Front Cover of the 1980 Mondadori Edition of "La Torre Bianca" by Adriana Ivancich

Since I don't know a lick of Italian I'm using Google translator (with occasional semi-literate embellishment of my own when necessary) to retell the important story of Adriana Ivancich, the young muse who influenced Ernest Hemingway in the last decades of his life, as dictated from her 1980 memoir. 

That La Torre Bianca (The White Tower) hasn't already been translated into English—beyond a lack of public demand and copyright issues with the Hemingway estate concerning quoting his letter—since it is important personal scholarship pertaining to an American heavyweight of vast literary interest, is a blot upon Academia's already blemished insular reputation. But I digress with unnecessary words where action is demanded.

For purposes of continuity the blog will be formulated in reverse order with the front cover being the most current post and the obverse the earliest. When I have completed the project I will post the Italian text featured in each post in coherent e-book form.

All blank pages have been omitted.

Feel free to comment with any translation suggestions.

Preliminary Page

 Rainbow

Title Page

 The White Tower with 30 illustrations outside the text

Acknowledgement Page

The author thanks Mary Hemingway for the kind concessions to quote excerpts from Ernest Hemingway's letters. She also thanks Marita Guglielmi Vulci, Antonio Lucarda and Gianfranco Ivancich for the kind permission to reproduce some of the photos that appear in this volume.

Prologue

The White Tower 

"... I am writing you all this because they always try to create 'scandal' from my books. Then, ten years later, they become university texts. Keep this and you'll have very clear letters in hand to prove it." from a letter from Ernest Hemingway to Adriana Ivancich

Chapter 1

Under the rain 

I look at the clock once again: yes, it's finally time to go. I run across the road, I run up the embankment, these tormented green reflections in the Tagliamento are beautiful, I know what color the water in the Valley is, as my bag swings against my shoulder as I walk. I am on the bridge, among the pylons the eddies swirl, my shadow broken on the railing seems to plunge into the stream, now the shadows have dispersed, the sun has disappeared under an overlapping of clouds. Too bad, I would have preferred to see the Valley in full sunlight. 

Instead of these new concrete buildings, along the embankment there were once red brick houses with flowered arches and balconies and Istrian stone stairways that led down into the village... man destroys so much. 

Here in Latisana, in this square there were arcades and mullioned windows, on that side a decorated building and in front of it a harmonically simple one, even more beautiful. And there was a cheerful café always full of people... it's a pity not to be able to go back in time and find lost people and things.

Leaving the town, I stop near the intersection of the four roads. I'm early. I go to browse the shop window on the corner: bolts, wrenches, hoes...

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buckets stuffed into each other. The buckets were once made of copper and glistened. 

It's time. Return to the crossroads. The cars arrive, slow down, continue in different directions. One drop, two drops, drizzle. Here is a car that comes from Codripo, certainly and Carlo; no, he proceeds to Trieste. Sarà this one that swerves towards me, spotted, accelerates, sprays me with water, damn it. 

It rains harder. I go back to the shop to repair myself against the wall. I peek into the window, count the hoes and bolts, check the prices... what if Carlo doesn't come at all? Very capable of having climbed into the saddle for a moment to make one of his horses move and now gallop through the countryside, forgetting everything. But what did it matter to me that Carlo Kechler was the best knight in Italy, that the coveted "Gold Cup" in London also dominated the countless cups won at the horse racing competitions, so rude was he to forget me. Yet it was he who had made me this appointment to take me to Nanuck's Valley. He was always so kind to me, Carlo, despite the difference in age, although I know he often enjoyed making fun of me. 

Almost an hour has passed. If I go to call, Carlo doesn't see me, he will think that I haven't come. If I stay against the wall, he might go straight on. Better to go back to the intersection. 

At the intersection I put the bag on the ground, I care if it gets dirty, I too am all muddy. One car, two, maybe and one, four, five... Carlo isn't coming anyway, I am stupid for wanting to cry, I just can't go to the Valley. Seven, eight... I'm tired of counting cars and then what does it matter to me about going to the Valley, I can imagine that monotonous expanse of water interrupted by the reeds, the Lagoon full of vale, the seagulls, nothing special. I'm leaving now. 

A few steps, I stop. What if it comes right now?

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It almost stopped raining. I've waited a long time, I can wait a few more minutes.

Once, at this point a dirt road ran between low houses, rare cars, many wagons, many bicycles. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. Who knows how many are left here, under the rubble, in the earth torn apart by the bombs, now covered by the asphalt of these four roads.

That blue car is nice. And so big it must be American. Cross the intersection, slow down, stop. Strange: what can rich Americans want in Latisanam and by chance in the rain?

A honk. I look around but I don't see anyone. Another honk. Nice sound. A really nice car. I think I heard my name shouted, but maybe I was wrong, there is no one.

The blue car recedes, approaches, approaches right to me. The rear door opens, Carlo's head looks out: "Come on quickly, come in!" I no longer feel cold or wet, I am in a delightfully sprung blue car that moves in silence.

"You didn't expect to find me in a Buick, did you? Sorry I'm late, but we went to Fraforeano - from Titti - and we started talking about war, and you know how Ernest is when he starts talking about war. By the way, do you know Ernest, Ernest Hemingway? Ernest, this is Adriana."

