continue shank's mare barefooted. I lasted about a
mile. The road was simply too rough for my feet. Then came my salvation. I was
sitting, my head down, looking at my feet trying to decide what to do next,
when I heard a sound. I looked up and to my great surprise I saw a cart being
pulled by a giant ox, and walking alongside the beast was an old man. As he
approached, I hailed him, and after a few amenities, I explained my situation.
He took pity on me, and nodded his head in understanding. I further asked him
if he were going to Aldealengua and to my joy he said he was. Inviting me to
get into the cart, he took my rucksack, and once in the cart handed it to me, and we were off.
The ox was
slow; but at least I didn't have to walk and we did not get to Aldealengua
until noon of the next day, having spent the night near a wayside shrine. At
sundown, the old man built a fire and from a sack took a piece of jamon, bread,
cheese and wine. He fed me, for foolish youth that I was, in my arrogance of
thinking I could walk the distance over a rough road in one day, I brought only
a canteen of water. He asked me why I was going to Aldealengua, for there were
no tourist sites there. I explained about Adriana. He told me he seemed to
recollect an estranjera staying on the outskirts of the village and that he
would take me to the house, or close to it, where he thought she was staying. I
was delighted and that night slept peacefully.
Aldealengua
was a small village, just a few hundred people and not much else. When we
arrived, the streets seemed to be deserted; but being noon, I knew the people
were at home eating. At the outskirts, my good guide pointed to an
undistinguished house saying it was where "los estranjeros" were
staying. I thanked him profusely, gave him some pesetas for his troubles, and
on bare feet, my boots in one hand, my rucksack in the other, I went to the
house and knocked on the door.
A young man,
about my age (who turned out to be Gaetano) answered the door. He seemed very
somber until I introduced myself and said why I was calling. Then he broke out
into a smile and a torrent of Italian, calling out, "Adriana, Adriana, il
cugino della Silvia e' arrivato," Silvia's cousin has arrived. He bade me
come in most cordially and I entered into a cozy, but plain looking room with a
table set for two; on the stove were steaming pots of food. The only
distinctive piece of furniture in the room was a long, Victorian couch, in
front of which was a hand-wrought, heavy-legged coffee table on which were
books and magazines. I heard a voice in English call out, "Corrado, I'll
be there in a minute." The voice I heard was a silver bell, a sweet,
sonorous, slightly accented bell which rolled the rs of my name and endeared me
to that voice (as it turned out) forever; and I believe it was at that moment
that I fell in love with Adriana Visconti--even without having seen her--a love
which would span many years of bliss, mystery, misery, laughter and fun.
Gaetano, who
spoke with a northern Italian accent, introduced himself to me. He was
Adriana's stepbrother, a painter, who had rented the house in Aldealengua for
the summer so he could paint without distraction. He took my rucksack and boots
and, looking at my blistered feet, also took pity on my. "Please sit; you
shouldn't be standing." But I was too nervous to sit and stood in place
until the silver bell came out.
Standing
before me was Adriana. She stood about five foot three, long black hair, an
olive hued skin and deep, chestnut colored eyes. She had a classical Italian
face. She was beautiful in my eyes. Silvia had been right: she was as beautiful
as one of Botticelli's three graces. She wore a long, straight, burgundy colored
skirt, a plain white peasant's blouse with a deep decollete; her breasts
delicately pushed out the loose blouse. She walked, or rather glided across the
room. "At last. Welcome Corrado, welcome. I hope I didn't cause you any
inconvenience, and that your journey here was a pleasant one." The words
tumbled from her lips like clear crystal water from a mountain tarn. Oh, I was
so taken by her that for a moment I was lost for words and my usual glib tongue
was mute. "Gaetano, some wine for our guest, quickly." She extended
her hand and I offered mine in return and while we shook hands my voice
returned. "Adriana, I'm so pleased to meet you, at last." I held on
to her hand and looked directly into her magnificent eyes. She made no attempt
to disengage her hand or her eyes and stood cooly looking back at me with an
enigmatic smile on her face and it was only Gaetano's offering of the wine that
made me withdraw my hand. We sat on the couch, and it was then that Adriana
noticed I was barefooted and saw my blisters. "What on earth happened to
you?" she asked solicitously. I related my experience on the road and as I
spoke, tears welled up in her eyes and she excused herself for a moment,
returning with a small first-aid kit, a basin of warm water, a wash cloth and a
towel. Without even asking, she knelt down and washed my sore, dirty and
blistered feet tenderly, lovingly. There was something almost saintly about
this gracious act of ministering to my wounded, road-weary feet. With the towel
she carefully dried my feet, and from the first-aid kit she took a tube of some
soothing ointment which she applied to the broken blisters and red spots.
Taking one of the pillows from the couch and putting it on the coffee table,
she told me to put my feet thereon and stay like that until she said otherwise.
Her firm, physician-like orders I obeyed without discussion. I rather liked her
caring for me, which fulfilled another of sweet Silvia's descriptions of
Adriana: "...as compassionate as a Buddha."
"We shall
move the table closer to the couch and eat by Corrado," she said to
Gaetano after she had taken the basin, the towels and aid kit away. At the
stove she donned an apron and took a large capon from the oven, and busied
herself with other culinary things, while Gaetano moved the table and chairs
close to the couch while I sat sipping wine and feeling ever so much better and
relieved, for at last my journey was over and I was in good hands. Adriana put
a large, heavy white linen napkin across my lap, then put a tray on top of the
napkin. The food was brought to the table. I was served first. We ate soup, the
capon, a huge green salad; there was bread and, of course, wine, of which we
drank many glasses, and, by the time the meal was over, we were all a bit
tipsy, and by then, had become fast friends.
