Solitaria Read Online Free PDF Page B

girlfriend.
    â€œDavid is a professor and a translator,” Clarissa says. “He has even translated several librettos. You know, they put up surtitles these days in America.”
    â€œReally?” Teresa says, looking at him with new approval.
    David doesn’t consider translating librettos much of an accomplishment, not compared to his translation of Vladimiro Lisiani’s Good-bye Trieste — his PhD thesis in Comparative Literature, and various translations of classic Italian texts. He also considers himself a writer, but he hasn’t written anything anyone will recognize because he’s a ghost writer. He’s the author’s name one won’t see in books such as Thirty Years of Riding Trains , or The Greatest Little Hairhouse in Town — A Stylist’s Story , or the memoirs of civil servants and minor politicians. Despite this prostitution , as he considers his ghost career, language is his first love. He’s intrigued by the varied sensibilities conveyed by different languages, and is constantly trying to comprehend beyond the surface meaning of words, trying to enter into their molten core.
    Clarissa takes Teresa’s arm. “Are you all right?” she asks as they continue up to the next floor, their voices hushed, confidential. “This must be very difficult.”
    David follows.
    â€œI’m as well as can be,” Teresa says. “Given the circumstance.”
    â€œAnd Piera?”
    Teresa shakes her head and shrugs. “Stubborn as always. But this time, she’s gone too far… Ever since the find… she won’t explain…” Teresa stops and touches Clarissa’s arm. “How can she have lied all these years? Vito was my husband .” She points to Marco. “His father .”
    â€œIt’s all a misunderstanding, I’m sure,” Clarissa says, patting Teresa’s back. “We’ll get it out of her. You’ll see.”
    â€œBut is Zia Piera all right?” David asks, confused. “I thought she was locked in her room. Hasn’t it been over a week already? She must be near hospitalization.”
    â€œHospitalization? Piera? Pfffff! Don’t let her fool you. She just wants attention,” Teresa says.
    â€œWhat about food?”
    Teresa laughs. “She gets up at night, bolts the outside door, and cooks and eats to her heart’s content. You don’t know her. She can fake death, I swear. Last year, when Piera slipped and broke her ankle, she was in her glory,” Teresa says, “lying tragically in the ambulance, a spectacle driven through town, victorious in showing everyone that her own family had deserted her.” She stops in front of the door, and turns to David. “But it’s not true, you know. It doesn’t matter what we do anymore. It’s never enough. I don’t know what else we could possibly do to pacify her.” She opens the door to the third floor with her key, and they follow her inside, down the long hallway to the bedroom on the left.
    â€œPiera, open the door,” Teresa says. “Clarissa has come from Canada to see you.”
    â€œGo away,” Piera says, her voice pathetically hoarse.
    A lump forms in David’s throat, a sudden recall of his summers spent here. He closes his eyes and sees a small woman, barely five feet tall, trim body, black liquid eyes, always in motion, cigarette in hand, barking out instructions to everyone in her path. But not to David. She had only tenderness for him.
    â€œPiera, stop this childishness,” Clarissa says. “This is serious. Open the door.”
    â€œI didn’t ask you to come,” Piera says.
    â€œWe’re not leaving until we get some answers.” Clarissa stamps her foot.
    â€œI don’t want to see anyone,” Piera says. “Go away, all of you.”
    â€œSee what I mean?” Teresa rolls her eyes. “It’s no use. Leave her be. When Aldo gets