The massive man seated in front has now turned towards me. "Terribly sorry, Adriana. It's all my fault. I hope you will forgive me." He says. I'm sorry. I hope you will forgive me.

So this is Hemingway, which all of Venice speaks of. An old man: forehead cut by two deep wrinkles, mustache straight over the lips. The lips are folded to one side, light-hearted, the eyes are alive and penetrating: maybe not...

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that old. And most importantly, he seems nice.

"It's all right, now" I say.

"She waited a long time for us in the rain. A little internal heating?" and offers me a flask covered with red leather.

"I'm not thirsty, thanks."

"You don't have to be thirsty for whiskey!" Carlo laughs and takes the flask. He takes a couple of sips, gives it back to Hemingway.

"You sure? It's good for circulation," Hemingway says, handing it back to me.

"No, thank you. My circulation is fine now." More and more relaxed and happy I look around and: "Really a nice car" I say.

"Sorry, I forgot to introduce Ilero, my perfect driver," says Hemingway.

"Good morning, miss," says the man behind the wheel.

"Good morning." I say.

"Filthy thing in the day for the moment!" laughs Carlo.

"To the health of the girl who waited for us in the rain," says Hemingway, holding up the red leather flask. He turns back to me. He smiles and his eyes seem more alive. Then suddenly the smile disappears and: "Carlo told me you live across the river," he says.

"Yes, over the river."

"I remember the house. I remember the big trees. I went through it during the other war. Truly sorry we Americans destroyed it in this one. I hope you will be able to forgive us."

"War is a goddamn dirty whore." He bites...

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his lip. "Sorry. Every now and then I become a bad soldier again." 

"It's all right!" I laugh. 

"In addition to being a tough soldier, Ernest is also a good writer, as you certainly know," says Carlo.

"I know, but I haven't read any of his books." I have the impression that I have been rude and add: "I am sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Adriana" laughs Hemingway. "You wouldn't have learned anything good."

"In everything there is good: just look." I hope he didn't notice the banality of the sentence.

"Right. And today it is good that we met despite the rain and that we go hunting in the Valley. Have you been to the Valley before?"

"No, and I'm happy to go there. I'm always happy to be able to see, know and do new things."

Hemingway raises the red flask: "To Adriana's health. May she do many good new things in life."

Chapter 2

In the Valley

"Oh mother, how beautiful! I got up from my restless sleep before the alarm went off. It was still night and brr! How cold, I had to break the ice in the basin and to be honest I washed myself very little, just my face and hands.

"Giaconni, boots, dogs and guns, the hunters gathered in front of the Casone. There must have been about twenty, more or less. Then in a line we followed the men with the oil lamps and made our way to the boats. As soon as we got on I heard, nearby, a crashing noise! and after the thud a series of swear words with the unmistakable voice of Carlo. How funny: it was him - in the water giving a sermon - to the boatman who was comfortably leaning on the oar, in the back of the boat. "Why the hell did you move while I was going up?" "But Mister Carlo, I thought you were already on board." "And don't you feel the difference in weight if there is or isn't a person on board?!" I felt like laughing, but I held back so as not to make Carlo even more agitated.

"Then the boats began to slide in a row in the canal, then each in a different direction among the reeds, it looked like a Chinese painting. In the first light of dawn, Nanuck and I went down to an islet the size of the palm of a hand and we stuck in the barrels with only our heads sticking out, at the water's edge. The boatman went to throw...

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the molds, made so well that they looked like real ducks. Then came a stirring from the direction of the sea and Nanuck had already aimed and brought down a couple of coots.

"Then there were other passages. That flapping of wings, the spiraling down into the mirror of the water, at times still frozen, was in a certain sense beautiful to see. But the sudden breaking of those so peaceful and perfect flights was very sad, at least for me.

"So we were inside the barrels, Nanuck and I, within a span of each other. With each shot the bullets flew from the rifle and shells!, still hot they fell on my head. I tried to dodge them but had great difficulty doing so: the space was limited in the barrel and I certainly couldn't go outside, we were surrounded by water. So nearly all of them landed in my hair and in the end, between the bullets and the rumble of the rifle, you can imagine how I was defeated and bruised like a cirrhosis patient. But it was good all the same. The lights, the raindrops and the reflections on the ice, then the return of the boats that emerged from the reeds, approached, gathered in the canal... just beautiful.

"In front of another Casone they lined up the downed ducks on the ground. While the men warmed themselves with the wine, I went to dry myself by the fireplace. Everyone began to speak about the day, but they all talked and no one listened, at least it seemed like that to me. I tried to add up the number of ducks killed by the different men but - strangely - the totals did not add up. Yes, wine can cause one to embellish things, but the ducks lined up on the ground should have been at least four times as many as that proffered up.

"My drying hair fell on my face and eyes and made me uncomfortable. I didn't want to go all the way to the other Casone to get the comb, so I asked if anyone had one. But they all ignored me...

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to talk about ducks hit in the most unexpected and difficult ways.