I liked
Gaetano. He was a spirited young man, and now, as I look back and see him then,
on that first day of what was to be the beginning of our long friendship, it is
hard for me (still) to reconcile what happend to him and how he wasted away,
finally dying by his own hand five or so years after the horrid accident which
not only robbed him of his limbs and one eye, but also his will to live, his
will to paint, although he did make a few pencil sketches those last few years,
but nothing as vibrant as the works he showed me the week I stayed with him and
Adriana and the works he created up until the time of the accident.
Outside, in
the back of the house, he had hung a large canvas awning to protect him from
the fierce Spanish sun, set up his easel and there he painted sublimely, every
day, from early morning, only stopping to eat and for a siesta, then back he
would go until sunset, when the light of day was no more and he would lay down
his brushes in wholesome exhaustion, then go for a long, solitary walk.
In this room
hang four paintings by Gaetano Visconti: one of Adriana in the costume of a
15th Century Spanish noblewoman which he did from memory that summer in
Aldealengua after Adriana and I had left; the second is a portrait of Silvia
I'd asked him to paint. She'd been reluctant to sit for him because she was so
busy reading for her final medical examinations, so he simply painted her
reading medical texts; but he did manage to capture her delicate features, and,
at the same time, her very serious intentions as a medical student. The third
is a land and seascape of Corfu, where the four of us went after Silvia's
successful completion of medical school. The fourth is a bizarre painting in
almost cubistic manner with dismembered limbs and heads and, frighteningly
enough, a single eye painted almost as an afterthought in the upper left hand
corner. I say an afterthought because I went to visit him in his studio on the
day he'd finished this bizarre work, and he'd announced to me its completion. I
scrutinized it carefully and upon that viewing, and remember no eye, so I know
he painted it in afterwards--and three weeks later he and Silvia, while driving
in their car across an unguarded railroad crossing, were struck by the train, and
it is only by the grace of God that they were not killed outright. Somehow he
had prophetically painted the loss of his legs and his eye. A collector offered
me quite a large sum of money for this painting, but I will never part with it
and have it written in my will that after I am dead the painting shall be
destroyed.
Adriana and I
left Gaetano and, promising to meet him in Bologna at then end of the summer,
we traveled to Valladolid, thence to Pamplona, where we stayed for only one day
because we were both anxious to visit Barcelona and Andorra, where Adriana had
friends.
We had never
discussed traveling together; as we waved to Gaetano on our way to Salamanca,
it was unspoken, but understood between us, that we would stay together. She
was just beginning her long and successful career as a photographer and every
where we went she had her camera ready and I was there to hand her a lense or a
filter, fresh roll of film or set up her tripod if need. I really didn't mind,
for by the time we left Pamplona, I was so head over heels in love with her
that I was determined to be at her side, in any capacity, for the rest of my
life.But my father's ill health changed that romantic, youthful fantasy.
Weary, but
exhilarated, awash in this fresh love--which was my first adult love--after my
escapade with cousin Silvia--we crossed over into Italy, via Nice and spent our
first night together in Genoa, Italy. Up until that time, whenever we'd checked
into a hotel or pension, we always took separate rooms; but in Genoa, when we
stood at the front desk of a three star hotel near the water, she simply asked
for a letto matrimoniale, double bed. I was pleasantly shocked at this
unexpected move on her part. The clerk, intuiting we were not married, raised
his eyebrows and was (I knew by the expression on his face) about to become
morally insolent, as Italian hotel clerks could be in those days toward
unmarried couples wishing the same room. But before he could open his mouth
Adriana looked him coldly in the eyes and said: "You will give us a room
as I have asked--and that's the end of it. Is that clear?" The force of
the tone of her voice and the cold, undaunted stare of her eyes upset the clerk
so much that he was left speechless and, as he handed over the key (to a lovely
room), his hand trembled. Adriana was one of the kindest women (along with my
mother, Silvia and my saintly grandmother) I'd ever known; but there was a part
of her which was biting, cruel, commanding; and when this part of her came to
the fore, I pitied anyone on the receiving end of her outspokenness.
That same
night, after we had eaten, strolled about and called Silvia in Bologna to let
her know we were in Italy, we returned to our room, and after refreshing baths,
we stood in our robes, in the dark with the balcony doors open to the vast port
of Genoa. We could see the ships in the harbor, and she spoke in a low, dreamy
voice about how she would travel the world over and become a famous
photographer. As we stood there, we held hands--almost timidly--for in spite of
her forwardness, there was always a shyness in her which always preceded our
love making, which always endeared her to me.
By that time I
was no longer a virgin, having had several experiences during my undergraduate
years. But nothing like that night, the first of many unforgettable nights,
that we lay in passionate love until almost dawn, and slept until the late
afternoon and without ever getting out of bed we made love again and again
until we were utterly exhausted sexually.
There is a
photograph of myself which Adriana took on our last day in Genoa. It sits on
top of the harpsichord inside a silver frame. Every time I look at it I smile,
for there are dark circles under my eyes and fatigue is written all over my
face; nonetheless, it was a well-earned, joyous fatigue which would be repeated
until a telegram recalled me back to New Mexico in October of that year, and I
had to leave behind my beloved Adriana, my sweet Silvia, who was madly in love
with Gaetano, whose summer in Spain proved to be a most prolific time, and with
the works he'd produced that season, a shrewd gallery owner introduced him to
the public, and his claim to a niche in the art world was made for him; and a
few years later, he was a most sought after painter. But his talent was true
and no one could deny his genius.
