The Glass Ocean(24)

            But he was no different. For he began despite all a secret project. It seemed harmless at first; but then, so do they all. He had begun to work with corals, and these are most different from other gems, the hard, faceted gems with which he was accustomed to work. For corals, like jet, are porous, they breathe, like jet they are not alive but are the remains of living things. Maybe that is why, in his exile, he has chosen to work with jet, because it reminds him of the other, which he so loved.

            He was fascinated by this new material, for by polishing it he could bring out all sorts of colors, all sorts of rich pinks and reds, which, it one day occurred to him, were like the pinks and reds of life itself, of the living flesh. Perhaps this is where the danger began, in this one simple realization. For soon he could not resist, he began carving figures, figures so tiny they could be set on a ring, or in a pendant, or on a brooch. To see these in the glass case in his shop was to wish to touch them—for they looked as if they might be warm to the touch, even though they were without life. Some might argue that they did live, in a way; a very particular kind of life—

            He worked, at first, on traditional and religious subjects: the three Marys, the Christ Child, the thieves on their crosses—

            Being beautiful, his things became very popular. Soon he began to receive special requests, some of which he would not like to share with your mother; for the special little corallines became very popular with a certain sort of gentleman, who liked to have them as secret watch fobs, carved in the likeness of the woman, pink, naked, and warm, whom he dreamed of loving . . .

            And into it all the Dell’oro disease, all unseen, had already begun to creep.

            Emilio found himself carving, for his own pleasure, again and again, the face and figure of the same woman, a woman of fantasy, a figment of his imagination, whom he regarded, because she was not real, as being of no real consequence. This despite the fact that he was spending a great deal of time with her, was even, indeed, a little bit in love with what he had created; but harmlessly so.

            But then one day, as he was passing through the town square, he saw her: there she was, the woman whom he had carved, emerging from the lace shop, with a child, a little girl, by her side. Emilio could not help himself, but followed her, as far as he could, through the narrow, winding streets of our capital city, remaining always far enough behind so that she would not see him, until finally she made a turning, and he lost her.

            It was a loss he could not accept.

            Of course he was amazed, even horrified. How had this happened? He was haunted by what he had done, and made endless conjectures about it. Certainly there was a rational explanation. He had seen her before, in the street, perhaps, or glimpsed her profile in passing, in a window somewhere; noticed her, without noticing, at the park or the promenade; and her image stayed with him; or else it was just chance. But also it was strange, and with this Emilio was not comfortable; and I think he even believed, at the back of his mind, that he had created her, conjured her himself, coral made flesh, though this, of course, was impossible. And then it tormented him in another way, too, because he had already fallen more than a little in love with his coralline, his creation.

            From this it was a very short step to thinking he must see her again, if only to prove to himself that he was mistaken. So he began to look for her, to search, in the squares, in the avenues, on the boulevards, in the gardens and the coffee shops . . . and when he found her again—as he was bound to do—again he followed her—each time he came upon her, in the shops, in the boulevards, he followed, for as long as he could keep her in sight. One day she noticed, and ran from him. She was his Daphne, and so he carved her, with coral branches for her hair, the arms and legs transformed, the beautiful Daphne turning, as she fled, into a tree all made from coral.

            It was then that Emilio decided to leave Ascoli Piceno. He knew enough for this, that he could not stay. He was like a man who stands on shore and sees the wave coming, large and black, filled with terrible things, which will dash before it all that he holds dear. Gentilessa was still ignorant, busy with the baby, Anna, but for how long? And so he packed up before anybody could say anything, and took your Mama and the baby here, to this ugly place of two rocks by the sea . . . He gave up his goldsmithing; and in his perpetual mourning for she whom he has lost, now carves in honor of her memory these gruesome memento mori; and other things, too, perhaps, that you do not know of—