caught her eye while I wandered through the rooms and marveled at all the paintings of nymphs. On Floraâs last visit she selected, after her usual pleasurable indecision, a lovely pezza of green silk velvet which reminded her of the robe of the boy in the Caravaggio painting.
That afternoon Flora and I spent in the conservatory of the Caâ da Capo-Zendrini. With its jungle of plants, smell of damp soil and fungus, and humidity, it wasnât the best place for someone with her affliction. But Flora, although she loved my city, was nostalgic for her own Naples, and she felt a kinship with the profusion of plants. I often thought that her name had created some mysterious link between herself and the blossoming world.
She would insist on inhaling the fragrance of the flowers and even take it upon herself to spray the roses, her favorite flower, with the special concoction kept on a shelf. My father had warned everyone in the house about this spray, made up by a young pharmacist in the Dorsoduro quarter, for it contained a deadly poison. Whenever one of the staff or my mother picked up the can, they wore gloves and covered their mouth. But Flora was fearless and deaf to my warnings. Perhaps her name gave her not only an affinity for the conservatory but also led her to believe that she had some special immunity to its dangers.
On that afternoon Flora and I read passages from books aloud to each other and played cards. My mother had gone to pay a visit to a friend in the Castello quarter. When she returned to find us in the conservatory and learned that we had been there for the whole of the afternoon, she berated me for encouraging Flora in such foolhardy behavior. Flora, after telling my mother that she shouldnât blame me for what had been her decision, retired to her room.
When the dinner bell sounded, Flora didnât appear. We waited for a few minutes, then my mother asked me to fetch her. Obviously the poor girl had tired herself out in the conservatoryâthis with a sharp look at meâand had fallen into a deep sleep.
I knocked on the door of the Caravaggio Room. When there was no answer, I knocked again and called for her, but still with no response. I opened the door slowly.
The room was dark. Flora or one of the maids had drawn the drapes so that whatever light was still available outside didnât penetrate the room.
I switched on the light. My eyes immediately went to the painting, which dominated the room more than anything else in it. The mocking smile of the boy in wig and makeup flashed at me. For a moment it seemed as if he was alive. I shivered. Then I saw Flora.
She was lying at the foot of the bed, grasping the piece of Fortuny material. I went over to her.
âFlora?â I whispered. She didnât respond. I looked down at her and knew that she never would again.
Her eyes stared up at me. Her mouth was open. Her lips were blue.
I remember very little after this. My mother and father came up. I was sent to my room. I sat there, stunned, unable to cry. Flora was dead.
Dead, the doctor said, because of an attack precipitated by her hours in the conservatory, smelling the flowers, breathing the oppressive air, and spraying the roses. But I didnât believe him. It wasnât that I didnât want to admit some responsibility for her death for not having discouraged her from staying in the conservatory.
No, Flora had died because of the Caravaggio painting. The smile of the strange-looking boy had told me that.
Soon what was only the fancy of a boy saying good-bye to his childhood became the talk of the family, and then of friends and neighbors, as they remembered the death of Nonna Teresa in the same room. The Caravaggio Room was âbad luck.â It had the âevil eye.â There was a âcurseâ on it. And it was all because of the painting of the young man, which was baleful in some way that couldnât be explained by reason.
I kept my own
That afternoon Flora and I spent in the conservatory of the Caâ da Capo-Zendrini. With its jungle of plants, smell of damp soil and fungus, and humidity, it wasnât the best place for someone with her affliction. But Flora, although she loved my city, was nostalgic for her own Naples, and she felt a kinship with the profusion of plants. I often thought that her name had created some mysterious link between herself and the blossoming world.
She would insist on inhaling the fragrance of the flowers and even take it upon herself to spray the roses, her favorite flower, with the special concoction kept on a shelf. My father had warned everyone in the house about this spray, made up by a young pharmacist in the Dorsoduro quarter, for it contained a deadly poison. Whenever one of the staff or my mother picked up the can, they wore gloves and covered their mouth. But Flora was fearless and deaf to my warnings. Perhaps her name gave her not only an affinity for the conservatory but also led her to believe that she had some special immunity to its dangers.
On that afternoon Flora and I read passages from books aloud to each other and played cards. My mother had gone to pay a visit to a friend in the Castello quarter. When she returned to find us in the conservatory and learned that we had been there for the whole of the afternoon, she berated me for encouraging Flora in such foolhardy behavior. Flora, after telling my mother that she shouldnât blame me for what had been her decision, retired to her room.
When the dinner bell sounded, Flora didnât appear. We waited for a few minutes, then my mother asked me to fetch her. Obviously the poor girl had tired herself out in the conservatoryâthis with a sharp look at meâand had fallen into a deep sleep.
I knocked on the door of the Caravaggio Room. When there was no answer, I knocked again and called for her, but still with no response. I opened the door slowly.
The room was dark. Flora or one of the maids had drawn the drapes so that whatever light was still available outside didnât penetrate the room.
I switched on the light. My eyes immediately went to the painting, which dominated the room more than anything else in it. The mocking smile of the boy in wig and makeup flashed at me. For a moment it seemed as if he was alive. I shivered. Then I saw Flora.
She was lying at the foot of the bed, grasping the piece of Fortuny material. I went over to her.
âFlora?â I whispered. She didnât respond. I looked down at her and knew that she never would again.
Her eyes stared up at me. Her mouth was open. Her lips were blue.
I remember very little after this. My mother and father came up. I was sent to my room. I sat there, stunned, unable to cry. Flora was dead.
Dead, the doctor said, because of an attack precipitated by her hours in the conservatory, smelling the flowers, breathing the oppressive air, and spraying the roses. But I didnât believe him. It wasnât that I didnât want to admit some responsibility for her death for not having discouraged her from staying in the conservatory.
No, Flora had died because of the Caravaggio painting. The smile of the strange-looking boy had told me that.
Soon what was only the fancy of a boy saying good-bye to his childhood became the talk of the family, and then of friends and neighbors, as they remembered the death of Nonna Teresa in the same room. The Caravaggio Room was âbad luck.â It had the âevil eye.â There was a âcurseâ on it. And it was all because of the painting of the young man, which was baleful in some way that couldnât be explained by reason.
I kept my own
Similar Books
