The Young Bride

by Alessandro Baricco

  You must have done a lot of dancing, signorina, over there. I’m glad of it.

  Then he took a sip of champagne and fell asleep again.

  The Uncle was a welcome, and irreplaceable, figure in the family. A mysterious syndrome, whose only known sufferer he was, kept him in a constant sleep from which he emerged for very brief intervals, for the sole purpose of participating in the conversation with a precision that we were all now used to considering obvious but that was, clearly, illogical. Something in him was able to register, even in sleep, any event and every word. Indeed, the fact that he came from elsewhere often seemed to give him such lucidity, or such a singular view of things, that his wakings and relevant utterances were endowed with an almost oracular, prophetic resonance. This reassured us greatly, because we knew we could count at any moment on the reserves of a mind so rested that it could completely untangle any knot that appeared in domestic discussion or daily life. In addition, we rather liked the astonishment of strangers encountering those singular feats, a detail that made our house even more attractive. Returning to their families, the guests often took with them the legendary memory of that man who could, while sleeping, be halted even in complex movements, of which holding a champagne glass full to the brim was but a pale example. He could shave in his sleep, and on occasion he had been seen to play the piano as he slept, although he took slightly slowed-down tempos. There were even those who claimed to have seen him play tennis in a deep sleep: it seems that he woke only at the change of sides. I refer to him out of necessity to the story, but also because today I seemed to glimpse a coherence in everything that is happening to me, and so for a few hours it’s been easy to hear sounds that otherwise, in the grip of confusion, I would find inaudible: for example, often, the clattering of life on the marble table of time, like dropped pearls. The need of the living to be funny—that in particular.

  Ah, yes, you must have danced a lot, the Mother affirmed, I couldn’t have said it better, and besides I’ve never loved fruit pies (many of her syllogisms were in fact inscrutable).

  The tango? asked the notary Bertini, agitated. For him, uttering the word “tango” was in itself sexual.

  The tango? Argentina? In that climate? asked the Mother, though it wasn’t clear whom she was addressing.

  I can assure you that the tango is clearly Argentine in origin, the notary insisted.

  Then the voice of the young Bride was heard.

  I lived in the pampas for three years. Our neighbor was two days away by horseback. A priest brought us the Eucharist once a month. Once a year we’d set out for Buenos Aires, with the idea of attending the première of the Opera Season. But we never arrived in time. It was always much farther than we thought.

  Definitely not very practical, the Mother observed. How did your father think he would find you a husband like that?

  Someone pointed out to her that the young Bride was engaged to her Son.

  It’s obvious, you think I didn’t know? I made a general observation.

  But it’s true, the young Bride said, they dance the tango over there. It’s lovely, she said.

  The mysterious oscillation of space that always heralded the Uncle’s imponderable awakenings could be felt.

  The tango gives a past to those who don’t have one and a future to those who don’t hope for one. Then he fell asleep again.

  While the Daughter, on the chair next to the Father, watched, silently.

  She was the same age as the young Bride—it’s many years, incidentally, since I was that age. (Now, thinking back, I see only a great confusion, but also—what seems to me interesting—the waste of an unprecedented and unused beauty. Which, moreover, brings me back to the story that I intend to tell, if only to save my life, but certainly also for the simple reason that telling it is my job.) The Daughter, I was saying. She had inherited from the Mother a beauty that in that region was aristocratic: for the women of that land enjoyed only limited flashes of splendor—the shape of the eyes, two good legs, raven black hair—never that complete and full perfection (apparently the product of improvements made over centuries in the procession of countless generations) which the Mother retained and which she, the Daughter, miraculously replicated, with the gilding, moreover, of youth. And up to there everything was fine. But the truth appears when I emerge from my graceful immobility and move, shifting irreparable amounts of unhappiness, owing to the unalterable fact that I am a cripple. An accident, I was around eight. A cart out of control, a horse shying suddenly on a narrow city street, houses close on either side. Renowned doctors, called from abroad, did the rest—maybe it was bad luck, not even incompetence—but in a complicated, painful way. When I walk I drag one leg, the right, which although perfectly shaped is unreasonably heavy and has no idea how to harmonize with the rest of the body. The foot lands heavily and is partly numb. The arm isn’t normal, either; it seems capable of only three positions, none very graceful. You might call it a mechanical arm. Thus, seeing me get up from a chair and come toward you, in greeting, or as a gesture of courtesy, is a strange experience, of which the word disappointment can give a pale idea. Unspeakably beautiful, I disintegrate at the slightest movement, in an instant turning admiration into pity and desire into unease.