"Hemingway, who had his back to the fireplace, turned around, smiled at me, buried a hand in his pocket, took out a bone comb, broke it in half, you know, like the poor do with bread. Do you want to see it? Here is my half. He said I could keep it. He also said he apologized if his wife hadn't come, leaving me alone among all those men. He hoped I didn't feel uncomfortable. Cute*, right?

"I didn't feel uncomfortable at all. Indeed, between us, it was relaxing that no one was paying attention to me, so I could follow their stories better. Just imagine that Tiberto, when he went to Alexandria for Carlo Guarienti's wedding with Guia Calvi di Bergolo, caught a lion by pulling it by the tail.

"Then Hemingway asked me what I thought about hunting and the game bag. I thought, should I perhaps tell him that the number of ducks killed seemed to be increasing too much, and that in short, I had the impression that everyone had become great braggarts? I could not. Then I diplomatically told him that at that moment I was thinking about some of Bismarck's words: 'Men never tell so many lies as before elections, during wars and after hunting parties.' He burst out laughing so hard that Carlo turned around and immediately dragged him away because he had to finish talking about his big hunt in Africa.

"Now I'll show you the 'drawings' of my album. From the big nose you recognize Carlo and that in the water he quarrels with the boatman and in the comic those XYZZs would be swear words. Here I am, half fainted in the barrel with the shells bouncing off my head. These are the various hunters who boasted of having shot 30, 50, 80, while Tiberto claims 120, but here on the ground there are only 240 poor ducks. The one who dominates in the middle of the big room is..

*Carino means cute in Italian but it's also possible that she was referring to cinema carino. A style of Italian filmmaking of the 1980s and 1990s that was criticized for its retreat from serious or complex issues and for being superficial, unambitious, unchallengingm crowd-pleasingm and televisual. Besides the fact her memoir was published in 1980 Hemingway's actions definitely fit the bill of shallow theatrics.

Page 15

Hemingway, but I have to correct him a little because he seems to have a big belly while he has no belly at all, only a strong stomach. I also have to improve the lions in the comic, so they look more like cats than lions. Blame the nib that has popped out. Do you think he would enjoy looking at the 'drawings' of hunting in the Valley? I could take the album with me tomorrow... ah, I forgot to tell you that tomorrow he invited me to breakfast at Harry's Bar."

"Does it seem fair to you to immediately accept an invitation from a person you have just met, a foreigner too?"

"But Mom! He wants to introduce me to his wife and then Laura will be there with Nanuck, and Carlo and Tiberto, and they'll be hunting again, it'll be fun. After all, I'm 19 years old! I really want to go to Harry's Bar tomorrow."

Chapter 3

Dressed in blue

"Even today? It seems to me that you are exaggerating." 

Sitting on the step that flanked the bathtub, I looked over at mom who was combing her hair. Despite the many sofas distributed in the living room, the most interesting conversations and discussions in the family always took place in my mother's bathroom. It was there that she was getting ready to go out, it was there that she could be found as soon as she returned, intent on combing her hair or putting her bag and hat in the chiffonier. The light green walls were framed with pink stucco, there were lots of mirrors and lots of light.

"Am I exaggerating? And why?" 

"Either for breakfast or for a drink you see this Hemingway almost every day and besides, he's a married man." 

"But there is always his wife who comes and goes, and then he also invites my friends, he says they are nice." 

"And what do you talk about for so many hours?"

"It's not easy to say!" I burst out laughing. "Regardless of the fact that the American is different from the English I am used to, every now and then he lowers his voice, as if he were telling state secrets, and I have a hard time understanding it. He stops, looks at us with a crooked mouth and seems to be smiling, so out of politeness we smile too. Then he starts to giggle and we giggle too. Then he laughs and we laugh too and it's funny that we end up laughing really, not just to...

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keep him company. Toto was very relieved when I admitted that I too didn't always hear well and so did Luigino when I confessed to him that I didn't always understand the meaning of the sentences. Yet both of them acknowledge that they have fun with Hemingway." 

"But you have to admit that all this is not normal. A married man, much older than you, who speaks in a way you often don't understand... and I saw him every day! I don't forbid you to see him, but from time to time, when you meet him by chance, without making a date." 

"But that's not possible!" I jumped to my feet to better look at my mother reflected in the mirror. "Being with our group often saves him from admirers, so at least he told us. He always thanks us, you understand that he is happy. Indeed you can see him, he seems... he seems rejuvenated, that's it."

"Strange ideas you get into your head every now and then." She turned to look at me, serious: "In any case, you have to take into account what people may think."

I stamped on my foot in anger. "But why this obsession with what people think? If I have to live in terror of what people think, I will end up doing nothing. Mom please... you have to know the Hemingways before you can judge for yourself."

"Yes, I think it's time I met them. Invite them here for breakfast," my mother decided, putting on her gloves. "Who knows how I will understand them if you, who know English well, understand little."

She understood a lot of things, however. Mostly because Hemingway - for the occasion all dressed in blue and with a tie - spoke to her correctly pronouncing the words. Aunt Emma was also at the table that day. I remember meeting him in Cortina when she and Renata Borgatti, who had been his guest in Venice, went to spend a period in the mountains.

Then I also remember mom. The day he joined them,...

