possible comparison with a devotion thatâs lasted a lifetime. Mrs. A. still has the luxury of preparing for her deathâand to determine the fate of each of those objects exactly as she wishes.
âTheyâre fine here,â she replies.
The question creates a momentary rift: I realize it when she quickly invites me to leave that hall of memorabilia and move to the living room; she feels cold, she says. I know what sheâs thinking, and I canât blame her. Although I donât think I had an ulterior motive, still, I must admit that I noticed the painting of the nude woman about to peel peaches, and for a moment I imagined it hanging in Noraâs and my bedroom, something that might seem intimate enough to be up there watching us every night, awake or asleep.
_____
After that Sunday I found myself in Mrs. A.âs apartment one more time. She had been dead for four months. In the end sheâd left us two matching pieces of furniture, a table and a credenza from the twenties, both cream-colored; I had to hurry and pick them up before the place was sold. Two pieces of furniture: Babetteâs only gift to us and all we have left of her. She had not provided for Emanuele.
Both cousins, Virna and Marcella, were waiting for me. The table and the credenza were the onlyfurnishings remaining, along with a series of cartons containing odds and ends: a pressure cooker, two plastic pitchers and a set of gold-rimmed glasses.
âThose weâll give to charity,â Virna said.
âA noble intention,â I remarked, without a hint of sarcasm.
Not a trace of the chandeliers, the collection of pocketwatches and the pre-Columbian statues, no sign of the paintings and the grandfather clock in the living room. Even the double panes of the windows were gone. Now the light of day invaded the room aggressively, as it had never been allowed to do before. Itâs an apartment that has been plundered, the swift demobilization of an entire lifetime devoted to preservation. Mrs. A. had had plenty of time, months and months, to ensure that those sacred objects be handed down and given some meaning, and she hadnât done anything. After the diagnosis she had focused on nothing but striving desperately each day to gain a few more futile hours for herself. There was not a sign left of her, or of all that she had watched over for a lifetime.
Poor, foolish Mrs. A.! You let yourself be dupedâdeath tricked you, and the illness before that. Whereare the paintings that you kept hidden behind the screen? For years you didnât even look at them, afraid the dust would damage them. Even the screen has disappeared, probably abandoned in some damp storeroom, wrapped in plastic and raised off the ground by a pallet. We have to consider the future, Mrs. A., always. You often boasted about how smart you were, how you learned everything you knew from experience, but unfortunately it didnât turn out to be very useful. You would have been better off thinking about it more, because your common sense wasnât enough to save you or your possessions. The end does not pardon us even the slightest of faults, even the most innocent of failings.
_____
We placed the table in the kitchen. Emanuele recognized it and walked around it, not touching it, as if wondering what spatiotemporal channel had transported it from Mrs. A.âs house, from the past, to here. The first night eating at it was strange; none of us was used to the chill of the marble surface, to its smooth feel as our forearms rested on it. The artificial lightglared off the white tabletop into our eyes; the whole room was suddenly more brilliant.
âIâll have to get a lower-watt bulb,â I said.
âRight,â Nora replied, preoccupied. Then she added, âDonât you feel like weâre eating with her?â
There was no room for the credenza: too wide, too bulky for our urban kitchen. We put it in the basement, to await a
âTheyâre fine here,â she replies.
The question creates a momentary rift: I realize it when she quickly invites me to leave that hall of memorabilia and move to the living room; she feels cold, she says. I know what sheâs thinking, and I canât blame her. Although I donât think I had an ulterior motive, still, I must admit that I noticed the painting of the nude woman about to peel peaches, and for a moment I imagined it hanging in Noraâs and my bedroom, something that might seem intimate enough to be up there watching us every night, awake or asleep.
_____
After that Sunday I found myself in Mrs. A.âs apartment one more time. She had been dead for four months. In the end sheâd left us two matching pieces of furniture, a table and a credenza from the twenties, both cream-colored; I had to hurry and pick them up before the place was sold. Two pieces of furniture: Babetteâs only gift to us and all we have left of her. She had not provided for Emanuele.
Both cousins, Virna and Marcella, were waiting for me. The table and the credenza were the onlyfurnishings remaining, along with a series of cartons containing odds and ends: a pressure cooker, two plastic pitchers and a set of gold-rimmed glasses.
âThose weâll give to charity,â Virna said.
âA noble intention,â I remarked, without a hint of sarcasm.
Not a trace of the chandeliers, the collection of pocketwatches and the pre-Columbian statues, no sign of the paintings and the grandfather clock in the living room. Even the double panes of the windows were gone. Now the light of day invaded the room aggressively, as it had never been allowed to do before. Itâs an apartment that has been plundered, the swift demobilization of an entire lifetime devoted to preservation. Mrs. A. had had plenty of time, months and months, to ensure that those sacred objects be handed down and given some meaning, and she hadnât done anything. After the diagnosis she had focused on nothing but striving desperately each day to gain a few more futile hours for herself. There was not a sign left of her, or of all that she had watched over for a lifetime.
Poor, foolish Mrs. A.! You let yourself be dupedâdeath tricked you, and the illness before that. Whereare the paintings that you kept hidden behind the screen? For years you didnât even look at them, afraid the dust would damage them. Even the screen has disappeared, probably abandoned in some damp storeroom, wrapped in plastic and raised off the ground by a pallet. We have to consider the future, Mrs. A., always. You often boasted about how smart you were, how you learned everything you knew from experience, but unfortunately it didnât turn out to be very useful. You would have been better off thinking about it more, because your common sense wasnât enough to save you or your possessions. The end does not pardon us even the slightest of faults, even the most innocent of failings.
_____
We placed the table in the kitchen. Emanuele recognized it and walked around it, not touching it, as if wondering what spatiotemporal channel had transported it from Mrs. A.âs house, from the past, to here. The first night eating at it was strange; none of us was used to the chill of the marble surface, to its smooth feel as our forearms rested on it. The artificial lightglared off the white tabletop into our eyes; the whole room was suddenly more brilliant.
âIâll have to get a lower-watt bulb,â I said.
âRight,â Nora replied, preoccupied. Then she added, âDonât you feel like weâre eating with her?â
There was no room for the credenza: too wide, too bulky for our urban kitchen. We put it in the basement, to await a
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