  It’s something I know. But I have no inclination for sadness, or talent for suffering.

  While the conversation had moved on to the late flowering of the cherry trees, the young Bride went over to the Daughter and leaned over to kiss her on the cheeks. She didn’t get up, because at that moment she wished to be beautiful. They spoke in low voices, as if they were old friends, or perhaps out of the sudden desire to become so. Instinctively, the Daughter understood that the young Bride had learned distance, and would never discard it, having chosen it as her own inimitable form of elegance. She’ll always be innocent and mysterious, she thought. They’ll adore her.

  Then, when the first empty champagne bottles were being carried off, the conversation had an almost magical moment of collective suspension, and in that silence the young Bride asked politely if she could pose a question.

  But of course, darling.

  Is the Son not here?

  The Son? said the Mother, to give the Uncle time to emerge from his elsewhere and help out, but since nothing happened, Ah, the Son, of course, the Son, obviously, my Son, yes, it’s a good question. Then she turned to the Father. Dear?

  In England, said the Father, with complete serenity. Do you have an idea of what England is, signorina?

  I think so.

  There. The Son is in England. But temporarily.

  In the sense that he’ll be back?

  Certainly, as soon as we summon him.

  And you’ll summon him?

  It’s definitely something we ought to do as soon as possible.

  This very day, the Mother specified, unfurling a particular smile that she kept for important occasions.

  So that afternoon—and not before he had exhausted the liturgy of breakfast—the Father sat down at his desk and undertook to record what had happened. He did this, usually, with some delay—I refer to the recording of the facts of life, and especially those that involved some disorderliness—but I wouldn’t want this to be interpreted as a form of sluggish inefficiency. It was, in reality, a reasonable precaution, on doctor’s orders. As everyone knew, the Father was born with what he liked to define as “an imprecision of the heart,” an expression that should not be placed in a sentimental context: something irreparable had torn in his cardiac muscle when he was still a hypothesis under construction in his mother’s womb, and so he was born with a heart of glass, which first the doctors and later, in consequence, he was resigned to. There was no cure, except for a prudent and slowed-down approach to the world. If you believed the books, a particular shock, or an unprepared-for emotion, would carry him off immediately. The Father, however, knew from experience that this should not
be taken too literally. He had understood that he was on loan to life, and he had drawn from that a tendency toward caution, an inclination to order, and the confused certainty of inhabiting a special destiny. To this should be attributed his natural good humor and occasional ferocity. I would like to add that he didn’t fear death: he had such familiarity, not to say intimacy, with it that he was absolutely certain he would sense its arrival in time to use it well.

  So, that day, he wasn’t in a particular hurry to record the appearance of the young Bride. Yet, with the usual tasks taken care of, he didn’t avoid the job that awaited him: he bent over his desk and without hesitation composed the text of the telegram, conceiving it with respect for the elementary requirements of economy and the intention of achieving the unequivocal clarity that was necessary. It bore these words:

  Young Bride returned. Hurry.

  The Mother, for her part, decided that, no question, the young Bride, having no home of her own, and in a certain sense not even a family since every possession and every relative had moved to South America, would stay with them to wait. Since the Monsignor didn’t seem to offer any moral objection, despite the Son’s absence from the family roof, she asked Modesto to get the guest room ready, which they didn’t know much about, since no one ever stayed in it. They were moderately sure that it existed, however. It had the last time.

