Tuesday
20May
Trieste - Part 3
Tuesday, May 20, 2008 at 07:40AM
We took the morning train from Venice, and there is a moment, near Trieste, when the train makes a corner and, suddenly, as if from a dream, out of the green hills and trees, in the window of the train appears a white castle, a 19th century folly built by an Austrian archduke, and I will never forget this, his reaction was so strong, how the sight of Castello Miramare affected Melancholy.
"You are ok, Melancholy?"
He had been writing in his journal for most of the two hour trip, but now, he was just staring out the window, in silence, his pen pressed into the pages of the notebook. He did not respond.
"Melancholy?"
When he looked back at me, I was shocked. His face - it was like, and I'm terribly sorry to speak in clichés, but I can do no better - it was like he had seen a ghost. His skin was pale, and his eyes had that faraway look, perhaps you have seen it yourself, even in the few days you have known him, it was like he had been transported to another place and time. He was looking at me, but he was not looking at me, if that paradox can ever hope to make any sense. His hands were trembling.
"Carlotta."
I knew better than to respond.
"Carlotta," he whispered again.
Melancholy closed his eyes and started squeezing his left hand with his right. Carlotta, again and again. I had no idea who she was.
On balance, Melancholy's presence, I am speaking now of his corporeal, not spiritual, presence, is reassuring and strong. Whenever I am feeling anxious, dinner or a drink with Melancholy, or even a few words, flecked with his inimitable indignation (rather nice alliteration, don't you think?), is enough to help me feel calm again. All is right with the world, as long as Melancholy can rail against some injustice or tomfoolery or pretension. Woe to the one who would take up airs in front of him! He is unfailingly polite in public, of course, but in conversation, well, like my grandmother, he can be wickedly funny.
But the chanting and rubbing hands like that, it must have hurt terribly, he was squeezing his hand so tightly, I don't know what happened, but as suddenly as that castle appeared in the window of the train, a dark cloud came over my heart. I can't describe it. I was scared. Frightened. It's odd to me how these words for fear seem so attenuated compared to the emotion that they are asked to describe. Terrified. Well, all of the above.
I leaned forward and grabbed his hands.
"What happened? Who is Carlotta?" I asked. My voice betrayed my concern.
He held up his hand and pressed his finger against the window. Miramare was behind us now, and all I could see was the endless blue water of the Gulf of Trieste.
"You are ok, Melancholy?"
He had been writing in his journal for most of the two hour trip, but now, he was just staring out the window, in silence, his pen pressed into the pages of the notebook. He did not respond.
"Melancholy?"
When he looked back at me, I was shocked. His face - it was like, and I'm terribly sorry to speak in clichés, but I can do no better - it was like he had seen a ghost. His skin was pale, and his eyes had that faraway look, perhaps you have seen it yourself, even in the few days you have known him, it was like he had been transported to another place and time. He was looking at me, but he was not looking at me, if that paradox can ever hope to make any sense. His hands were trembling.
"Carlotta."
I knew better than to respond.
"Carlotta," he whispered again.
Melancholy closed his eyes and started squeezing his left hand with his right. Carlotta, again and again. I had no idea who she was.
On balance, Melancholy's presence, I am speaking now of his corporeal, not spiritual, presence, is reassuring and strong. Whenever I am feeling anxious, dinner or a drink with Melancholy, or even a few words, flecked with his inimitable indignation (rather nice alliteration, don't you think?), is enough to help me feel calm again. All is right with the world, as long as Melancholy can rail against some injustice or tomfoolery or pretension. Woe to the one who would take up airs in front of him! He is unfailingly polite in public, of course, but in conversation, well, like my grandmother, he can be wickedly funny.
But the chanting and rubbing hands like that, it must have hurt terribly, he was squeezing his hand so tightly, I don't know what happened, but as suddenly as that castle appeared in the window of the train, a dark cloud came over my heart. I can't describe it. I was scared. Frightened. It's odd to me how these words for fear seem so attenuated compared to the emotion that they are asked to describe. Terrified. Well, all of the above.
I leaned forward and grabbed his hands.
"What happened? Who is Carlotta?" I asked. My voice betrayed my concern.
He held up his hand and pressed his finger against the window. Miramare was behind us now, and all I could see was the endless blue water of the Gulf of Trieste.