Father was
very ill. He had double pneumonia, compounded by a recurrence of some tropical
malady (which manifested itself every few years) he had contracted in his own
youth while working in New Guinea, which no medical doctor had ever been able
to identify, but it, nevertheless, affected his liver in a similar fashion as
does hepatitis. I kissed my beloved goodbye, and with tears in our eyes,
promised to write everyday--which we did not do--and further promised to
re-unite as soon as possible.
My mother,
along with our family doctor, expected my father to die and by all indications
there was no reason to doubt otherwise. But on my first visit with him at the
hospital in Santa Fe, weak and feverish that he was, he told me: "Don't
cry. I'm not going to die; only those who have no good reason to stay alive
die--and I have every reason to live." Weak-voiced that he was, I found so
much strength in his words that I wiped my eyes and had an instantaneous change
of attitude, for my father's words were so re-assuring that there was no doubt
in my mind about his recovery and subsequent discharge from the hospital--which
came to pass. By the end of November of that year, he was released from the
hospital and I drove him home, where he recuperated that whole winter, and I
took over his business, getting my first taste of the architect's life. I had
chosen architecture more out of love for my father, a fine architect, rather
than any innate talent of my own. I followed architecture because, frankly, it
was the only thing I had had any training in.
During his
recuperation. my father would sit at my side at the drawing table and dictate
his ideas; I acted solely as his draftsman; but because he was such a
generously magnanimous man, he insisted my name be on the plans as well. True,
I did have ideas of my own which he either approved or modified, but, in the
main, it was his words which I merely translated into lines and dimensions.
For the first
weeks of my return, while father was still in the hospital, I wrote to Adriana
(almost) everyday; and she answered my letters. But when father came home and I
started in earnest to run the business, I found little time (or inclination) to
write to her daily, and by and by my letters dwindled to once a week, then once
in a fortnight and so on. And it seemed that my passion, too, for Adriana, was
cooling, and I felt not a little guilty and wretched because of these
diminishing feelings. Silvia was the one who alerted me, telling me in one of
her long letters that, Adriana was positively humiliated one day and outraged
the next because my letters were not arriving. "You had better write to
her and do it soon, otherwise I am convinced in her present state of
disequilibrium, she will lose her spirit and do something drastic. You cannot
imagine how much she loves you and feels (almost) cheated and abandoned by your
infrequent and sporadic correspondence. Write quickly, lest you lose the
deepest love of your life--even deeper than mine."
Silvia's
letter left me feeling dishonorable and confused. I moped about for days. My
mother, taking cognizance of my behavior, came to my room late one night, a
rather unusual thing for her to do and, after a few minutes of small talk,
asked me why I had been so down at the mouth most of the week. I'd not said
anything about Adriana to my family. When I'd recounted my summer sojourn I
intentionally left out Adriana--except for our initial meeting. I was most
hesitant in saying I had fallen passionately in love with her and had had an
affair with her that summer and the weeks subsequent to my emergency return
home.
Being the kind
and sensitive woman she was, I could not hide the reason for my depression, so
I opened to mother, leaving out, of course, the intimate side of our romance;
but my mother, wise soul that she was, did not need to hear from my lips what I
had omitted. She frowned (at first) but the frown passed, for my mother was a
true romantic and could understand what I was going through. Nonetheless, she
looked at this with a woman's heart, and even though she loved me, she told me
that if indeed my sentiments had cooled, then the only thing I could do was
write to Adriana and tell her. "You can't let that girl go on thinking you
love her while the contrary obtains." Her matter-of-factness was jolting.
"Write to her tonight. Do not bring your integrity into disgrace. But if
in your heart you rediscover your love is sincere, then the only honorable
thing you can do is ask her to marry you. I understand a young heart; it is
easily excited and easily cooled; but somewhere in between these extremes,
there are true and deep sentiments--the ones which brought you two together in
the first place. God does not bring people together out of whimsy. Adriana is
in Italy, you in New Mexico--distance and time and space can make you think
your love has waned, but, at bottom, the initial love is still there."
With those sage words, she kissed me on the forehead, bade me good night and
left.
After mother
had gone, I was in a worse state than before. Her words had not only called
into question my integrity, but, also, made me question my original sentiments.
I went to my father's studio land sat at the drawing table, pen in hand, with a
large cup of coffee laced with brandy. I closed my eyes and had an internal
conversation with my conscience. After much internal dialogue and many sips of
my brandy-laced coffee, I came to the conclusion that yes! I loved Adriana
Visconti with all my heart and all my soul. That realization, I guess, was my
first genuine step toward maturity. I started my letter--which Adriana kept for
many years and gave it back to me shortly before her death.
"My
Beloved Adriana,
"I can
imagine the agony my cruel silence has caused you. Forgive me, forgive me--I
have been in turmoil. It is now 3:00 A.M. I am alone in my father's studio,
surrounded by quietude, my mind is clear, my heart open; and from this open
heart pours forth love for you, my darling, love as great as the mountains, as
gentle as a spring meadow filled with the songs of larks and golden sunshine.
"We met,
we fell in love, we gave of ourselves willingly, unselfishly. Then, because of
my father's ill health, I was torn from your arms. My abrupt departure and the
expected death of my father numbed me, shocked me and, in spite of my promise
to write you everyday, my letters became less and less frequent until, I'm
sure, you now feel that I have abandoned you. Not true.
