it’s not too gold, I couldn’t have done less.
She holds up a second mirror in the form of a triptych with a golden frame, so that her client can see the sides and back. She touches one curl by the still youthful nape of her client’s neck.
So much better, Zdena says very softly. By this she means: The better I look, the less I will give Ninon to worry about.
And Linda, smiling, replies: I wish you with your Italian all the best in the world, I really do!
M arella told me Dr. Gastaldi hadn’t been too bad when she saw him about a swollen knee. I went to see him because the cold sore on my mouth wouldn’t go away. He gave me some ointment and said he’d like some blood tests to be taken. His desk top had a marquetry picture of camels with the pyramids on it. From one of his waistcoat pockets he took out a magnifying glass to examine my fingernails. You bite them? he asked. I didn’t reply: he could see for himself.
It’ll clear up very soon, Dr. Gastaldi said, pocketing the twenty thousand.
East of Torino, where the road runs on the southern side of the Po, the name RITA has been written on a high brick wall in white paint. Half a kilometre later the same RITA has been written again, this time on the blind end of a house. The third time RITA is on the ground, on the asphalt of a parking lot. Many places are named after people. Following historical convulsions the names get changed. The road with Rita’s name will always be Rita’s road for the one in love with her, the one who went out one night—a little drunk, or a little desperate, as happens if you’re in love with Rita—with a paintbrush, a screwdriver with white on its handle and a pot of white paint.
Dr. Gastaldi holds open the door and asks me to take a seat. Then he sits behind his desk—from where he can see the pyramids and camels the right way up—and, with his glasses on, he fingers some papers as if he was looking for a telephone number. He looks as if he has had a bad night.
I’ve been waiting for you to come for days, he says.
It’s gone, I say.
I’m afraid you must go to hospital for some more tests.
I touch my lip and insist: It’s getting better, Doctor. Forget it.
I’m afraid it’s not just your lip. Dr. Gastaldi is still mumbling into his papers. Then he looks up at me and his eyes behind his glasses are like plums cut in half, and he says:Your blood tests, my dear, were a shock, but I’m obliged to tell you the truth. Do you know what seropositive is? HIV.
I wasn’t born yesterday.
I’m afraid that’s what they show. Have you ever shot up?
Have you ever masturbated, Doctor?
I know it’s a terrible shock.
I don’t understand what you’re saying.
You have been contaminated by the HIV.
It’s a mistake. They must have mixed up the bloods.
I fear it’s very unlikely.
Of course they have! You must do another test. They make mistakes. They’re always making mistakes.
I’m watching the pyramids upside down. Papa, can you hear me? I’m twenty-four and I’m going to die.
When the signalman crosses the Po at San Sebastiano, where the river is already larger than a village is long, he drives slowly with only one hand. There is no vehicle in front of him.
I phone Marella and I ask her to come round. I have to talk. I tell her what’s happened. Christ! she says.
After he has crossed the bridge, the signalman stops, puts both feet down and looks up at the sky, his arms hanging limp.
This morning when I woke up I didn’t remember. For a few seconds. For a few seconds I forgot. I didn’t remember. Dear God.
The signalman grips the grips, revs and taps down into first.
I have a rendezvous with Gino in Verona and I shan’t go. No. Never.
The signalman has disappeared behind a reed bank, driving fast now, as if he has changed his mind about something.
Listen, Marella, this is what Gino writes in a letter which came this morning: I’m wearing the T-shirt with Vialli onit, he writes, because you said he was
She holds up a second mirror in the form of a triptych with a golden frame, so that her client can see the sides and back. She touches one curl by the still youthful nape of her client’s neck.
So much better, Zdena says very softly. By this she means: The better I look, the less I will give Ninon to worry about.
And Linda, smiling, replies: I wish you with your Italian all the best in the world, I really do!
M arella told me Dr. Gastaldi hadn’t been too bad when she saw him about a swollen knee. I went to see him because the cold sore on my mouth wouldn’t go away. He gave me some ointment and said he’d like some blood tests to be taken. His desk top had a marquetry picture of camels with the pyramids on it. From one of his waistcoat pockets he took out a magnifying glass to examine my fingernails. You bite them? he asked. I didn’t reply: he could see for himself.
It’ll clear up very soon, Dr. Gastaldi said, pocketing the twenty thousand.
East of Torino, where the road runs on the southern side of the Po, the name RITA has been written on a high brick wall in white paint. Half a kilometre later the same RITA has been written again, this time on the blind end of a house. The third time RITA is on the ground, on the asphalt of a parking lot. Many places are named after people. Following historical convulsions the names get changed. The road with Rita’s name will always be Rita’s road for the one in love with her, the one who went out one night—a little drunk, or a little desperate, as happens if you’re in love with Rita—with a paintbrush, a screwdriver with white on its handle and a pot of white paint.
Dr. Gastaldi holds open the door and asks me to take a seat. Then he sits behind his desk—from where he can see the pyramids and camels the right way up—and, with his glasses on, he fingers some papers as if he was looking for a telephone number. He looks as if he has had a bad night.
I’ve been waiting for you to come for days, he says.
It’s gone, I say.
I’m afraid you must go to hospital for some more tests.
I touch my lip and insist: It’s getting better, Doctor. Forget it.
I’m afraid it’s not just your lip. Dr. Gastaldi is still mumbling into his papers. Then he looks up at me and his eyes behind his glasses are like plums cut in half, and he says:Your blood tests, my dear, were a shock, but I’m obliged to tell you the truth. Do you know what seropositive is? HIV.
I wasn’t born yesterday.
I’m afraid that’s what they show. Have you ever shot up?
Have you ever masturbated, Doctor?
I know it’s a terrible shock.
I don’t understand what you’re saying.
You have been contaminated by the HIV.
It’s a mistake. They must have mixed up the bloods.
I fear it’s very unlikely.
Of course they have! You must do another test. They make mistakes. They’re always making mistakes.
I’m watching the pyramids upside down. Papa, can you hear me? I’m twenty-four and I’m going to die.
When the signalman crosses the Po at San Sebastiano, where the river is already larger than a village is long, he drives slowly with only one hand. There is no vehicle in front of him.
I phone Marella and I ask her to come round. I have to talk. I tell her what’s happened. Christ! she says.
After he has crossed the bridge, the signalman stops, puts both feet down and looks up at the sky, his arms hanging limp.
This morning when I woke up I didn’t remember. For a few seconds. For a few seconds I forgot. I didn’t remember. Dear God.
The signalman grips the grips, revs and taps down into first.
I have a rendezvous with Gino in Verona and I shan’t go. No. Never.
The signalman has disappeared behind a reed bank, driving fast now, as if he has changed his mind about something.
Listen, Marella, this is what Gino writes in a letter which came this morning: I’m wearing the T-shirt with Vialli onit, he writes, because you said he was
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