Farewell to the Flesh by Edward Sklepowich

quick, brief glance her green eyes now gave Urbino was all the more forceful for having been withheld for what seemed much longer than it actually was. “At any rate, it’s not up to me. I get my assignments, I do my work. Not that I’m not thrilled to be working on another of Porfirio’s collections. They’re quite magnificent.”
    â€œThey certainly are!” Basso agreed heartily. “And don’t forget that you get to come to our beautiful city.”
    â€œBelieve me, Signor Basso, such extravagances are beyond our budget. I know my Italian and, as far as my editor is concerned, that’s supposed to be sufficient. But it’s Carnevale and I thought I’d take a look for myself at the relics—although I’m not exactly sure what the advantage might be for a mere translation.”
    â€œI wouldn’t denigrate your work like that, Miss Reeve,” Urbino said.
    â€œTraditore, traduttore ,” Basso said loudly with his small, round head thrown back, reciting a popular Italian saying that played on the similarity between the words “betrayer” and “translator.”
    â€œI hope that my translations aren’t in any way a betrayal, Signor Basso. What you say is more appropriate for a translator of Dante or Petrarch.” Then, without any preliminary except for a slight intake of breath and as if she were doing the most natural thing in the world, Hazel Reeve recited the opening canto of Dante’s Inferno:
    â€œNel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
    Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
    Che la diritta via era smarrita.”
    After finishing she said quickly, as if to discourage any possible praise or criticism of her Italian, “I’ve read at least a dozen English translations of those lines and not one even comes close to the original. How would it be possible! When it comes to Dante,” she said, directing herself to the architect, “the translator is a betrayer, even if he does have the purest of hearts and the best of intentions.”
    Urbino paid little attention to Basso’s response. Hazel Reeve’s recitation was still sounding in his ears. He, too, like Dante, was midway in his own life’s journey—if he were, in fact, to be blessed with the three score and ten the Bible allotted. In no way had he, like Dante, gone astray in a dark wood—or even among all the beauties of Venice that could be so disorienting. Yet Dante’s words, spoken so well by this young Englishwoman, had seemed to be speaking directly to him, reminding him somehow of the warning the Contessa had given him on the day of the Regatta.
    â€œYou seem lost in thought, Mr. Macintyre,” Hazel Reeve said. “I didn’t mean to be superior, rattling off Dante like that. You’ll have to forgive me. I love Italian so much that I forget it’s not a language most people are inclined to study, certainly not the way they do French and Spanish.”
    â€œI know Italian well enough,” Urbino said with what he hoped would be taken as neither pride nor injured feelings. “It was just that the Dante—” He stopped. How could he explain something that he didn’t understand himself?
    â€œIt’s just that you spoke so well,” he finished.
    â€œD’accordo!” Basso said with a lift of his glass. “But your Italian is equal to hers, Signor Macintyre. There’s no cause for envy.”
    Feeling completely misunderstood and yet not up to explaining himself, Urbino said nothing. He drew comfort, however, from the look that Hazel Reeve gave him as she took a sip of her wine, another look from her brilliant green eyes.
    She seemed to know exactly how he felt. He had no need to make explanations.
    â€œSignor Macintyre is a writer,” Basso said.
    Interest flickered in Hazel Reeve’s eyes.
    â€œDo you write novels?”
    â€œNot novels, although on occasion I’ve been accused of