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| George Bellows, Forty-two kids, 1907 |
This is Bora Mici's original translation from Italian into English of an extract from the short story "The Adventure of a Reader" or "L'avventura di un lettore" taken from Italo Calvino's collection of short stories Difficult Loves, or Gli amori difficili, in Italian. This collection contains several uniquely constructed love stories that highlight the psychological distance between the protagonists and those whom they love. In this particular story, Amedeo, an avid reader, who is more interested in books than in real life, is progressively torn between the engaging narrative he has his nose in and a typically attractive beach going woman, whose presence he initially observes and comments silently to himself from a distance, and the awkward encounters that ensue, bringing them closer and closer. In all of Calvino's short stories in this collection, as readers, we slowly zoom into the complexities and anticipations that get in the way of two lovers communicating clearly with each other.
Italo Calvino, L’avventura di un lettore, by Bora Mici
At that point, Amedeo began talking about jellyfish: his direct knowledge was not very extensive, but he had read some books about famous fishermen and undersea explorers so—overlooking the minute fauna—he got around to speaking about the famous manta ray. The woman on holiday was listening to him while showing great interest, and now and then, she chimed in, always exaggeratedly, like women do. “Do you see this red spot I have on my arm? Do you think it could have been a jellyfish?” Amedeo touched the spot, located a little above the elbow, and said no. It was a little reddish because she had leaned on it while sunbathing.
And that was that. They said goodbye. She returned to her spot, and he returned to his and started reading again. It had been an intermission that had lasted just the right amount of time, neither more nor less, an unanticipated human interaction, (the lady had been polite, discrete and docile) precisely because it had been so understated. Now he experienced a much fuller and much more concrete attachment to the reality in his book, where everything had a meaning, a rhythm, and was important. Amedeo felt that everything was perfect: the printed page revealed a true life to him, deep and captivating, and when he raised his eyes, he encountered a random but pleasing correspondence between colors and feelings, a secondary and decorative world that could not engage him in any way. The tanned lady smiled at him and hinted a greeting from her beach mat. He also responded with a smile and a vague gesture and immediately looked down again. But the lady had said something.
“What?”
“Are you reading? Do you always read?”
“What?”
“Is it interesting?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy the rest!”
“Thanks.”
He needed to no longer raise his eyes. At least until the end of the chapter. He read it in one breath. Now the lady had a cigarette in her mouth and was gesturing at him while pointing at it. Amedeo was under the impression that she had been trying to attract his attention for some time. “What?”
“Sorry, a match…”
“Ah no, you know what? I don’t smoke.”
The chapter was over. Amedeo quickly read the first few lines of the next one, which he found surprisingly enticing, but in order to attack the new chapter without distractions, he needed to deal with the problem of the match first. “Wait!” He got up, started jumping across the rocks, half stunned by the sun, until he found a group of people smoking. He borrowed a box of “Minerva” matches, ran back to the lady, lit her cigarette, and ran back to return the “Minerva” box. “Just keep it, you can keep it,” they told him. He ran back to the lady again and left the “Minerva” with her. She thanked him. He waited a moment before saying goodbye, but then he understood that after such hesitation, he had to say something else, and he said, “You’re not going into the water?”
“In a bit,” said the lady. “What about you?”
“I’ve already been.”
“And you won’t go in again?”
“Yes, I’ll read another chapter and then go for another swim.”
“Me too. I’ll smoke my cigarette and jump in.”
“Ok then. See you later.”
“Later.”
This semblance of an appointment restored a calmness in Amedeo, which, as he now realized, he had not experienced since he had first noticed the presence of the solitary woman on holiday. His conscience was no longer weighed down by the need to maintain any kind of imaginable relationship with that lady. Everything was postponed until the moment of the swim—a swim he would have taken anyways, even if it had not been for the lady—and now he could abandon himself to the pleasure of reading without regrets. He did so to such a degree that he had not realized that at some point—while he had still not reached the end of the chapter—the woman on holiday, who had finished her cigarette, had stood up and had come up to him to invite him to go swimming. He saw her wooden sandals and straight legs a little beyond his book, looked up, looked back down at the page—the sun was blinding—and read a few lines hurriedly. Then he went back to looking up and heard her saying, “Isn’t your head bursting? I’m jumping in!” It was still nice staying there, continuing to read and looking up now and then. But not being able to delay things any longer, Amedeo did something he would never have done. He skipped almost half a a page, until the conclusion of the chapter, which he read very attentively instead, and then he stood up.
“Let’s go! Are we jumping off the top?”
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