  There’s no need for any guest room—she’ll sleep with me, the Daughter said tranquilly. She was sitting down, and at those moments her beauty was such that no one could refuse her.

  If you’d like to, naturally, the Daughter added, seeking the young Bride’s gaze.

  I would, said the young Bride.

  So she joined the Household, which she had imagined that she would enter as a wife, and now instead found herself sister, daughter, guest, pleasing presence, decoration. Doing so turned out to be natural to her, and she quickly learned the habits and tempos of an unfamiliar way of life. She noted its strangeness, but seldom went so far as to suspect its absurdity. A few days after her arrival, Modesto approached and respectfully let her understand that if she felt the need for any explanations it would be his privilege to enlighten her.

  Are there rules that have escaped me? asked the young Bride.

  If I may, I will point out just four, so as not to put too many irons in the fire, he said.

  All right.

  The night is feared, but I imagine you’ve already been informed of that.

  Yes, of course. I thought it was a legend, but I see that it’s not.

  Exactly. And that is the first.

  To fear the night.

  To respect it, let’s say.

  To respect it.

  Precisely. Second: unhappiness is not welcome.

  Oh, no?

  Don’t misunderstand me, the thing must be understood in its correct context.

  Which is what?

  In the course of three generations, the Family has amassed a considerable fortune, and if you happen to wonder how it achieved such a result may I suggest the answer: talent, courage, malice, lucky mistakes, and a profound, consistent, flawless sense of economy. When I speak of economy I don’t mean only money. This family wastes nothing. Do you follow me?

  Of course.

  You see, here they tend to believe that unhappiness is a waste of time and hence a form of luxury that for a number of years yet cannot be allowed. Maybe some tomorrow. But, for now, there is no circumstance of life, however painful, from which souls may be permitted to steal more than a momentary confusion. Unhappiness steals time from joy, and in joy prosperity is built. If you think about it for a moment, it’s very simple.

  May I raise an objection?

  Please.

  If they are such maniacs for economy, how does that fit with those breakfasts?

  They aren’t breakfasts: they are rites of thanksgiving.

  Ah.

  And then I said a sense of economy, not stinginess, a characteristic completely alien to the Family.

  I understand.

  I’m sure—these are nuances that you are certainly able to grasp.

  Thank you.

  There is a third rule to which I would draw your attention, if I may continue to impose on your time.

  Take advantage. If it were up to me, I would listen to you for hours.

  Do you read books?

  Yes.

  Don’t.

  No?

  Do you see books in this house?

  No, in fact, now that you point it out, no.

  Exactly. There are no books.

  Why?

  The Family has great faith in things, in people, and in themselves. They don’t see the need to resort to palliatives.

  I’m not sure I understand.

  Life already has everything, provided you listen to it, and books are a useless distraction from that task, which this entire family attends to with such dedication that a man engaged in reading, in these rooms, would necessarily seem a deserter.

  Surprising.

  Debatable, too. But I consider it right to emphasize that this tacit rule is interpreted very strictly in this house. May I make a modest confession?

  I would be honored.

  I love to read, so I keep a book hidden in my room, and I devote some time to it, before going to sleep. But never more than one. When I finish it, I destroy it. This is not to suggest that you do the same; it’s so that you’ll understand the gravity of the situation.

  I think I understand, yes.

  Good.

  There was a fourth rule?

  Yes, but it’s more or less self-evident.

  Tell me.

  As you know, the Father has an imprecision in his heart.

  Of course.

  Don’t expect from him distractions from a general, necessary tranquility. Or claim them, naturally.

  Naturally. Is he really in danger of dying at any moment, as they say?

  I’m afraid so, yes. But you must realize that during the daylight hours there is practically no danger.

  Ah, yes.

  Good. I think that’s all, for now. No, one more thing.