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at the Hotel Bellevue, at the table, in front of an empty fourth spot, Renata had explained to her that it belonged to a young American friend of hers who almost always arrived late because he only left the room when he had finished writing. "You will hear about him in the future," Renata had prophesied. Hemingway also remembered the meeting. It was in 1923 and there was more than a meter of snow, exactly. 

As we passed into the boudoir to have coffee, Aunt Emma went up to her second-floor apartment to take the portrait the pianist had given her. As soon as he entered the boudoir, Hemingway stopped to look at the tapestry with motifs of garlands and flowers and asked what era it was. It was an eighteenth-century French silk tapestry, I explained to Mom. Then Hemingway admired the two large vases under the mirror stating that he had never seen similar ones. Mom explained to him that, at the time when chinoiseries were in fashion, in Murano they sometimes decorated glass vases by applying inside, with a particular technique, a film with Chinese motifs and figures that gave the optical impression of being an integral part of the vase. 

Aunt Emma came back with Sargent's portrait of Renata, and Hemingway said that she was Renata as she is and that it was a really good portrait and I was delighted because they could no longer say that I was walking around with an "unknown stranger" since mom and aunt Emma had already met him in 1923.

While Aunt Emma was taking Mary into the drawing room to look at the tapestries, Hemingway walked over to my mother again and said with a smile: "Miss Dora, you must excuse me if I sometimes use a bit strong language in my books. But it's not my fault: it's my characters who want it." Then they began to discuss books, a familiar subject for my mother who, already a great reader, had spent most of her sleepless nights reading since my father's death and had accumulated an impressive number of volumes.

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They were interrupted by the arrival of my sister who at that time was living with her husband, a Navy officer, in an apartment on the third floor of Calle del Rimedio. He had Gherardo in his arms and Hemingway bent down to admire the child. At that moment he started to throw tiny punches at him. "Well done, old boy!" Hemingway laughed pretending to box. "Come on, champion!"

"It is a pity that Gherardo will have to wait many years before being able to read one of his books" observed Francesca. 

"Because?" 

"Because yours are certainly not suitable for children," said Francesca. "In fact, I bet you wouldn't even know how to write a book suitable for children."

"Ah, what do you think? Hemingway frowned.

"Yes, I really think so," replied Francesca. 

Hemingway watched Gherardo happily suck his thumb. "I'll bring something you can read right away," he said defiantly.

He kept his promise. A few days later I arrived with two fairy tales - The Good Lion and The Strange Short Story of the Faithful Bull - which he read aloud to us. Before delivering The Good Lion to Francesca, on the first page at the top he wrote: "For Gherardo Ivancich from his friend Ernest Hemingway." In the last sheet of the other fable, the only one in pencil, he wrote: "For Adriana with love from Mr. Papa. Venice 26/1/50."

Then turning to Francesca with a broad smile: "Do you still think I'm not capable of writing children's stories?" he asked. 

"No, I don't think so anymore!" Francesca laughed. "Apart from a small mistake in the dedication: Gherardo is not an Ivancich but a Scapinelli, like my husband, his father..."

Chapter 4

Flowers for a Queen

I wandered at the station waiting for the arrival of Antonio del B., alias Toto or "Texas-Boy" as Mister Papa called him because he was tall, blond, slouchy and spoke English with a slight American accent - before starting work in Milan he had trained in Hudson. In truth, he was nothing like an American: he was a very pure Neapolitan. Of Norman origin, like many of my friends there, blond and blue-eyed.

He had met him four years earlier in Capri, when he came to visit his aunt Fernanda, a guest of my aunt Emma. The two aunts looked at us, smiling tenderly and often left us alone, hoping - we later found out - that the beloved nephew would end up at the altar.

Since starting work in Milan, Toto came frequently to Venice for weekends. He was a weekend workaholic. Which occurred in this manner: after the office on Saturday, suitcase with pajamas and tuxedo for any eventuality, rushed off to take the tram to the station - in the afternoon by train, often on the coal locomotive, where he often remained standing because the third class was always crowded - in Venice he immediately followed an intense evening-night program - he made himself wake up early in order to make the most of the joys of Sunday - just before midnight, like Cinderella, disappeared to take a vaporetto...

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to the station, then until dawn on the train - in Milan immediately home to take a cold shower and gulp down a double coffee - off to run on another tram to the office, where sometimes he would fall asleep at his desk. One night, on a return trip standing in the corridor, he ended up in the toilet vomiting from exhaustion. I didn't understand how he managed to have fun these weekends. But he was returning.

The train arrives late, as always. As soon as I saw Antonio's blonde head in the crowd, I ran up to him to tell him that we had to go immediately to the Ciro Bar, where the Hemingways were waiting for us for dinner. "Can I change my shirt?" he asked. No, there was no time and the Hemingways were not the type to be formalized.

At the door of the Ciro Bar I stopped, dumbfounded: Aspasia of Greece was sitting among the Hemingways. I had nothing against her, on the contrary: every time I met her she always gave me a sweet smile and, since I often met her, I had by now stored up a large number of sweet smiles. But how to chat and joke freely with an Aspasia seated royally at our table?