"It is
with the deepest love a man can have for a woman that, I now ask you to marry
me and be my wife, and come to America and share your life with me as I will
share mine with you--so long as we draw breath.
"I await
your answer. Until then, know that my silence notwithstanding, the love which I
felt for you, that lucky day we first met, lives and grows in my heart.
"I love
you, I need you, I adore you, I love you forever!
Corrado"
After Adriana
died, I reread that letter of my youth and wept, for when I wrote it I meant
every word of it, and I truly believed she would accept my ardent proposal of
marriage and that we would marry and live out our days, much as my parents had,
creating a life (eventually) of domestic tranquility, filled with children and
the settled atmosphere of married life.
Having stayed
up all night and feeling purified (so to speak), I addressed the envelope,
sealed it and drove the twenty miles to the post office in Santa Fe and waited
anxiously for it to open.
Happily I
awaited her immediate reply. I went about my work a new man, renewed in love,
devotion and commitment. I daydreamed a lot about the two of us roaming the
mesas and the mountains. I daydreamed us through two joyful pregnancies
producing one boy and one girl.
By now it was
spring and my father, having regained his strength, re-assumed his position as
principal, but asked me to stay on as his bona fide apprentice, which,
convinced I would soon be married, I accepted and fell into the routine with
determination to do my best.
But no answer
came from Adriana and I began to fret. I wrote a brief, second letter and
waited; still no answer. Then I became concerned, so I wrote to Silvia,
explaining the contents of my first letter to Adriana, and so on, and asking
her to intercede on my behalf. It was while I awaited an answer from Silvia
that I received a reply from Adriana--a letter with a Turkish postmark. Adriana
was in Edirne, and she wrote:
"Beloved
Corrado,
"Your
letters were forwarded to me here in Edirne by Silvia. As I write this, I am
sitting on the banks of the Maritsa river watching it flow towards the Aegean
Sea, wishing that I could flow, as easily as does this river to you, adorato
mio.
"How your
letter thrilled me and made me weep knowing of your deep and precious love for
me--which I have never doubted (oh, in my own silly way I did--but, as you
know, I can be silly at times and for this I must in turn ask, also, for your
forgiveness. Forgive me my fickleness). In such a tender you have asked me to
be your wife and for us to share our lives, as you wrote, "...so long as
we draw breath." Can you imagine how deeply touched I was by that
sentence? Oh, my precious lover, how willingly I would fly to you and give you
all that a good wife could give to a husband; alas, I do not think I would make
a good wife, not even a mediocre one. I
will love you and you alone, until the end of time, but I cannot marry you. I
had a few chances to marry, but I turned them all down with no regrets. And
why, though we love one another so deeply, do I say no to your proposal? I say
no because I do not want, frankly, the responsibilities of a wife--and perhaps
those of a mother. I have chosen my career and very bluntly, I won't have
anything impinge on it. I will love you, I will honor you, I will never love
another man so long as I live, but I cannot, in good conscience marry you. If
you desire a wife and family and all that goes with them, then forget me,
expunge me from your heart, destroy my letters, rip up my photographs, for I do
not wish you to think I might someday change my mind. Excuse my adamancy--but I
must be true to myself and, above all, true to our love, which love I have
never felt for any man before.
"If you
can accept me as I am, then love me as I am.
"Now on
to other things. I am in Turkey on an assignment I could not pass up. When I am
finished here, I shall return to Bologna and there is the possibility of my
being sent to the Far East, perhaps Japan. This is the beginning for me--I have
been waiting a long time for a chance to demonstrate my photo-aesthetic skills.
"Please
understand my motives and my heart.
"When you
answer this, send your letter c/o Silvia. I have given up my apartment and will
be staying with her until my next assignment.
"You are
in my thoughts night and day--and I long for your touch in love, your
closeness...
"With all
my heart,
Adriana"
The depth of
honesty and the beauty of her letter notwithstanding, I was devastated. I could
barely handle the business, my sleep was disturbed, my daydream of marital
bliss fragmented into a hundred pieces, my fantasy children evaporated, my
life, I thought , was ruined.
During that
brief interval of deluded, prenuptial happiness I had been living, I had
announced to my family that I'd sent a letter of proposal to Adriana. My mother
was pleased; my father, amused, but my grandmother, always honest and blunt
took me aside and said, "Sometimes life can be cruel. Don't lose heart if
she says no."
When the blow
came, my mother, to whom I showed the letter, wept, saying she had never read
such honesty; my father, who never let anything disturb his equilibrium, simply
shrugged his shoulders and remarked, "Che sera', sera' and went back to
his designing a dormitory for a university; and grandmamma shook her head and
told me to find myself a local girl--if I was serious about marriage and forget
signorina Visconti.
Youth is never
philosophical or practical; youth is immediate and impetuous. If she would not
marry me, then I would go to wherever she was--wife or no. I, therefore, pulled
myself out of my doldrums and resolved to go to Adriana; but once again fate
would have me do otherwise: I was now twenty-two years old and had had an
exemption from military service because of my university studies and the
gravity of my father's illness; but now the army was calling me for two years
of active service--I tried to avoid it; but the handwriting was on the wall;
and it was with a great deal of reluctance that I left my dear parents and
grandmother--and my cancelled dream of returning to Adriana.
