196
Fabrizio Randazzo,
Architetto
Disoccupato.
PARTISAN REVIEW
It made a nice little jingle. But back to the letter and its flesh touch–
ing flesh, the tingling of meeting skin , burying one's face in her
bosom, and so on . She still wanted to hear the rest of the letter, as
presented by the master translator, Terrence Downs, linguist extra–
ordinaire. More Italian for you :
traduttore, traditore.
Proceed.
Modulate your voice accordingly. Capture the tone , tone which is
everything. The words in Italian would probably convey the mean–
ing to her.
La tua bellezza m'impazzisce, donna dal cielo, angela dei sognii
"Is there much more?"
"Just a little ." He ran his finger down the last sheet, itself of
foreign appearance, small, with small boxes , like a grid, not with the
long casual horizontal lines of American paper. He certainly didn't
rush out and buy himself some proper stationery for this transatlan–
tic love correspondence! Barely worth a try? Does the appearance of
the paper make a difference in the actual writing of the letter?
Things to ponder.
"I must leave you now, my love, my treasure, for another day
somethings and responsibilities are mine. But until we write again , I
keep before me your face, your eyes glowing like the stars over
Trastevere, your lips the red of cherries - nothing intrinsically
Roman about that! - and . . . the pallor ghostly of your body when
we first embraced in the ... - what do you call it - twilight. I will
write very soon again. With love, Fabrizio. " He stopped, folded the
letter carefully, and handed it to her. "And that is that."
She was silent. Her _eyes did not meet his , but he could sense
the sadness suffusing them, threatening to fill them with tears. This
was worse than reading the spicy parts , he told himself, rising stiffly
and pretending to look for something. When his little pantomime
was done, he looked back at her and saw that the crisis had nearly
passed. Her brow was smoothening again. She sighed and slipped a
long loose curl behind her ear. When she leaned back and stretched ,
the letter held tightly in one hand, he could see the faint trace of her
nipples under the shirt. Abruptly, he blushed, hoping that she had
not noticed his intrusive if accidental stare. Damn that out-of-work
architect, with his amorous missives! Who could sit here for half an
hour and read such desperate romantic profusions aloud to their
intended recipient - a beauty of the first order, to increase the diffi-