Mister Papa seemed to be in a very good mood that evening. During lunch he had talked about bullfighting and, soon after, he had moved on to a practical demonstration by getting up and redoing the steps and moves of a bullfighter. He then decided that he needed a bull and Mary had taken the time to charge up and down, her hands resting on her forehead like horns.

"Muleta" had announced Mister Papa, pushing aside plates and glasses with his arm and tearing off the tablecloth in front of a royally stiffened and increasingly astonished Aspasia.

He moved to an empty spot in the room and stopped. Now facing us, with feet together, with elegant arm movement and slow shoulder shift, he provoked the bull with the veil.

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Antonio and I jumped to our feet and exclaimed, "Aha bull!" and started to clap our hands, "Ole! Ole!" 

Aspasi looked around then, perhaps reassured by the fact that, except for the waiters and a couple kissing in a corner, there was no one in the room anymore, she too had started clapping her hands, first timidly then louder, and a little later she was standing and shouting, "Ole! Ole!" 

Hemingway, moving in short steps, swept the veil back and forth. Then I let my arm drop, and the muleta became a banal tablecloth again. He went to one of the tables, took a flower from the jar and said, "Thank you bull," handing it to Mary.

When it was time to part, Aspasia decided that we absolutely had to see each other again the next day so I invited us all to Giudecca for breakfast. Euphoric for the wine and the happy evening, Toto and I had returned home satisfied with the invitation. But the next morning Antonio had a dark face. "We can't show up empty-handed: noblesse oblige."

"You're right. But at the moment I only have 200 lire, I can ask my mother for more but she has gone out." 

"If I take off the vaporino, train and tram tickets in Milan, I have a maximum of 300 left."

"Total: 500 lire. How about a box of chocolates?" 

"I say that, for 500 lire, it would be the size of a mousetrap."

"A nice bouquet of flowers?" 

"You don't know how much flowers cost, you just receive them." sighed Toto. 

"Besides, we would also need the letterhead of a good florist."

"I have an idea, but don't open your mouth: it'll be trouble if he finds out that you are a stranger. "

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Calla del Rimedio, Calle Larga, Piazza San Marco and, passing the Procuratie, here we are in front of the best florist in Venice. I look in the window and smile at the man intent on sprinkling a bouquet of red roses. 

"Her flowers are really beautiful!" I say entering. 

"I do my best," he says proudly. 

"Too bad they only last for a morning, as that French poet said," I sighed.

"Yeah. Our job is difficult." 

"I would appreciate your help: I need a beautiful bouquet of flowers that are - inexpensive - and won't wilt. At half price, of course." 

"Wow," the florist smiled. "If all the clients made me this same offer, I would quickly go bankrupt."

But this is a special case: we want to find a really nice bouquet for ... for 500 lire."

"500 lire? Hmmm, a little bit, Signorima Ivancich."

"How do you know my name? "I said surprised. I didn't remember ever having gone to the most expensive florist in Venice." 

"I see her pass by every now and then. Among us Venetians it is not difficult to know each other, at least by name."

Antonio coughed. Good start, it means. 

The florist approached the bouquet of red roses - and I am already smiling happily - he pushes it aside and takes a bouquet of yellow daisies. 

"Oh no! Not daisies for a queen" says Antonio. 

"Queen?" says the florist and turns to look at us. "Wow."

"She is not a queen, but Princess Aspasia" I inform him. 

"The one on the Giudecca? I know, I know. Then I would say fewer flowers, but distinct. Two orchids?"

"Good advice!" I smile. "Two of those..." 

"But, my dear paronsina*, those are purple orchids,...

* an obscure word which seems to mean an unmarried daughter living at home.

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very beautiful. I don't even tell her the price. Two green orchids. Those are also distinct. Two for 600 lire, okay?"

" I prefer a nice one and two less fresh ones for 500 lire."

"What an impression I would make! Two large and one small, all very fresh. Agree?"

"Agree. Beyond the shop paper, paint another colored one and then a lot of silver around the stems, and a big ribbon to match the orchids, please."

"As you wish, paronsina. Always happy to see you pass, always honored if you come to see me, but please don't come too often as a customer!" the florist smiled. We too were happy to smile for the three orchids at 500 lire.

Chapter 5

At the coffee table 

In front of Darin's shop, the grocery store on Calle Larga San Marco, I remembered how Jackie and I always slowed down in front of the window, in the hope that old Darin - who was following our growth with interest - would called to offer us a biscuit. But this happened when we were with the Gigia; the governesses, on the other hand, pulled straight, because we were forbidden to nibble outside meals.

As I continued along Calle Larga I was thinking of Mister Papa. I hadn't wanted to see him for a few days because I had to solve a problem. In fact, I found myself embarrassed in front of phrases like: "I learned that Hemingway will come to you for breakfast today: I can come and have coffee, I would like to ask him if...," "I wonder if H. can help me in New York: you should tell him that I wrote a play and ...," "If you go to Harry's Bar with H., please let me know, I'd like to meet him..." People with whom I used to exchange only a few words seemed to have become very intimate. Embarrassing to tell them no. Embarrassing to tell them yes. Mister Papa already had friends in Venice and he had made it clear to me that he was not interested in meeting new people. And so, to better reflect, I had decided not to see him for a few days. 

