No. Her tunic audaciously open on the sides, her arms bare, with mysterious and suggestive shadows beneath her veils, she will slowly unfasten something beneath her hair, letting the long silks that wrapped her like a shroud fall suddenly to the ground, and my gaze will travel up and down her body, robed now only in a clinging white garb, belted at the waist with a two-headed serpent made of gold, as she crosses her arms over her chest, and I will be driven mad by her androgynous form, by that flesh as white as the pith of the elderberry, that mouth with its predatory lips, that blue bow just beneath her chin, a missal angel whom some perverse minotaur has dressed as a mad virgin, on whose flat chest small but definite breasts rise distinctly, pointedly, the lines of her waist widening slightly at her hips, then disappearing into the too-long legs of a Luca di Leyda Eve, the gaze of her green eyes ambiguous, her mouth large and her smile disturbing, her hair the flaxen color of old gold, all of her head belying the innocence of her body; passionate chimera, supreme achievement of art and sensuality, bewitching monster, she will be revealed in all her secret splendor, arabesques will radiate from lozenges of lapis lazuli, rainbow lights and prismatic blazes will glide over inlays of mother-of-pearl, she will be like Lady Josiane, her veils melting away in the heat of the dance, her brocades falling to the ground, until she is clad only in fashioned gold, in translucent gems, a gorget cinching her waist like a corselet, its superb clasp, a marvelous jewel, flashing its rays into the crevice between her breasts, her hips wrapped in a band that hides her upper thighs, against which slaps a gigantic pendant, a spilling river of carbuncles and emeralds, her belly arching from her now naked torso with its navels hollow like an onyx seal, with its milky sheen, and in the ardent light radiant around her head every facet of every jewel will catch fire, the stones will come to life, accenting her body with their incandescent traces, stinging her neck, her legs, her arms with their sparks, now the deep red of embers, now the violet of gas jets, now the azure of burning alcohol, now the whiteness of starlight, and she will appear pleading for me to flog her, holding out an abbesss hair shirt and seven silk ropes for scourging the seven deadly sins, with seven knots in each rope for the seven ways of falling into mortal sin, and the drops of blood that blossom on her flesh will be roses, and she will be slender as a temple candle, her eyes pierced by loves swords, and my desire will be to place my heart upon that pyre in silence, will be that she, paler than a winter dawn, paler than candle wax, her hands clasped over her smooth chest, remain august beneath her robes, and red from the blood of the dead hearts that bleed for her.
No, no, what wicked literature am I letting myself be seduced by, I am no longer a prurient adolescent I would simply like her as she was, as I loved her then, just a face above a yellow jacket. I would like the most beautiful woman I have ever been able to conceive, but not that supreme beauty which has led others astray. I would be happy even were she frail and sick, as she must have been in her final days in Brazil, and still I would tell her, You are the most beautiful of creatures, I would never trade your broken eyes or your pallor for the beauty of all the angels in heaven! I would like to see her rise midstream, alone and still as she gazes out to sea, a creature transformed by magic into a strange and beautiful seabird, her long slender bare legs delicate as a cranes, and without importuning her with my desire I would leave her to her remoteness, the faraway princess.
I do not know whether it is the mysterious flame of Queen Loana that is burning in my crumpled-parchment lobes, whether some elixir is attempting to wash the browned pages of my paper memory, still marred by the many stains that render illegible that part of the text that still eludes me, or whether it is I who am trying to drive my nerves to the point of unbearable exertion. If I could tremble in this state, I would be trembling, I feel as storm-tossed in here as if I were bobbing out there on a squalling sea. But I also feel on the verge of orgasm, as my brains corpora cavernosa swell with blood, as something gets ready to explode-or blossom.
Now, as on that day in the foyer, I am finally about to see Lila, who will descend still modest and mischievous in her black smock, lovely as the sun, white as the moon, nimble and unaware of being the center, the navel of the world. I will see her lovely face, her well-drawn nose, that glimpse of her two front teeth between her lips, she an angora rabbit, Mat the cat mewing and rippling his soft fur, a dove, an ermine, a squirrel. She will descend like the first frost, and will see me, and will gently extend her hand, not in invitation but simply to keep me from fleeing once again.
I will finally learn how to perform forevermore the final scene of my Cyrano, I will see what I have looked for all my life, from Paola to Sibilla, and I will be reunited. I will be at peace.
Careful. This time I must not ask her "Does Vanzetti live here?" I must finally seize the Opportunity.
But a faint, mouse-colored fumifugium is spreading from the top of the stairs, veiling the entrance. I feel a cold gust, I look up. Why is the sun turning black?
Sources of Citations and Illustrations
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p. 23, drawing by the author
p. 60, Dante, Inferno, Canto XXXI
p. 61, Giovanni Pascoli, "Il bacio del morto" ("The Dead Mans Kiss"), from Myricae, Livorno: Raffaello Giusti, 1891
p. 61, Giovanni Pascoli, "Nebbia" ("Fog"), from Canti di Castelvecchio (Songs of Castelvecchio), Bologna: Zanichelli, 1903
p. 61, Giovanni Pascoli, "Voci misteriose" ("Mysterious Voices"), from Poesie varie (Selected Poems), Bologna: Zanichelli, 1928
p. 62, Vittorio Sereni, "Lalibi e il beneficio" ("The Alibi and the Benefit"), from Gli strumenti umani (The Human Instruments), Turin: Einaudi, 1965. Reproduced by kind permission of the estate of Vittorio Sereni.
p. 67, lyrics by Giancarlo Testoni, "In cerca di te" ("Searching for You"), Metron, 1945. Reproduced by kind permission of IDM Music, Ltd. All rights reserved.
pp. 70-71, cover and two panels from Il tesoro di Clarabella (original title: Race for Riches), Milan: Mondadori, 1936, Disney Enterprises, Inc.
p. 91, Giovanni Pascoli, "Nella nebbia" ("In the Fog"), Primi Poemetti (Early Poems), Bologna: Zanichelli, 1905
p. 93, La escala de la vida (The Stair of Life), nineteenth-century Catalan print (authors collection)
p. 95, prints from Zur Geschichte der Kostme (The History of Costume), Munich: Braun and Schneider, 1861 (authors collection)
p. 97, cover of La filotea (The Filotea), by Giuseppe Riva, Bergamo: Istituto Italiano dArti Grafiche, 1886 (authors collection)
p. 100, Imagerie dpinal, Pellerin (authors collection)
p. 102, cover of sheet music for "Vorrei volare" (original title: "Its in the Air"), Milan: Carisch, 1940 (authors collection). Reproduced by kind permission of IDM Music, Ltd. All rights reserved.