My military
service was uneventful--to say the least, but it did give me time to slow my
impulses down regarding my desire to follow Adriana, who had (by the time I had
finished basic training and was sent to Signal Corps school in New jersey) gone
to Japan, thence to Manila, Djakarta, Singapore, Bangkok, Mazar-al-Sharif and
Teheran on assignment for a prestigious Italian oriental art magazine, which
demanded only quality photographs of objets d'arte oriental. She sent me exotic
postcards, long letters, copies of photographs and presents. And I, assigned to
a signal company in Georgia, answered her long letters, which I wrote almost on
a daily basis--because I was so bored with military life and writing to my
beloved was my sole escape from boredom. Naturally, my sweet Silvia was in
constant communication with me, relating news of her medical studies and her
deepening love for Gaetano, whom, she lamented, spent more time in his studio
than he did with her.
The day of my
long-awaited discharge came, and I did not hesitate to leave Georgia as quickly
as I could. I flew directly to Washington, D.C, renewed my passport, then flew
to New Mexico for a brief re-union with my family. I had saved most of my army
pay, and, with additional funds from my father, who was always willing to give
me money for travel, I said goodbye to them and flew back across the United
States, across the Atlantic to my lover who awaited me in Bologna.
Re-united once
again, our lives were a supreme joy. our love was strong. We had been true to
each other and that was important. For all the years, thereafter, we were
lovers, each felt loved and fulfilled by the other. After our initial euphoria,
we rented an apartment and lived together in Bologna. I worked off and on as a
draftsman or designer, but in the main, Adriana, who by then had become
well-known and important, always managed to get me a job as her paid assistant,
so I went with her all over Europe, Asia and once to Egypt and the Spanish
Sahara (as it was called in those days) on various assignments. On our way back
from North Africa, Adriana, who was usually in good health, felt sick all the
way home. Her sickness, we discovered was not a sickness at all: she was
pregnant!
Aside from
petty lover's spats, we never fought. Our spirits were most congenial and in
harmony; but the question of this pregnancy became such a heated issue, that it
almost drove us apart. I tried to convince her to marry me, have the baby and
for us to settle down; and she reminded me of her letter from Edirne and that
stopped me from perusing the matter. But she was, above all, a sensitive woman
and she suffered and struggled with her conscience over this matter.
Ultimately, the issue was settled by nature--or, perhaps, the strong will of a
determined woman. Adriana awoke one morning with a low grade fever which, over
the next few days got worse; the intensity of the fever rose to the point where
she almost convulsed, and a few hours later, a kindly woman doctor, one of
Silvia's teachers, informed me that Adriana had miscarried.
I broke down
and wept, for I had wanted that baby. Silvia and Gaetano tried to console me,
but I was inconsolable; the loss of our child (as I understood the matter) was
harder on me emotionally than the (later) deaths of my parents and grandmother.
Nevertheless, I survived. I stayed by her bedside from the time she was allowed
visitors until the day she was discharged, and I took her home and cared for
her as tenderly as possible. We both cried, holding each other in the night,
for we both felt the loss deeply.
That summer
Silvia became a full-fledged physician, and the four of us went to Corfu. So
there we were: Silvia, resting from her intense years of medical studies, my
beloved Adriana recovering from her recent fever and miscarriage, and I from
the emotional drain and strain I had gone through. Really, Gaetano was the only
non-convalescent,
as it were, and he walked about with his wide straw hat,
Roman-like sandals and his sketch book. He was genuinely happy; his works were
accepted, he was well-off financially, he was at a terrifically creative peak;
he seemed never to tire. I saw him work from sunrise to sunset, much as he had
done in Spain, under an improvised canvas awning, patiently painting or drawing
and fulfilling his artistic destiny.
Adriana loved
to eat fish. So early in the morning, when Gaetano awoke to begin his day, he
and I would walk together to the beach, he with his sketch book and I with rod
and reel; he would plant himself in a spot and draw, and I would cast out my
line and wait patiently for the fish to bite. During one of those serene
mornings, Gaetano stayed close by and told me that now that he was established
and Silvia was finished with medical school, they would marry and asked if I
would be his best man. I was genuinely happy for him and embraced him. He then
told me he wanted to go to America and paint there for a few years and also so
that Silvia could take the foreign doctor's examination in order to practice
medicine in the United States. He further suggested that the four of us, who
had become so very fond of each other, could live nearby and continue our
friendship. As he spoke I knew, too, in my heart, that I wanted to go back to
the states, back to New Mexico, for I was weary of Europe and of traveling.
The fishing
went well that morning; and when we returned from the beach with the catch, we
found the women up and preparing morning coffee. Adriana smiled at the three
fish I presented to her and she asked, "Can one catch such fish in New
Mexico?" At first I was puzzled by her question, but one look from Silvia,
whose mind, I think I could almost read, told me that she had spoken to
Adriana--that very morning about leaving Italy and returning to America. They
had "conspired," Silvia and Gaetano, to speak to us at the same time,
but separately, of course. And I answered her: "Not quite the same, but
good tasting, nonetheless." "Good," she replied, "I will
apply for a visa, and you will take me to your New Mexico and catch such fish
for me."
Suddenly the
atmosphere was charged with the electricity of celebration. Forgetting the
coffee, forgetting the fish, we gathered together in a circle, our arms on each
other's shoulders. We danced a spontaneous dance of joy, all joined in a common
theme: the continuation of our friendship and our leaving to go to America.
We arrived in
New York full of mirth, for me it was a treat to be back in my own country.
Silvia, for reasons of licensing, had to stay in New York. Gaetano, with many
admirers in Manhattan, lost no time in renting a studio and establishing
himself. I bought a car, and with our possessions in the trunk and the back
seat, we bid adieu to our friends, and via a circuitous route, made our way to
New Mexico.