Mister papa had called me every day to chat...

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for a while. 

Then he got tired of having to have a conversation in front of a black device and asked me to send him at least one photograph of me to put in front of the phone. Better not: he would have noticed that my eyes were too close together, my nose too long, my skin too olive and my mouth - when I wasn't smiling - had a bitter downturn.

"A real monster. But I'm a soldier and I'm ready to face this monster. But face to face, like a real soldier."

And so, despite not having solved the problem, I had decided to accept a meeting. From the Clock Tower I had turned under the Procuratie to take a look at the shops that so fascinated me for their gleam of glass and crystal. In front of Missaglia I remembered when Gianna Carnelutti, whose grandfather was the most famous lawyer in Italy, had come to Calle of the Remedy with a gold bracelet on his wrist. We rushed to admire it and Gianna, tired of raising her arm, took it off and put it in Toto's hand.

"Uh, but I want gold!" Toto had exclaimed, passing it to Lodovico. "Solid gold, here's the pirate treasure!" Lodovico exclaimed throwing it to Luigino, who immediately threw it to Carlo Maria.

While Gianna hopped trying to catch it, the bracelet kept flying from one person to another. Until it flew up and never fell again. There was a moment of silence, then: "Do you have it?" "Not me," "Me neither, I swear."

We had searched above and below the sofas and chests, pushed aside the carpets, the curtains, even the heavy tapestries. Then, disheartened and worried, we decided to make a collection to buy back the real gold bracelet from Gianna. But she burst out laughing: she had borrowed the bracelet from Missaglia who belonged to her family. He would have said that...

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she had lost it, at most they would have scolded her. Since then we have been even more friendly. 

In the meantime I had turned towards Bacino Orseolo to take a quick look at the latest news from Ravenna - who smiled at me from behind a pile of books, not for nothing as I was the daughter of his best client. I saw a book that I wanted, Poetry of primitive peoples, but it had to wait, at the moment I didn't even have a hundred lire in my pocket.

In Calle San Moise I stopped to look at Vogini bags, I turned towards Codognato and in front of the glitter of the gems I remembered when Mister Papa had come to Calle del Rimedio for breakfast and pulled some rings out of his pocket asking for our opinion: Codognato insisted that he buy at least a couple, they were an opportunity. I was about to say that the ruby ​​was really beautiful when my gaze had met that of Mister Papa, and for fear that he would say: "If you like it it's yours," I returned it quickly and said: "I am not interested in jewels."

It wasn't true. Every time I passed by the Frezzerie I stopped in front of the Viscio window. All fake, agreed, it was not the value that interested me but the shapes and combinations of colors and in front of Mistletoe - even if the most expensive fake jeweler in Venice - I could get lost in calculations and potentially achievable desires. Not so in front of the Codognato window. So I left it almost immediately and turned towards Calle Valeressa, hoping not to meet someone who wished to meet Hemingway.

As soon as I pushed the door of Harry's I immediately saw Mister Papa. He got up and smiled: "You're late, Daughter." 

"Late? Didn't we say eleven?" 

"It's eight minutes past eleven." 

"Ah. Excuse me eight times." 

"Listen: now there is no one here, but in a while they...

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they will all be there. How about going somewhere else?"

"That's fine by me."

"See you tomorrow," said Mister Papa to Cipriana who had approached to greet me. 

Instinctively outside Harry's, perhaps because I had come from Calle Valeressa, I turned the other way. Passing in front of the landing stage, I smiled remembering how during the trip to Torcello with the Hemingways and Aspasia "Ole ole," all the way on the motorboat Afdera had kept his fingers crossed as a sign of conjuration because - he said - Aspasia was bad luck: in fact, as soon as he married her, he was immediately bitten by her little monkey and died suddenly...

"Where are we going?" I asked as we skirted the royal gardens. 

"Wherever you want. It's enough for me not to have to watch the phone. I damn miss you, Daughter."

"It's a beautiful day. They've put a few tables under the Procuratie Nuove. How about sitting down at the Todaro?" 

"That's fine with me."

We sit down. While Mister Papa signals to a distracted waiter, I look at the Lagoon, the island of San Giorgio, the profile of the Zattere interrupted by the dome of the Redentore church. 

"Shall we get a Bloody Mary?" 

"What is that?" 

"Ouch, Daughter! Your culture has gaps. It's a tomato-based drink and good."

"Okay then for the Bloody Mary." 

While we waited I observed two gondoliers who are arguing rather lively. Then one of them stretched his arms towards the other and now choked him, I think. But the one instead rests only his hands on the shoulders of the other, in such a violent way as to make him bend his knees and the one wobbling...

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he laughs, now they both laugh and, still laughing, they go back to polishing the brass of their gondolas. Such are the gondoliers. How many times at the "turning of the canal" they insult each other to death, but then, as soon as the gondolas approach, they act as if they had never spoken, never seen each other. They know that it is not good to overdo it closely: a stroke of the oar can land one in the canal.

The waiter brings two glasses of tomato juice. In addition to being distracted, she also looks annoyed and I know why: out of season the outdoor tables are put on for those Venetians who like to chat while seated not to bother going inside and outside the bar, not to cash in a few more lira. And a kindness among fellow citizens.

