John Shea
THE LETTERS
I
Ma s' a conoscer la prima radice
del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto,
diro come colui che piange e dice.
"I am almost mad with longing - desire - for you and 1
find that no day goes by without the thoughts of you filling my head.
Like yesterday, I remember - actually, 'it comes to me' is more
accurate - kissing you, tasting the taste - sorry, it's hard to come up
with synonyms on the spot-of your lips, burying-I think-my
face in your bosom...." There was a slight pause; the pages
rustled; he held them away and looked at them with a bemused
expression. "Do you really want me to continue?"
"Yes, yes, don't stop now! I've just got to know what comes
next," she said, rocking in the chair, her eyes bright.
"It seems somewhat personal, you know," he said, lifting an
eyebrow. "I haven't looked further, but who knows how far it goes.
Lips, bosom-one can imagine what comes next."
"Oh, I know what he's talking about.
You
know what he's talk–
ing about. I told you what happened, Terry, so you don't have to be
embarrassed. "
"Well," he said, glancing back at the letter again, letting his eyes
drift over the tiny foreign-looking script with its full curves and
determined tilt to the left of the page, "if
you're
not embarrassed." He
found the spot where he had paused. "My face in your bosom,
smelling your fragrant scent of womanhood ... of everything that
you meant to me, mean to me, that evening at the
pensione
after. ...
Some restaurant, I presume?" She nodded, her eyes closed. "You
were who I had looked for all my life, and then like magic you were
mine, my Beatrice, my Laura, all in one."
"Who?" asked Marie, looking up.
"Dante's girlfriend, and Petrarch's ... although that's putting it
rather crudely. This guy's some talker!"