I had written
to my parents saying I was returning--returning with Adriana and that we would
live in Santa Fe'; but my mother and father insisted we stay with them for a
little while, at least. I discussed this with Adriana, who saw no reason to
refuse, so, after a few days in New Orleans, we drove straight to New Mexico,
arriving the morning of my father's birthday, which proved to be his last day
on earth, for sometime during the night he died in his sleep.
Mother had
arranged a welcome home party for us and, of course, his birthday party as well,
having invited a few of his close friends and former colleagues. I was so happy
to be home for his birthday, and I drank many glasses of wine toasting his good
health and long life.
My mother's
reception of Adriana was warm, friendly and gracious, and she whispered to me,
"Now that she's here, maybe she'll say yes if you propose again." I
just looked at my mother in silence and shook my head. I wanted to tell her
about the miscarriage and the heated scenes we'd had; but the festive time did
not permit, and she accepted my silence and never gain broached the subject.
I have in this
room, on this very desk, a last picture of my father and I taken by Adriana on
the night of his last birthday. We are seated together, holding up our wine
glasses in posed toast; he is smiling, and to look at this picture of him it
seems impossible that a man seemingly in good health would die that very night.
But die he did, and we were diminished in spirit because of his passing.
My father,
never having been an ostentatious person, had left instructions for a simple
funeral and, if possible, no mourning. Aunt Fioretta came for the funeral. The
shock of her brother's passing left her devastated, and my own bereaved mother,
who needed consolation herself, proved to be the consoler to her grief-stricken
sister-in-law. Silvia and Gaetano came; but our re-union was clouded by the
circumstances. However, after a few days, Gaetano and I went off by ourselves,
and I showed him the countryside and he fell in love with the land, but most of
all with the drama of the light and the clarity of the atmosphere and the blue
sky; and he made up his mind, firmly, then and there, that he and Silvia would
return and take up permanent residence as soon as her licensing was complete.
The house,
though filled with family and friends, seemed empty to me and when propriety
permitted, I would go off to my father's studio and sigh for the loss of him.
When guests were gone and friends no longer called, mother announced, one night
after dinner, that she needed to get away and had decided to take grandmother
and go to Italy for a month or two and stay in her hometown to recoup her
spirit and visit relatives. "I leave the care of the house and the
business in your hands, Corrado. Take care of both." A week later she was
gone, first to Chicago to see Aunt Fioretta, whom mother convinced to join her
and her mother in Italy.
Adriana and I
were alone. We were accustomed to each other's ways and were comfortable with
each's habits and routines. I did what I could for the business, but without
father, I had no heart for it. Every morning I went to his former studio and
every morning I did less and less until I knew if I did not hire someone
nothing would get done. Contacting a semi-retired architect friend of my late
father, a Mr.Barton, and explaining my state of mind, he agreed to come every
day and fill in. He was a creative man and was able to complete a commission my
father had been working on, and I took care of the paperwork and logistics, and
so on. I felt better with an experienced professional at the helm, and I fell
into my subordinate position with ease.
But I began to
notice a certain nervousness about Adriana and an irritability which sometimes
bordered on discontent. One day I awoke and she was gone. I found her note on
the breakfast table: "Darling, Forgive me, but if I don't go away for a
few days, I shall surely go mad. I will not be far and do not worry--as I know
you will. I think your father's spirit has affected my psyche--I seem to see him
in my mind's eye every minute of the day. It's uncanny. I knew him only a few
hours. How can this be? Be with my love. Adriana."
I sighed and
had my morning coffee as usual. Fortunately it was a Saturday and Mr. Barton
did not work the weekends, so I was able to be alone with my sadness caused by
Adriana's most sudden withdrawal. I moped about, I listened to some music, but
soon lost interest; I tried reading, but that did no good, either.
The day being
one of those clear, crisp, sharp autumn days which New Mexico is famous for, I
put on my hiking boots, donned a warm jacket and set out for a walk in the
hills. A few hours in nature put me at ease and lifted my spirits. At one
place, protected from the wind, I made a circle of stones, gathered dead pinon
and cedar branches and made a fire. Fire has always had a soothing effect on
me, and as I stared into the fire I had to admit that, really, there was
nothing so terribly bad in my life, that aside from father's death, all was
well--Adriana's departure, notwithstanding. Yet when I began to think about
her, I had to admit that in an inexplicable way, I was glad she was gone. That
admission startled me. How could I think such a thing about the woman I'd
pledged myself to? Incredible as it was, I felt it was true. Was I falling out
of love with her? Was that possible? And all the calm I had been feeling at the
fire disappeared and I buried my face in my hands and wept, for I truly thought
love had gone out of my life. The fire burned to coals, the day was ending.
Smothering the fire, I made my way toward home feeling positively wretched.
A week later
Adriana returned; and in the days she had been gone, I fortified myself--mainly
with brandy--to what I must do. I convinced myself she had tired of me and I of
her. There was, therefore, only one thing to do: break off, get her out of my
life and settle down, engross myself in the business and forget her. I
rehearsed my lines every night--oh, I was so good an actor loving the sound of
his own voice. I heard the car, looked out the window and saw Adriana alight,
but it was an Adriana I hardly recognized. Her long hair was gone; her hair was
now cut short, just below her ears. She was dressed in a ruby-colored velvet
blouse and an ankle length black skirt with a silver conch belt around her
waist, the dress common to Navajo women. Seeing her dressed in this manner, I
guessed where she had been. She came into the house, and in her silver bell
voice called out in Italian, "Tesoro mio, dove sai?" that is to say,
My treasure, where are you? Upon hearing those words, all my resolves melted
like so much snow falling into a fire, and I ran to her, tears in my eyes. When
we embraced, I felt an intensity from her I had never felt before. She covered
my face with a hundred kisses which I returned. We were crying and kissing and
uttering those endearments which lovers say to one another after an argument or
misunderstan-
ding.