"This tomato is good," I say, taking a sip. 

"Have you written any other poems?" 

"I mostly made 'sketches'" 

"Your 'sketches' are excellent. No one has ever made me such a perfect portrait. Stomach included."

"Too bad the lions in your comic look like cats." 

"I'll take you to Africa with me so you can study lions up close. We'll go to Africa, but for real." 

"I like to 'travel' with you. Last time we went to Pamplona, ​​no mistake, under Kilimanjaro. But I..." I sighed "I can only take you to a second class table."

"My culture also has gaps: what does second-class table mean?"

"Now I'll explain. To be chic in spring you have to sit at the tables near the Clock Tower. The closer you are to the clock, the better. In August you have to leave Venice because there are too many tourists. In September you sit on the opposite side, at the Florian, in the tables on the right, towards the Napoleonic wing. If Marcellina V., who is always far to the right, rounding the r, says 'Sit here,' you must be happy because it is a privilege to sit at her

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table. She asks many questions, but they are rhetorical: she is always busy looking around."

"You were right to warn me. I will save my breath if I am invited to her table. Continue: all of this is historically interesting."

"In September at the Florian there is also Lilli Volpi, the Frenchwoman that Giuseppe Volpi married because she had given him a son. So is Giovanni, who is a few years younger than me, and Esmeralda's uncle who is my same age, daughter of Marina, the one who has the wonderful Maser villa frescoed by Tiepolo. Second bed? uncle, let's say. Well, Lilli Volpi even if she has inherited a recent coat of arms - it was bestowed on Giuseppe Volpi for his merits as a high financier - and important because every year she gives a great ball in her palace on the Grand Canal and it would be a real problem if she forgets your invite. So it's good that you say hello. If you do not receive the invitation, you must find some urgent commitment outside Venice. There are several departures in September at the time of the ball..."

"It's not easy to keep the right position in September. Fortunately, my colonel, you warned me. But tell me, who the hell is going to Todaro then?" 

"Nobody. That is all of us. We guys, I mean. To avoid being too observed, having to say too many greetings... In short, since it is not chic, here at Todaro it is safe in September... but you know what is really good is this Mary Bloody?"

"Maybe it's even better upside down: Bloody Mary. Now let's get another one," 

"Yeah. But I feel... too happy. Are you sure it's just tomato-salt-pepper-spices? The first to import spices were the Venetians, in fact I think Marco Polo... am I right? I also say that this Mary is not just tomato." 

"There's some vodka."

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"Ah, there's the trick!" 

"No trick, Daughter. You can see that in addition to not knowing the non-spilled Bloody Mary, you still don't know me at all: you would have guessed that I don't drink tomato juice unless strengthened."

"Now I guess, Man... no, a woman forewarned is half-saved. Let's take this other Bloody Mary, and then, how about four steps to evaporate the fortified vodka?" 

"I say you say well, my colonel. You always say well."

Chapter 6

A big regret

"Hello, daughter. I hope you slept well. I wish you always slept well. And always woke up happy. Where will we meet today?" 

"In ten minutes you will leave the Gritti, I will leave the house and we will come and meet each other where we meet, what do you think?" 

"Sounds like a good idea. In ten minutes. In ten bloody long minutes."

I put the phone down. Crossing the white room I glanced at myself first in one, then in the other large mirror, all surrounded by garlands frescoed on the walls. I walked down the short corridor that led to Francesca's room and then to mine, entered mine and went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror, this time carefully.

Yes, today I will displease Papa. 

"Made with a fountain pen" it seems my nurse said as soon as I was born. At that time, creaking nibs that dribbled ink were still used, and the clean and perfect stroke of the fountain pen aroused admiration.

From my mother's room, at the corner between the Rio Santa Maria Formosa and the Pasqualigo bridge, where the lacquered furniture, the canopy over the bed, the frames, the fabric on the walls, everything had the color of gold, the warm arms of the...

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nurse had carried me to the opposite side of the house, to the corner room between Calle del Rimedio and a courtyard populated with statues that would have made me dream of an enchanted world.

In this room I had slept my first sound sleeps, unaware that soon I would have to submit to the judgment of my mother's friends, visiting her boudoir. And since the "fountain pen" had forgotten to stock me with fashionable curls, the various housekeepers would all be raging against my thin hair either by locking it in iron curlers, or by rolling it around a hot iron that opened and closed like the beak of a hungry bird and that first they tried on a piece of paper that had to crumple without burning and phss... made the paper smoke and phss... they did my hair every now and then and sometimes even the skin underneath, when the housekeeper was distracted.

Curls, ironed dress not to be wrinkled, shoes with buttons that came expressly from the Enfant Chic in Paris, which I hated, a long wait in the chair. Then the housekeeper would drag me to the boudoir door and push me into the room.

I hated everything. I hated the looks, the smiles, the murmurs - she looks like her grandmother, her aunt Yole - because that meant curlers, hot iron, waiting motionless.