  Modesto hesitated. He was wondering if it was necessary to proceed with making the young Bride literate, or if it was a useless effort, if not actually imprudent. He remained silent for a moment, then gave two coughs, rather dry and close together.

  Do you think you could memorize what you just heard?

  The coughs?

  They aren’t coughs, they are a warning. Kindly consider them my respectful system for alerting you, if necessary, to possible errors.

  Let me hear them again . . .

  Modesto produced an exact replica of the laryngeal message.

  Two dry coughs, close together, I understand. Pay attention.

  Exactly.

  Are there many others?

  More than what I am willing to reveal to you before your marriage, signorina.

  All right.

  Now I really must go.

  You’ve been very helpful, Modesto.

  It was what I hoped to be able to be.

  May I repay you in some way?

  The old man looked up at her. For an instant he felt he might express one of the childish requests that surfaced in his mind unchecked, but then he remembered that distance was a measure of humility, and of the nobility of his office, so he lowered his gaze and, with an almost imperceptible bow, confined himself to saying that an occasion would surely arise. He left, taking the first steps backward and then turning around as if a gust of wind, and not a disrespectful choice, had decided for him—a technique of which he was a peerless master.

  But there were also different days, obviously.

  Every other Thursday, for example, early in the morning, the Father went to the city: oft
en accompanied by his trusted cardiologist, Dr. Acerbi, he was welcomed at the bank, visited his trusted tradesmen—tailor, barber, dentist, but also suppliers of cigars, shoes, hats, walking sticks, and, occasionally, confessors—had at the proper time a substantial lunch, and finally allowed himself what he usually called an elegant walk. The elegance came from the pace he assumed and the route he chose: the former never careless, the latter along the streets of the center. He almost always ended the day at the brothel, but, keeping in mind the imprecision of his heart, he interpreted the practice as something hygienic, so to speak. Convinced that a certain release of bodily fluids was necessary to the equilibrium of his organism, he had found women available there who were able to provoke it almost painlessly, meaning by pain any excitement that could crack the glass of his heart. Insisting on such prudence from the Mother would have been vain, and, besides, the two slept in separate rooms; although they loved each other deeply, they hadn’t chosen each other, as will become clear, for reasons having to do with their bodies. The Father came out of the brothel in the late afternoon. On the way home he reflected: his fierce decisions often had their origins there.

  Every month, but on different days, Comandini, the firm’s business manager, arrived, announced by a telegram forty-eight hours in advance. Then every custom was sacrificed to the urgency of business, the guests put off, the breakfasts pared to the bone, and the life of the House handed over to the torrential narrations of that little man with nervous gestures who knew, by unfathomable means, what people would want to wear the next year, or how to get them to want the fabrics that the Father had decided to produce the year before. He was rarely mistaken, he could negotiate in seven languages, he squandered everything gambling, and he had a fondness for redheads. Years before, he had emerged unhurt from a frightful train wreck: since then he had stopped eating white meat and playing chess, but had given no explanation.

  During Lent the spectacle of the breakfasts was reduced, on holidays everyone wore white, and they skipped the night of the Patron Saint, which fell in June, by gambling. The first Saturday of the month there was music, a gathering of amateurs from the neighborhood and, occasionally, professional singers remunerated with English tweed jackets. On the last day of summer the Uncle organized a bicycle race open to everyone, while at Carnival they had for years hired a Hungarian magician who, with age, had become little more than a good-natured entertainer. At the Immaculate Conception they killed a pig under the guidance of a butcher famous for his stutter, and in November, in years when the fog thickened to an offensive consistency, they organized—often making a sudden decision, dictated by exasperation—a rather solemn ball, at which, with contempt for the milky darkness outside, they burned a number of candles surprising in every respect: it was as if a quivering late-summer-afternoon sun were beating down on the parquet-floored room, unleashing dance steps that returned everyone to a kind of South of the soul.