Although she couldn’t understand every word and only had a rough idea of what the poem meant, Marie felt she had never heard anything so . . . melodious.
. . . dazzle, moon, dazzle
for me and for all
to follow thee!
The poet swung a whip and cracked it to end the poem. The cigarette glowed next to her on the ground.
Marie stood there, her head spinning as though she had been turning in circles. Most of the rest of the audience seemed to be under the same spell; they stared straight ahead, their eyes unfocused, or shook their heads and rubbed their eyes as though they had just woken up. Then they began to applaud and shout “Bravo!”
“I was there when she wrote that poem—what a night that was!” Pandora shouted in Marie’s ear. Her cheeks glowed red. “The seven summers are when Sherlain was a mother. Hell above her is the Catholic church and its oppression. And haven is a pun of course, with heaven as well, you see? It means the goddess, sensuality, joy . . .”
Marie waved her away, annoyed. She felt precisely the way Pandora had felt that afternoon in the museum; she didn’t want explanations. She just wanted to . . . feel. By now she couldn’t care less that the reading was taking place in a scrap heap—she realized that the contrast between the ugliness of the surroundings and the beauty of Sherlain’s words was an integral part of the whole effect.
Marie wanted more.
More of this strange elixir that let her forget her own inadequacies, however briefly.
It was sheer chance that Franco was anywhere near the warehouses that afternoon. Later he would say that the gods had led him there, some higher power or destiny—but in fact it was coincidence.
He didn’t know anything about a poetry reading. None of his agents knew anything about it either, since nobody had asked the warehouse supervisor for permission, and nobody had officially rented the hall. It belonged to the de Lucca family business, just like half a dozen other warehouses in the New York docks. Unlike the others, however, this one wasn’t used to warehouse the imported wine before the barrels were distributed to the Italian restaurants in the city, nor was it used for any other, darker purposes. It had been empty for a while now. At least, that’s what Franco had assumed.
He was just haggling over the sale price with the owner of the warehouse next door, when they heard strange sounds coming from his own property.
Probably hobos, drinking and brawling, Franco’s watchman declared grimly. He ran for reinforcements.
Franco and the other warehouse owner rallied three watchmen and armed themselves with clubs. They were just about to kick down the rear door and storm the warehouse when they heard a woman’s voice from inside, hoarse but powerful.
I give you my blood
sweet lamb of mine
to still your thirst
to strengthen your spine . . .
Franco was startled. He gestured to his men to stay where they were. Poetry? Here? He went inside on his own, into the dark, following the bittersweet words.
No killing will follow
I promise you so
my love will be stronger
my love will come through . . .
The closer he got, the more strongly the words spoke to him. He fell under their spell. He didn’t understand every word, but he knew that it was a love poem. That it spoke of the deepest love that one person could feel for another—true love—the kind of love for which a man could die. Love that could outlast the darkness . . .
Franco hastily wiped the sweat from his brow. He was feeling a little dizzy, but he didn’t know whether from the heat or the foul air. He never even noticed the bohemian crowd standing around in his warehouse with wineglasses in their hands; he didn’t remember his own men waiting outside for him to give them an order. He only heard this smoky, silvery voice.
Please help me, you devilish fawn
to get the night over
to make love last till dawn . . .
A moment later, applause broke out.
“Bravo!”
“Superb!”
“We love you!”
Franco joined in the applause and clapped till the palms of his hands stung.
The poet’s words had stirred something inside him that he had thought had turned to stone long ago. Even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able to defend himself against this extraordinary feeling in his chest.
And then he saw her.
Not ten yards from him stood the unknown woman he had seen so often in his mind’s eye these last few days. Ever since he had first spotted her in Bruni’s trattoria, he had not stopped thinking about her. How beautiful she was. How graceful. How she smiled. More than once he had regretted not talking to her when he had the chance.
And here she was, here of all places!
Just like the last time, the dancer with the red shawl was by her side.