Solitaria Read Online Free PDF

sixteen years, not since their last heated quarrel over the propriety of marriage versus Clarissa’s single life dotted with lovers — an attitude Piera considered selfish and immoral.
    â€œShe’s just the same,” Marco says now. “Fighting with everyone over everything.” He flashes a small sardonic smile.
    Once off the freeway, they skirt fields until Belisolano suddenly rises before them in nondescript houses and buildings erected in the late 1960s. Many of the towns here are circular, with concentric waves of ugly buildings emanating from walled historic centres, their growth like oil stains on tablecloths. They follow the curving one-way street on patched pavement, to the outer walls, past scaffolding that rises here and there around historic buildings, until they are in front of a gigantic archway called Porta Nuova , the “New Door” built in the eighteenth century. Through the portal, narrow medieval roads stretch in front of whitewashed stone buildings, under balconies overflowing with geraniums and hibiscus in vivid reds, pinks, purples. To the right of the portal is a small piazza with outdoor tables and chairs, where, at night, men congregate to play cards.
    â€œThis is it,” Marco says, pointing to the building to the right of the gate.
    It’s as David recalls it: a three-storey, stone, square building, two centuries old, occupying a full block. The first floor contains a conservatory, lush with tropical plants maintained both by artificial light and by the sun, which streams through glass doors. Beyond the doors is a natural garden, its perimeter marked by ten-foot stone walls. It’s the only building in Belisolano that nears the height of the Cathedral. The other two storeys have been renovated and converted to two separate apartments. Piera lives on the top floor, and Teresa and Marco below her.
    When they step out of the car, the tobacco merchant across the road rushes out of his shop, nodding and smiling at Clarissa. He kisses her hand, shakes David’s, asks how they are. A crowd of neighbours materializes, all laughing and welcoming them. It’s more than Clarissa’s fame, it’s how people are in small towns, David thinks. They love the ones who got away.
    Soon, Clarissa and David disengage themselves and follow Marco up the stairs. As they round the second floor, Teresa opens the door, as if she has been standing there, waiting to hear their footsteps. She and Clarissa embrace enthusiastically, like long-lost friends.
    â€œYou look wonderful!” Teresa says. “Younger every time I see you. How do you do it?”
    Clarissa laughs. “Good genes,” she says. She kisses Teresa on both cheeks, then lets her go.
    â€œAnd you look just the same, Zia Teresa,” David says, although he hardly remembers her.
    Teresa smiles and envelops him in a hug. “I can’t believe this is the same boy,” she says. “How are you? How are you?”
    He answers, his tongue awkward around Italian words.
    â€œGood. You still speak Italian,” Teresa says, holding him at arm’s length for a better look.
    He smiles. “You can thank my mother for that.” In his teens, he continued to study Latin and Italian so he could read Virgil and Ovid, Boccaccio and Dante — with the aid of several dictionaries sent to him by Piera. He felt a great affinity with the myths, with the telling of stories, with the view that lives exist always in a universal context. He imagined himself in every god’s suffering, in every heroic overcoming of evil. Already The Inferno had weaselled itself into his imagination. He affected a morose disposition that the girls at school found extremely attractive. He wore black, smoked pot, and carried weighty books such as The Decameron or The Metamorphoses under his arm or in his satchel. He listened to Leonard Cohen, recited poetry, and adopted irony. He was never without a