place to look for women," Alessandro said. "Lots of them go there, but do you find them?"
"Not really..." was the answer, in a sort of hoarse whisper.
"Have you ever slept with a woman?"
"Not yet," Nicolò confessed, ashamed.
"Don't worry," Alessandro told him. "You will. You probably don't even know that women want to sleep with you as much as you want to sleep with them."
"They do?"
"Its true, but I know you won't believe me.
I
wouldn't have believed me. Anyway, it's something that you should never come to accept fully. If you do, it's tragic, because it means you've become a peacock. You don't even begin to get an inkling of it until you're much older than you are now.
"You should be confident. You're young, you're serious, and you have a good job. I would think that women would be strongly attracted to someone who makes propellers."
"You think so?"
"Yes. It's honorable, unusual, interesting, with the possibility of advancement. Admittedly, it's not like being a doctor or a lawyer, but who's to say that you won't work hard, become an engineer, and maybe, someday, become the head of F.A.I."
"Of F.A.I.?" Nicolò asked skeptically, in the way that people of suppressed dreams often preclude their own possibilities. "Me? Never. A hundred and twenty thousand people work for F.A.I."
Alessandro did not indulge Nicolò's lack of belief in himself. "Look, stupid," he said, turning Nicolò from red to white. "It'll be hard enough for you to rise. Fate, circumstances, and other men will at times be almost overwhelmingly against you. You'll be able to beat them only if you don't join them, only if you don't condemn yourself from the start. If you have no faith in yourself, who will? I won't. I wouldn't waste my time, and neither will anyone else. Do you understand? You can be the head of F.A.I. You're still young enough to be the Pope."
"The Pope? They'd never have a pope as young as me."
Alessandro sighed hopelessly. "You're still young enough to
become
the Pope."
"Would I have to be a priest first?"
"I think that is the minimal qualification, yes."
"I don't want to be the Pope."
"I'm not suggesting that you become the Pope, you little idiot! I'm only saying that you're still young enough to try."
"Why would I want to?"
"You wouldn't, necessarily, but your youth is a magical instrument with which you can accomplish anything."
"Every two seconds you say I'm an idiot. Why?"
"Because every two seconds you are. You're wasting what you have."
"You sound like the soccer coach, and we lose to everybody. We always lose to Olivetti. We even lose to the Musicians Union. Fabrica Aeronautica Italiana, maker of war planes, loses to bald-headed guys who play the violin."
"I don't want to walk all the way to Sant' Angelo with a ... with someone who defeats himself before he's begun," Alessandro said. "I'm going to tell you something that you may or may not understand, and I want you to memorize it and say it to yourself now and then, until, someday, you do understand."
"Is it long?"
"No."
"Go ahead."
"Nicolò," Alessandro said.
"Nicolò," Nicolò repeated.
"The spark of life is not gain."
"The spark of life is not gain."
"Nor is it luxury."
"Nor is it luxury."
"The spark of life is movement."
"Movement."
"Color."
"Color."
"Love."
"Love."
"And furthermore..."
"And furthermore..."
"If you really want to enjoy life, you must work quietly and humbly to realize your delusions of grandeur."
"But I don't have them."
"Start to have them."
Nicolò shook his head affirmatively. "I understand, Signore, I understand what you're saying. I do. I think I do."
Alessandro grunted.
Neither of them spoke while Alessandro carefully laid out a meal of prosciutto, fruit, and chocolate, after which he and
Nicolò began to eat, leaning down now and then to dip a cupped hand into the numbingly cold water for a drink.
"You eat like an animal," Alessandro said matter-of-factly. Nicolò stopped for a moment,
"Not really..." was the answer, in a sort of hoarse whisper.
"Have you ever slept with a woman?"
"Not yet," Nicolò confessed, ashamed.
"Don't worry," Alessandro told him. "You will. You probably don't even know that women want to sleep with you as much as you want to sleep with them."
"They do?"
"Its true, but I know you won't believe me.
I
wouldn't have believed me. Anyway, it's something that you should never come to accept fully. If you do, it's tragic, because it means you've become a peacock. You don't even begin to get an inkling of it until you're much older than you are now.
"You should be confident. You're young, you're serious, and you have a good job. I would think that women would be strongly attracted to someone who makes propellers."
"You think so?"
"Yes. It's honorable, unusual, interesting, with the possibility of advancement. Admittedly, it's not like being a doctor or a lawyer, but who's to say that you won't work hard, become an engineer, and maybe, someday, become the head of F.A.I."
"Of F.A.I.?" Nicolò asked skeptically, in the way that people of suppressed dreams often preclude their own possibilities. "Me? Never. A hundred and twenty thousand people work for F.A.I."
Alessandro did not indulge Nicolò's lack of belief in himself. "Look, stupid," he said, turning Nicolò from red to white. "It'll be hard enough for you to rise. Fate, circumstances, and other men will at times be almost overwhelmingly against you. You'll be able to beat them only if you don't join them, only if you don't condemn yourself from the start. If you have no faith in yourself, who will? I won't. I wouldn't waste my time, and neither will anyone else. Do you understand? You can be the head of F.A.I. You're still young enough to be the Pope."
"The Pope? They'd never have a pope as young as me."
Alessandro sighed hopelessly. "You're still young enough to
become
the Pope."
"Would I have to be a priest first?"
"I think that is the minimal qualification, yes."
"I don't want to be the Pope."
"I'm not suggesting that you become the Pope, you little idiot! I'm only saying that you're still young enough to try."
"Why would I want to?"
"You wouldn't, necessarily, but your youth is a magical instrument with which you can accomplish anything."
"Every two seconds you say I'm an idiot. Why?"
"Because every two seconds you are. You're wasting what you have."
"You sound like the soccer coach, and we lose to everybody. We always lose to Olivetti. We even lose to the Musicians Union. Fabrica Aeronautica Italiana, maker of war planes, loses to bald-headed guys who play the violin."
"I don't want to walk all the way to Sant' Angelo with a ... with someone who defeats himself before he's begun," Alessandro said. "I'm going to tell you something that you may or may not understand, and I want you to memorize it and say it to yourself now and then, until, someday, you do understand."
"Is it long?"
"No."
"Go ahead."
"Nicolò," Alessandro said.
"Nicolò," Nicolò repeated.
"The spark of life is not gain."
"The spark of life is not gain."
"Nor is it luxury."
"Nor is it luxury."
"The spark of life is movement."
"Movement."
"Color."
"Color."
"Love."
"Love."
"And furthermore..."
"And furthermore..."
"If you really want to enjoy life, you must work quietly and humbly to realize your delusions of grandeur."
"But I don't have them."
"Start to have them."
Nicolò shook his head affirmatively. "I understand, Signore, I understand what you're saying. I do. I think I do."
Alessandro grunted.
Neither of them spoke while Alessandro carefully laid out a meal of prosciutto, fruit, and chocolate, after which he and
Nicolò began to eat, leaning down now and then to dip a cupped hand into the numbingly cold water for a drink.
"You eat like an animal," Alessandro said matter-of-factly. Nicolò stopped for a moment,
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