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The Mysterious Flame Of Queen Loana :: Эко Умберто
Страница: 16 из 286First series, works of art."
I performed well: the Mona Lisa, Manet’s Olympia , this one is a Picasso, that one is a good imitation.
"See how well you recognize them? Now let’s try some contemporary figures."
Another series of photographs, and here too, with the exception of one or two faces that meant nothing to me, my answers were on target: Greta Garbo, Einstein, Toto, Kennedy, Moravia, and who they were. Gratarolo asked me what they had in common. They were famous? Not enough, there’s something else. I balked.
"They’re all dead now," Gratarolo said.
"What, even Kennedy and Moravia?"
"Moravia died at the end of last year. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas in 1963."
"Oh, those poor guys. I’m sorry."
"That you wouldn’t remember about Moravia is almost normal, he just died recently, and your semantic memory didn’t have much time to absorb the event. Kennedy, on the other hand, baffles me-that’s old news, the stuff of encyclopedias."
"He was deeply affected by the Kennedy affair," Paola said. "Maybe Kennedy got lumped with his personal memories."
Gratarolo pulled out some other photographs. One showed two men: the first was certainly me, except well groomed and well dressed, and with that irresistible smile Paola had mentioned. The other man had a friendly face, too, but I did not know him.
"That’s Gianni Laivelli, your best friend," Paola said. "He was your desk mate from first grade through high school."
"Who are these?" asked Gratarolo, bringing out another image. It was an old photograph. The woman had a thirties-style hairdo, a white, moderately low-cut dress, and a teeny-tiny little button nose. The man had perfectly parted hair, maybe a little brilliantine, a pronounced nose, and a broad, open smile. I did not recognize them. (Artists? No, it was not glamorous or stagy enough. Maybe newlyweds.) But I felt a tug in the pit of my stomach and-I do not know what to call it-a gentle swoon.
Paola noticed it: "Yambo, that’s your parents on their wedding day."
"Are they still alive?" I asked.
"No, they died a while ago. In a car accident."
"You got worked up looking at that photo," Gratarolo said. "Certain images spark something inside you. That’s a start."
"But what kind of start is it, if I can’t even find papà and mamma in that damn hellhole," I shouted. "You tell me that these two were my parents, so now I know, but it’s a memory that you’ve given me. I’ll remember the photo from now on, but not them.
I performed well: the Mona Lisa, Manet’s Olympia , this one is a Picasso, that one is a good imitation.
"See how well you recognize them? Now let’s try some contemporary figures."
Another series of photographs, and here too, with the exception of one or two faces that meant nothing to me, my answers were on target: Greta Garbo, Einstein, Toto, Kennedy, Moravia, and who they were. Gratarolo asked me what they had in common. They were famous? Not enough, there’s something else. I balked.
"They’re all dead now," Gratarolo said.
"What, even Kennedy and Moravia?"
"Moravia died at the end of last year. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas in 1963."
"Oh, those poor guys. I’m sorry."
"That you wouldn’t remember about Moravia is almost normal, he just died recently, and your semantic memory didn’t have much time to absorb the event. Kennedy, on the other hand, baffles me-that’s old news, the stuff of encyclopedias."
"He was deeply affected by the Kennedy affair," Paola said. "Maybe Kennedy got lumped with his personal memories."
Gratarolo pulled out some other photographs. One showed two men: the first was certainly me, except well groomed and well dressed, and with that irresistible smile Paola had mentioned. The other man had a friendly face, too, but I did not know him.
"That’s Gianni Laivelli, your best friend," Paola said. "He was your desk mate from first grade through high school."
"Who are these?" asked Gratarolo, bringing out another image. It was an old photograph. The woman had a thirties-style hairdo, a white, moderately low-cut dress, and a teeny-tiny little button nose. The man had perfectly parted hair, maybe a little brilliantine, a pronounced nose, and a broad, open smile. I did not recognize them. (Artists? No, it was not glamorous or stagy enough. Maybe newlyweds.) But I felt a tug in the pit of my stomach and-I do not know what to call it-a gentle swoon.
Paola noticed it: "Yambo, that’s your parents on their wedding day."
"Are they still alive?" I asked.
"No, they died a while ago. In a car accident."
"You got worked up looking at that photo," Gratarolo said. "Certain images spark something inside you. That’s a start."
"But what kind of start is it, if I can’t even find papà and mamma in that damn hellhole," I shouted. "You tell me that these two were my parents, so now I know, but it’s a memory that you’ve given me. I’ll remember the photo from now on, but not them.