real.”
“Because it is real. And it will remain real. This is what I suggest. First, stay for dessert, and don’t be angry with me.” I looked up at them. They agreed, and, to my surprise, happily. “I want only the best for you.” This was true more than they could know.
“You should understand, first of all, that if you do sign with me I’ll ask only ten percent.”
They looked at one another as if perhaps ten percent was a lot and theywere about to be cheated. This made me laugh. “Anyone else, as you will see if you care to look, will take much much more than that. And anyone else would try to sign you immediately—my own first impulse. When I heard you, I ran down the stairs at the Accademia. And anyone else would never urge you to do what I am going to ask you to do now.”
They looked both expectant and disappointed.
“First, I’m going to give you ten million lire.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For nothing. You don’t have to pay it back. It will cover your expenses for the rest of the summer, and you can concentrate on what you do, without desperation. Then, go home. Think about what may happen, what life could be like. Think carefully, and keep working. It’s the work that in the end is worth something, and when you exchange it for something else, it leaves you in more ways than you know. Because of your perspective and your position, you won’t be able to believe me when I say this, but what you have now is more than you will ever have.
“Perhaps next year you’ll want to come to Milan. If you lose my card, just remember
Cassati
. You can find me. Even if you forget my name, you’ll never forget Rosanna’s, and you can reach me through her.”
“Next year,” she said, “our chances may not be as good.”
“No. Next year, your chances, once you have considered them in tranquillity, will be better. And if that is what you decide, next year, they will not seize you, you will seize them. Something that people are often afraid to know or say is that life is more splendid than career.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“From regret.”
The waiter was sweeping crumbs from the table before bringing dessert. He was my age, his hair was slicked back, and he must have wondered who we were.
T HE NEXT MORNING , when I left Venice, I felt older than I am. The hotel provided a gondola that took me, via the Grand Canal, to the station. I had time to make the trip this way rather than on the vaporetto, because the fast train left at eleven. You cannot help but feel either very old or very young, like achild, when you are helplessly borne along in a gondola, and see young people making their way on the streets and crossing the bridges, knapsacks on their backs, sandals on their feet, their strength and youth a blessedness that they only half know.
I suppose they may have envied me, riding easily in the gondola, my luggage stacked, my hat, my suit, its cream-colored linen suggesting someone of influence and consequence, which I know is not true. They may have envied me, but I envied them—sunburnt, straight of leg, firm of arm, awake as I can never be awake again. It is in the nature of things, however, that my envy be quick and benevolent, for I have had my turn, and now it is rightfully theirs. And for all my dignity and wealth, I am an impresario, and an impresario, you know, is nothing more than a glorified parasite.
I have had this discussion too many times not to know where it leads. I explain the truth of my condition, and the people I am with—usually in a restaurant—protest. How can I say that? I brought Rosanna to the world, enriching it immeasurably. That is when I shock them, because I say that I should have left her in the laundry. And when they get their breath they pronounce with annoying certainty, no, for if I had, the world would be immeasurably poorer.
“Listen,” I say, “let me tell you this. I’m an impresario. I know the job. I know what to do. I work in the
“Because it is real. And it will remain real. This is what I suggest. First, stay for dessert, and don’t be angry with me.” I looked up at them. They agreed, and, to my surprise, happily. “I want only the best for you.” This was true more than they could know.
“You should understand, first of all, that if you do sign with me I’ll ask only ten percent.”
They looked at one another as if perhaps ten percent was a lot and theywere about to be cheated. This made me laugh. “Anyone else, as you will see if you care to look, will take much much more than that. And anyone else would try to sign you immediately—my own first impulse. When I heard you, I ran down the stairs at the Accademia. And anyone else would never urge you to do what I am going to ask you to do now.”
They looked both expectant and disappointed.
“First, I’m going to give you ten million lire.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For nothing. You don’t have to pay it back. It will cover your expenses for the rest of the summer, and you can concentrate on what you do, without desperation. Then, go home. Think about what may happen, what life could be like. Think carefully, and keep working. It’s the work that in the end is worth something, and when you exchange it for something else, it leaves you in more ways than you know. Because of your perspective and your position, you won’t be able to believe me when I say this, but what you have now is more than you will ever have.
“Perhaps next year you’ll want to come to Milan. If you lose my card, just remember
Cassati
. You can find me. Even if you forget my name, you’ll never forget Rosanna’s, and you can reach me through her.”
“Next year,” she said, “our chances may not be as good.”
“No. Next year, your chances, once you have considered them in tranquillity, will be better. And if that is what you decide, next year, they will not seize you, you will seize them. Something that people are often afraid to know or say is that life is more splendid than career.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“From regret.”
The waiter was sweeping crumbs from the table before bringing dessert. He was my age, his hair was slicked back, and he must have wondered who we were.
T HE NEXT MORNING , when I left Venice, I felt older than I am. The hotel provided a gondola that took me, via the Grand Canal, to the station. I had time to make the trip this way rather than on the vaporetto, because the fast train left at eleven. You cannot help but feel either very old or very young, like achild, when you are helplessly borne along in a gondola, and see young people making their way on the streets and crossing the bridges, knapsacks on their backs, sandals on their feet, their strength and youth a blessedness that they only half know.
I suppose they may have envied me, riding easily in the gondola, my luggage stacked, my hat, my suit, its cream-colored linen suggesting someone of influence and consequence, which I know is not true. They may have envied me, but I envied them—sunburnt, straight of leg, firm of arm, awake as I can never be awake again. It is in the nature of things, however, that my envy be quick and benevolent, for I have had my turn, and now it is rightfully theirs. And for all my dignity and wealth, I am an impresario, and an impresario, you know, is nothing more than a glorified parasite.
I have had this discussion too many times not to know where it leads. I explain the truth of my condition, and the people I am with—usually in a restaurant—protest. How can I say that? I brought Rosanna to the world, enriching it immeasurably. That is when I shock them, because I say that I should have left her in the laundry. And when they get their breath they pronounce with annoying certainty, no, for if I had, the world would be immeasurably poorer.
“Listen,” I say, “let me tell you this. I’m an impresario. I know the job. I know what to do. I work in the
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