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Thursday, July 10, 2014

The Roads around #Ravello 4. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                       The following morning I made haste to put my well-formulated plan in action.
                      Allying myself at breakfast with the piano-playing gentleman, I explained part of my plan to him. I wanted, I said, to impress a young
woman in Ravello. Would he be so kind as to keep track of the morning hours? At the exact moment, 9:47, when the sun breaks past the tower of the
Ravello church and spills its light onto the humble cobblestones in the square, would he mind throwing open the doors of the music room and filling the valley with the ponderous yet magnificent initial chords of the second movement of Beethoven’s Spring Sonata? As I heard these chords from the other side of the valley I could then take up my violin and empty the brimming holster of my soul in the direction of this enchanting woman.
                     He was a gentleman of exceptional good taste with a liking for a well-turned tale and he immediately assented to my request.
        I then discreetly changed seats at our modest breakfast table, in my haste I think I may have dropped a spot of marmalade on the hand of one of the most aristocratic of the ladies, but she winked secretly at me and covering her face with a kerchief she licked in privacy the spot of sugared
fruit from the back of her hand. I then sat down beside the young sculptor.
        I should explain here that I am no coward as far as amorous competition is concerned. But the years had taught me discretion and a certain sensitivity concerning the exercise of my amorous pursuits. In short, had my love affairs been operas, then one could say that I had come to have a greater and greater respect for the overture and less and less liking for the finale. Young men, on the other hand, had the habit of springing over several acts and attacking the finale sextet with unbridled lust. Even more to the point it always had seemed to me that sculptors invariably asked their amorous conquests to pose and, unlike their colleagues, the painters, they often felt a tactile need not only to form the clay or the rock, but to test the form of the lady in point by running their fingers over her most private parts.
          Needless to say, sitting down beside him, I greeted the young man in question and waxed poetic immediately about the sculptural beauty of some of the goat-covered pastures high above Scala and I promised to arrange for him immediate transport to such a grassy work of art as he ever could imagine some 2000 feet above the cloister. He looked on me with great respect and thanked me profusely. He said he would depart immediately with just the clothes on his back and with neither solid nor liquid nourishment so that he could in the manner of the Spartans suffer for the greatness of his art the whole day long. I applauded him profusely and giving a farthing to Mario arranged to have him transported one way to Valhalla. (to be continued...)

Order my book: "Pieces: A Life in Eight Movements and a Prelude" (WiDo Publishing) from your favorite bookseller.

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