I was overcome
with emotion. Her return and her display of (continued) affection for me made
me realize that those words I had rehearsed were so much rot, and now I would
not have to say them, for I knew how deeply I truly loved her and how deeply
she loved me and that no matter what she had done, or might ever do again, I
was bound to her for life and she to me.
We disengaged
and, stepping back from one another, looking at each other's tear-stained
faces, it seemed I was seeing her for the first time. She looked absolutely
stunning with her new hair style and unusual clothes. "How beautiful you
look," I said; and with those simple words her face lit up and she smiled
one of her girl-like smiles which filled my spirit with joy. "Do you
really think so? I was so afraid you wouldn't approve of my having cut off my
long hair."
"I adore
you, Adriana--with or without long hair--do what you wish, but never leave me
again. I had convinced myself you had forsaken me." She lowered her eyes,
something completely out of character, and I knew I had been correct and a
moment later she confirmed my previous thoughts. "When I left here a week
ago, it was to shake off the mourning of this house. You can't imagine how I
was effected. I stayed the night in Albuquerque, and when I awoke the next day,
I was convinced myself, that I would leave you," she said in a low, repentive
voice. "What made you change your mind?" I asked. "You'll never
believe me," she answered.
"Yes I
will." She looked at me with a very serious look, paused a moment for
breath, then spoke: "Your father." What on earth did she mean, I
asked, puzzled by her response? "I kept seeing him and hearing his voice
saying, 'Go back, go back.' I fled Albuquerque almost in a panic and drove to
the Indian country. Along the road a truck with a Navajo family had broken
down. I stopped to see if I could help. I drove them many, many miles over
rough roads, I thought the car would break an axle. It was night by the time we
reached their hogan. Except for directions, I hadn't exchanged ten words with
them during the entire ride. They prepared food, we ate, then we slept. In the
morning, the grandmother motioned for me to step outside with her. Once
outside, she pointed to the road and said, 'Go back, go back, he needs you.'
But as she spoke those words I shuddered, for her voice--it was the voice of
your father!"
We never spoke
of the incident again. My spirits revived, I threw myself into the business and
by the time mother and grandmamma returned, two months later, Adriana and I
were the happiest we'd ever been. Mother had recovered, the house was at peace
and I was beginning to truly enjoy being an architect. The ideas came in floods
and I was at the drawing table day and night, so much so that mother began to
worry that I was neglecting Adriana and she said so, suggesting that we now
find a place of our own, and that we close father's business and that I open my
own. I told Adriana who concurred, and so we moved to Santa Fe'. Father had
left me a considerable inheritance and with it I bought a house, added a large
room for my drawing studio and another room for Adriana's own studio and
darkroom.
The following
year Silvia and Gaetano moved to New Mexico and in a small, private ceremony
were married. After their honeymoon, my sweet cousin was in practice and
Gaetano, filled with the energy of a dynamo, opened his own studio and life
went on happily for all of us. Periodically Adriana would go off on assignments
and when my own affairs would permit, I would go with her--ever her willing
assistant. It seemed happiness, for the four of us would go on forever. But
life, being the capricious mistress she can be at times, worked otherwise.
Adriana had
gone to the Yucatan to shoot pictures of the Mayan ruins for one of a series of
books on ancient civilizations, starting with the Maya. She went off happy to
have been chosen. Because of an important commission, I could not follow, and
Silvia, never having taken a vacation since starting her practice, decided she
wanted to travel to see northern New Mexico, and, of course, Gaetano would go
with her. We all went with Adriana to the airport, then I waved goodbye to
Silvia and Gaetano, who drove off to points north, and I returned home to Santa
Fe' and to the drawing board.
A week later,
at 2:00 A.M., I was awakened by the telephone. As I walked to the phone I had
the wishful image of Adriana calling me from someplace in the Yucatan; but my
wishful fantasy came to an abrupt end when the caller on the other end
introduced himself as a State Policeman calling from Springer, New Mexico,
explaining that Silvia and Gaetano's car had been struck by a freight train and
neither of them was expected to live!
I was stunned.
Trembling as a leaf in the wind I was barely able to write down the name of the
town and the hospital. For a few minutes after I hung up I didn't know what to
do. I stood at the telephone staring down at the scribbled information half
wondering whose handwriting it was. Suddenly I burst into tears and fell
prostrate on the floor in a paroxysm of weeping and moaning. Eventually
regaining my sense I had enough presence of mind to call my mother and give her
the grim news, further instructing her to call Aunt Fioretta and await her
arrival, while I drove to Springer to be with Silvia and Gaetano.
The surgeons,
as I was told later, had no choice in amputating Gaetano's legs, there was
hardly anything left of them; and his eye had been left at the scene of the
accident. Silvia's ribs, everyone of them, had been cracked or broken, her left
lung had been punctured, her pelvis and right arm broken; she had internal
injuries, and her skull had been fractured, and she lay in a coma for more days
than I care to remember. I was able to get a message to Adriana via the book
publisher, and she flew up from Mexico as soon as she could. Mother and Aunt
Fioretta came to the hospital everyday and recited their rosaries over and over
again, each woman at one or the other's bedside, and Adriana and I prayed in
our own way. Waiting can be cruel; and everyday we waited for them to die; but
they survived, but, perhaps, in the long run, it would have been better if God
had taken them, for life (for all of us) afterwards, was never the same.
