The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. It’s too bad that you can’t date two guys at once. She heard the television blaring away. I suppose an intelligent person OUGHT to be interested in political affairs.
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