The Pacific and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

song.
    But, no, a soprano, accompanied only by a guitar, was singing somewhere, and the song floated across the air and through the open windows of the Accademia. As I looked up at these windows and at the warm and motion-filled light that bathed them, the song grew stronger. Singers on the streets are often students with neither experience nor promise. This was different. She was different. She was obviously young, not entirely polished, and not entirely sure, but the quality and power of her voice were of the firstrank. I had not heard an unrecognized voice of this quality since the moment forty years before when first I heard Rosanna.
    I ran through the Accademia like a merchant in pursuit of a thief. I wasn’t quite sure of where the song came from and did not want, in searching the side streets, to lose it. People don’t run in the Accademia. Well, perhaps American children, but not Italians of my age. Someone like me is rarely seen at a run in any circumstance, anyway, so I attracted the attention of the guards, who insisted that I submit to a search. They took me aside, patted me with their hands, and made sweeping motions with their electronic wands. “Forgive me, signore,” one of them told me, “but you have the air of someone who has stolen a painting—not to sell it, but out of love.”
    “Obviously I don’t have a painting,” I said, breathing hard. It was hot and I was lightly dressed, with neither coat nor cape. The guard knowingly shook his head from side to side. “In this field of maneuver, they cut with a knife, and roll the canvas. It fits neatly down the thigh or inside the front of the jacket. Sometimes, but not always, they leave the knife behind.”
    “Oh.”
    “But you’re all right. Why were you running? Late for an appointment? You must be a lawyer.”
    “No, I’m not a lawyer. The singer outside—I don’t want to miss her. I have to find what street she’s on. She might go away. It’s very important. Let me go.” I started off.
    “Don’t worry,” the guard said, “she’s been here every day for a month. They’re on Foscarini, right in front of the Bancomat.”
    “The Bancomat.”
    “Yes.”
    “Thank you,” I said, and gave him ten thousand lire. Then I rushed off.
    “She stays there all day,” he called out after me, “no need to run.”
    Only a great voice could sing, all day, as beautifully as that, only a great voice.
    O N THE WHITE STONES of the Rio Terrà Foscarini just before the Calle Nuova Sant’Agnese, in front of the glass windows of a bank, in which the huge,rough walls of the Accademia were reflected, was a young woman of about twenty-five, who was singing. To her right, on an expensive folding chair, was a man of approximately the same age accompanying her on guitar. The guitar case on the sidewalk in front of them—of heavy grade, to protect an instrument worth perhaps seven or eight million lire—was held open to receive donations that appeared to be about twenty-five thousand lire for the morning. I calculated almost automatically that for singing that long Rosanna would earn no less than two hundred million lire and, depending upon the arrangements, possibly a billion lire, not to mention expenses that might easily be a hundred million or more.
    And there I was, in a position perfectly illustrative of the essence of arbitrage, able to reconcile two rashly conflicting valuations. For her voice, though not as polished and confident as Rosanna’s after decades of performance, was a touch more beautiful, and would ripen with experience and time. I could bridge the irrational discrepancy in valuation, and take my share for doing so. As I have said, my reaction was almost automatic, and had been since I had started to run in the Accademia, but I was not comfortable. A counterweight to my obvious desire was pulling me back. I was in considerable distress, and had no idea why. I tried to ignore it. I tried to calm myself and, by listening intently and