Gaetano,
although the doctors said otherwise, never recovered, and neither did Silvia,
who gave up her medical practice to stay with Gaetano, who seemed to be in a
daze most of the time. I visited him as often as I could; but nothing from our
past relationship remained. He was different--not only in body--but, also, in
mind. He would flare up at the slightest thing or grow morose and mute for
days, and no amount of tenderness from either Silvia, Adriana or myself, seemed
to help.
Five years
later his tragedy finally ended. I still have his suicide note; it is part of
this room, hidden that it is in my files. "MY Dear One, Forgive me my
departure from this valley of tears--but it seems I have been half dead these
past five years and I am only making final what should have been. God forgive
me. And you, beloved Silvia, forgive me.
Gaetano"
We buried him
next to my father. Silvia's mourning never ended, and Adriana gave up
photography for an entire year. The suicide of her stepbrother was the severest
shock ever. She stayed by my side all the time. I tried to counsel her to take
up her art, but she would only shake her head and ask me to change the subject;
and so, after a while I let her be. Silvia, my poor, sweet Silvia--how my heart
ached for her. She declined my invitation to move in with us and, instead,
stayed in the house where she and Gaetano had lived in both joy and sorrow. I
encouraged her to sell that house and move; but, like Adriana, she would shake
her head and ask me to change the subject.
Adriana never
re-assumed her career. She, instead, took up weaving, sold all of her
photographic equipment and supplies, asked me to enlarge her former studio-darkroom
and to put in several skylights, which I did. She found a teacher, bought a
loom and for the rest of her days sat, like a patient Penelope, weaving hour
after hour. Her entire demeanor changed; she became quieter, more spiritual,
and ate simple foods and eventually wore only clothes made from the cloth she
wove. She and Silvia became closer than they had ever been, so much so that at
times I felt excluded from their company. They would visit one another and sit,
drinking tea or wine and speak in soft voices, or, arm in arm, they would
stroll about not ever speaking.
First
grandmother passed away. She had been in ill health and her passing had been
expected. Silvia was with her when she died. At the funeral, I noticed there
was an almost beatific smile on Silvia's face, as if she knew something which
had brought her great happiness--but could not share it with us. Two years
later, mother was gone. Like my father, she died in her sleep. Four
gravestones, all in a row were now part of my legacy. Mother, father,
grandmother and Gaetano. People dear and important to me were gone...gone. But
I had the consolation of my beloved Adriana and Silvia, withdrawn as she had
become,notwith- standing.
Silvia went
away for two weeks, saying she was going to Carmel, California, never saying
why; but I was pleased to see her go, thinking a last she would leave her
mourning behind and, perhaps, take up her medical practice again. However, when
she returned, she told us that for more than a year she had been in communication
with the Mother Superior of the Carmelites, near Carmel, and that her trip had
been to discuss her incloister. I pleaded with her to change her mind; but all
the time I spoke she had that enigmatic and beatific smile on her face which I
had observed at grandmamma's funeral.
Before she
left, she gave me all of my letters to her--even those we had written in our
youth; she gave me (back) the harpsichord father had so generously given to her
and which she had taken with her every place she'd lived; she gave me
photographs, unpublished manuscripts, music books and all of Gaetano's
paintings, and to Adriana, she gave all of her jewelry, which amounted to a
small fortune. She sold her house and all that was left in it, and gave the
money to the church.
On the 25th of
July, we drove her to the airport. She asked us not to wait, but to simply drop
her off at the terminal. We complied with her wish, and, dropping her off, we
hugged her and kissed her in farewell, for we knew we would never ever see her
again.
Adriana was my
all; and had she not been so devoted to me I think I would have been the most
miserable of men. It was she who suggested we sell our house and move back to
the family home. I didn't care where I lived. So we sold, re-opened the family
house which had been closed since mother's death, hired some landscapers to
clear the weeds and to plant flowers.
I needed a
room to store my mementos and choose my grandmother's former room, a large,
airy place awash with light. Little by little I filled it with books,
paintings, photographs and the harpsichord. I often likened it to a miniature
museum and I its curator.
Now I see it
more as a tomb and Adriana and I its sole occupants, for on a specially built
stand sits a copy of an Etruscan funerary urn in which rest her ashes. One day
she packed all of her worldly possessions--except the loom--into boxes. When I
asked her why, she gave me one of her enigmatic smiles and said, "I'm
going away." When I raised my eyebrows in surprise, she embraced me and
added in her still silver bell voice, but now an octave lower, "But not
very far, just over there," and she pointed to the sunset.
She died at
her loom. She'd been working on a last piece: a design depicting a labyrinth,
and in the center of the labyrinth she'd woven in the words, "Everything
dies in mystery."
I use the
cloth as a lap rug to keep her love next to me and to remind me of my own
mystery to come.
The end
{NOTE BY R. Haig: Fragmented text below retrieved from
original MS Word document}
a room full of memories6/9/99 5/18/99 /
icine, heal the sick, deliver healthy babies and find a cure
for a half dozen incurable maladies. That was the summer that we declared our
love for one another. Until that season, long ago, we had never said anything,
never touched each other except in cousinly embraces and kisses on the cheek as
is common in Italian families. But, oh, that summer, while hiking in the
mountains, unable to contain myself, I blurted out, "Silvia, I love you an