The Young Bride

Of course. The Mother.

But in the same tone she might have said “in the cellar” to someone who had asked her where the broken chairs to be taken away were, and so Modesto understood that the young Bride didn’t know, or at least didn’t know everything, and he deeply regretted it, for at that moment he realized that he had failed in the ambition with which he awoke every morning — to be perfect — because he had granted that girl the privilege of trust without having measured the circumference of her ignorance. He was distressed by this and, for a long instant, held hostage by a hesitation that was not intrinsic to either his duties or his habits. To the young Bride it seemed, for a moment, that Modesto was actually vacillating — a mere hovering in space — and on the other hand vacillate is exactly what happens when we unexpectedly perceive the profound gap that is produced, unknown to us, between our intentions and the evidence of the facts, an experience I’ve had repeatedly, recently, as a natural consequence of my choices and others’. As I try to explain sometimes to those who dare to listen to me, I have the not especially original sensation of being nowhere, but so intensely that not even God, if, on a whim, he decided at that instant to cast an eye on creation, would be able to detect my presence, I’m so provisionally nonexistent. There are drugs, naturally, for situations of the sort, and we all have our systems for passing the time during these intermittent deaths; I, for example, tend to put things in order: objects, sometimes thoughts, very occasionally people. Modesto confined himself to inhabiting the void for a handful of seconds — many, considering it was him — and one of the privileges of my profession is to know in detail what passed through his mind, that is to say the surprising quantity of things that the young Bride, evidently, didn’t know. And what the young Bride didn’t know was, evidently, the Mother. The legend of the Mother.

That she was beautiful I must already have said, but I must now specify that her beauty was, in the common view, and in that circumscribed world, something mythological. Its origins were rooted in her adolescence, which was spent in the city, hence in the countryside people were aware only of distant echoes, legendary tales, details of unfathomable origin. Yet it was known that the Mother had assumed her beauty very early and, for a time, had made spectacular use of it. She was twenty-five when she married the Father; much had already happened, and yet she regretted nothing. There’s no point in hiding the fact that the marriage made no apparent sense, the Father being a physically negligible man and chained sexually to obvious precautions, but it will all become clearer in the afternoon, or more likely at night, when I’ll feel in my fingers the sharpness suitable to describing exactly how things went, and so not now, on this sunny day when, rather, I feel capable of the softness needed to summarize what Modesto knew and the young Bride didn’t, that is to say, for example, how the trail of madness that the Mother left behind was heterogeneous, as she simply glided through the life of the city, trying out the force of her enchantment on the weaknesses of others. Two killed themselves, as everyone knows, one swallowing an excessive dose of poison, the other vanishing into the whirlpools of the river. But also a priest, who had a certain reputation, was a very good preacher, had died behind the walls of a convent, and an esteemed cardiologist had found shelter in the wards of a mental hospital. There were innumerable marriages in which wives lived, fairly comfortably, with men who were sure they had been born to love another, that is, the Mother. Analogously, at least three women, all of excellent family, all conventionally married, were known to have been so close to her, in youth, that they developed a perpetual disgust for the male body and its sexual needs. What she had granted, to each of these victims, to lead them to extremes, is information whose outlines are vague, but there are two irrefutable facts that can be trusted. The first, and apparently more obvious: the Father married a girl who was not a virgin. The second, which should be taken literally: when the Mother was a girl, she didn’t need to grant any favor to cause a person to go wild; her mere presence was generally enough. If this may not seem credible, I find that I’m compelled to give an example, choosing a detail, maybe the most significant, certainly the one that has been most widely disseminated. Everything about her was magnificent, but if we talk about the décolleté, or even about the promise hinted at by the décolleté—we’re talking about the bosom — then we are compelled to rise to a level that is hard to describe without resorting to terms like spell. Baretti, in his Index, to which we must inevitably refer if we wish to offer an objective outline of the situation, even hazards the term sorcery, but that was always a much discussed passage of his otherwise laudable work: if for no other reason than that the term sorcery suggests a malign intention that in no way reflects the well-known crystalline happiness that even the most fleeting glance at the Mother’s bosom produced in anyone who had had the courage to attempt it, or the privilege to be able to attempt it. In the long run, Baretti himself agreed. In later recitations of his Index, when he was already an old man, although very respectable, the reference to sorcery tended to disappear, witnesses say. I use the term recitation because, as is perhaps not universally known, Baretti’s Index was not a book, or a written document, but a sort of oral liturgy, at which he officiated, and which, besides, rarely took place, and was never announced in advance. On average it was biennial, it usually happened in summer, and only one thing was fixed: it started precisely at midnight. But on what day — this no one knew. It frequently happened that, because of this unpredictability, Baretti performed in the presence of only a few witnesses, if not just a pair, and one year — which turned out to be a drought year — in front of no one. It didn’t seem to matter to him, and this should allow us to understand how the discipline of the Index was for him a personal necessity, an urgency that concerned him intimately, and others only incidentally. He was, after all, a man of refined modesty, as one might logically deduce from his trade: he was a tailor, in the provinces.

It all began one day when — maybe to display particular kindness, maybe compelled by a sudden need — the Mother had gone to him, to adjust an evening dress that, in the city, had evidently not received the proper attention. The neckline had, as a result turned out imperfectly.

Baretti was thirty-eight at the time. He was married. He had two children. He would have liked a third. That day, however, he became old, and at the same time a child, and conclusively an artist.

As he often had occasion to recount later, the Mother pointed out to him right at the start that if he persisted in looking in the other direction it wouldn’t be easy to make him understand what she wanted from him.

Forgive me, but I don’t think I have the necessary boldness to be useful to you, he had defended himself, keeping his eyes away from the neckline.

Don’t talk nonsense, you’re 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 him — he 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 Mother’s 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 couldn’t 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.