Of course, said Modesto.
Do you remember the question, too? the count insisted.
Naturally, said Modesto.
In fact he didn’t remember a damn thing, but he was a sensible man, he had read many books, and he sincerely wanted to help that father.
How long must I wait to know the reasons for your happiness and the purpose of your despair?
The count thanked him, handed him a moderate tip, and returned home to report. His daughter greeted the sought-after question with apparent calm. The next day she retired to a convent in the neighborhood of Basilea. (She must have written the singular Handbook for Young Girls Asleep, which had so much success, you know, in the years before the war. Published under a nom de plume — Hérodiade — it suggested daily spiritual exercises for young women who lacked appropriate intellectual guides or any moral vigor. As far as I remember, it set out daily precepts of a curious nature but easy execution. Things like eating only yellow foods, running instead of walking, always saying yes, talking to animals, sleeping naked, pretending to be pregnant, moving in slow motion, drinking every three minutes, putting on someone else’s shoes, thinking out loud, shaving one’s head, acting like a Friulian hen. It was hoped that each exercise would last twelve hours. The author intended those singular tasks to produce, in girls, the capacity for self-discipline and the pleasure of acquiring a certain independence of thought. I don’t know if the results were equal to the expectations. I recall distinctly, however, that, shortly after becoming successful, the author gave birth to twins whom she called First and Second, stating that she had had them through the intercession of the Archangel Michael. (Obviously, pages like these, to the editor who in a few months will be dealing with them, will seem completely useless and sadly unhelpful to the progress of the story. With the usual politeness, he will suggest that I delete them. I already know that I won’t, but as of now I can admit to being no more likely than he to be right. The fact is that some write books, others read them: God knows who is in the better position to understand something about them. Is the heart of a land given to those who see it for the first time with adult wonder or to those who are born there? No one knows. Everything I’ve learned, in that regard, can be summed up in a few lines. One writes as one would make love to a woman, but on a night with no light, in the most absolute darkness, and so without ever seeing her. Then, the next evening, those who happen by first will take her out to dinner, or dancing, or to the races, but understanding immediately that they won’t even be able to touch her, much less take her to bed. Each one lacks a piece, and rarely is the spell disclosed. When in doubt, I tend to rely on my blindness and take at face value the memory of my skin. So now I will close four parentheses, and do so with tranquil confidence, lulled by this regional train that is carrying me south.)))) Voilà.
It goes without saying that, in that flurry of activity, attention to the English deliveries diminished, and, for their part, they had become less and less frequent, in a decline that no one, honestly, had known how to interpret. A pint of Irish beer arrived, it’s true, but deliveries were erratic, since they then had to wait a good seven days for another package, of limited dimensions and questionable contents: when it was opened, a book was found, and a used book, besides. The majority barely noted its arrival and immediately forgot about it, but the young Bride didn’t forget it, and without appearing to do so was able to retrieve it and keep it for herself, secretly. It wasn’t just any book; it was Don Quixote.
For several days she kept it hidden in her room and her thoughts. Repeatedly she asked herself if, by reading it as a message meant for her, she didn’t risk overestimating a joke of chance. With close attention she listened to her own heart. Then she asked the Father for a meeting and, having obtained it, appeared in his study at seven in the evening, when the tasks of the day were over and the traditional evening scramble was about to begin. She had dressed with care. She spoke meekly, but remained standing and uttered every word with great assurance. She asked permission not to go on the vacation, and to stay in the House, to wait. I’m sure, she said, that the Son is about to return.
The Father looked up from some papers he was putting in order and stared at her, surprised.
You want to stay alone in the house? he asked.
Yes.
The Father smiled.
No one stays in this house when we go on vacation, he said serenely.
Since the young Bride didn’t move, the Father considered it necessary to resort to conclusive reasoning.
Not even Modesto stays in the house when we go on vacation, he said.
It was, objectively, an unassailable argument, and yet the young Bride didn’t seem especially impressed.
It’s that the Son is about to return, she said.
Really?
I think so.
How do you know?
I don’t know. I feel it.
Feeling isn’t much, my dear.