The Melancholy Korean

My thought was simple. Nothing I said would comfort her, and I knew Trieste would only make her feel worse, even though it should have made her feel better. So I said nothing. But for you, dear, sweet guests, if you promise to keep the secret... What am I saying? How can I keep anything from you, you who have been so kind as to listen to my confession and who have showed by your patience the true meaning of Christian love? So, between ourselves, sotto voce I think is the Italian term, let me whisper the story into your ear.

I can't remember the summer, it was when Melancholy and I were still at university, but the particular year slips my mind. Sigh. I am constantly reminded of my ever approaching mortality by my inability to remember anything. Melancholy and I had been in Venice a few days, staying at the Gritti in San Marco, a terribly inappropriate hotel for two undergraduates, luxurious is how the guidebooks would probably put it - an ugly word, that one, don't you think? - I don't mean to be snobby, but it was rather over the top. The Gritti, though, was the only hotel Melancholy knew in Venice, I think Melancholy's grandfather stayed there in the years before the war, and Melancholy's father picked up the habit from him.

I did have a lovely time in Venice, I must admit, the luxury hotel was a pleasant departure from the severity of the New England style, I mean, mostly, the furniture, and, in particular, the bed, of our respective colleges at university. But Melancholy did not like the crowds and the heat was not pleasant, that year in May was particularly hot in the Veneto and strangely, although the lira was not strong, it was never very strong, I guess, but that was a particularly depressed time for Italian currency, Melancholy was worried about spending too much money, and he kept saying how much of a disappointment Venice was to him, and he wanted to leave.

I was happy to travel wherever he wished to go, Melancholy has such good taste, you know, should you ever need a recommendation for restaurants or galleries or trips or even ideas, you must ask him, but I will admit my heart fell a little, with disappointment, I should hasten to add, rather too young for a heart attack then (while not the most diligent student, I do try to keep my metaphors unmixed, within reasonable boundaries, since it is the least anyone with half a brain like me can do), when he suggested we visit Trieste.