Over time, the phrase "they're waiting for you in the boudoir" had turned into "they're waiting for you to pose." More or less famous artists asked my parents to have me as a model. They made me sit in an uncomfortable chair where I had to remain still and when my hands, ears, nose began to itch: "Stop! Don't wrinkle your nose" they yelled, "Stop, don't yawn!" and my resignation turned first into suffering, then into despair.

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I had the suspicion that it was all the fault of my grandmother or her sister Yole if so many painters insisted on letting me pose. In fact, among the many pictures of the house, of female portraits there were only theirs and perhaps, I thought, all the women of the family who had the misfortune to resemble their grandmother or Aunt Yole ended up in a frame. Strange, however, that they had started taking portraits of me so soon, all the more so that my parents seemed interested in buying them.

The portrait of grandmother Evelina was in the hall but although it was a beautiful painting, few looked at it: everyone's attention was always attracted by the large tapestries with mighty horses that unsaddled and trampled on ferocious soldiers - a design by Rubens.

Aunt Yole, on the other hand, was in the pink sitting room, between Papa's study and my parents' room. Painted by the famous Corcos, full-length against a satin drapery, the wide-necked white dress tucked into a thin slim waist. A long string of pearls descended from the slender neck, the perfect oval of the face was surrounded by a mass of hair gathered and enclosed by other pearls. It was similar to a fairy. Certainly not me, always disheveled.

So I looked at myself in the mirror and decided it was useless to waste any more time with the comb. Returning to my room, I stopped for a moment to watch the sun come in. This is also why I loved my room so much: thanks to the two large windows overlooking the courtyard of Ca 'Soranzo it was always full of light. Not so the row of lounges overlooking the Rio di Santa Maria Formosa, where the sun struggled to enter because of the houses opposite, across the canal.

Every time a "forestiero*" came to our house for the first time, he was amazed at the high number that marked the door, 4421, not knowing that the numbering of the houses and progressive for each district in which...

*generally translated to a stranger or a visitor but one reference of the word forestiero defines it as an "Italian from another town." As such, leaving the Italian term in its correct vernacular seems appropriate in this instance, especially since Adriana put it in quotations to connote a seemingly specific meaning.

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and divided Venice. He was amazed in such a narrow calle to find such a large house, to suspect that Sansovino had even designed it. Everyone admired the house where I was born, but I loved every corner of it, from the large room where the boats unloaded the coal for the boiler to the attic and roof terrace.

Passing through the white room with the mirrors, I glanced towards the floor in the corner, where two columns divided the room from the red room with the paintings by Bassano and Zucarelli. Too bad I didn't have the slightest musical talent, I thought. And to think that my grandfather had much. One day Wagner, his great friend, arrived in Calle del Rimedio accompanied by Liszt who, as soon as he saw the piano, immediately sat down to play and Wagner stood next to him in accompaniment. Then they asked my grandfather to fetch his violin and together they improvised a little concert.

Without suspecting that Wagner was a friend of my grandfather, I would have loved his son, Siegfried. To celebrate my fourth birthday, Aunt Emma had taken me to a matinee at the Phoenix, where they performed Das Rheingold. From the top of the stage I had followed the story of the blond Siegfried, admiring his courage and his heroism. When I saw him lay lifeless on a pile of wood, I burst into tears. Amid the applause the lights had come back on and in front of the large velvet curtain, where he had just died, here was Siegfried bowing to the audience.

"And alive! And alive!" I shouted jumping for joy and he turned to me and kissed me with his hand. It was my first love, Siegfried. 

From the white room I turned towards the entrance, running down the stairs, I liked running down the stairs, as I liked running up-down the steps of the bridges. 

On the Ponte del Rimedio I turned to take a look at the...

Page 36

Rio dell Palazzo where, at the bottom, you could see the Bridge of Sighs suspended in the air - it was always incomprehensible to me how Casanova had managed to escape from that terrible Piombi.

From Call dell'Angelo in Piazzetta dei Leoncini I stopped for a moment to watch the pigeons drinking and ruffling in the marble basin, carved into the steps around the wellhead. Besides the two pink lions with a very smooth back for the many children who took turns there, I began to cross Piazza San Marco.

From the massive figure and the typical walk, I recognized Papa from afar as he came out of the Procuratie. As soon as I saw him I quickened my pace, I slowed down. 

"Hello, my beauty" he smiled when we stood in front of me. I felt better about myself. He took off his glasses. He looked at me again. He put his glasses back on.

"Oh Papa, I got it ..." I said. 

"Adriana..." he said without smiling. 

"I know, Papa. But I was tired. Not even combing my hair a hundred times a day was I able to be in order, always with that hair on my face and over my eyes, I got annoyed and went to a good and expensive hairdresser. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it - he said - just cut them a little, do a light perm and you'll have no more problems," and immediately zac-zac cut and then curled and, I know, now I look like a sheep. A badly shorn sheep. "

"Daughter," he said. 

"I could put a scarf on my head." 

"I'll get used to it," and he finally started smiling again. "You were brave, Daughter. And it's not too bad after all: this way you see your neck and ears better, it's rare to see ears as well made as yours, Daughter."

"They'll grow back." I laughed. 

"They will grow back." laughed Papa. "I just met ...

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Toni Lucarda. He awaits us in his studio in San Vio. He wants me to see my head again..."

"...beheaded."

"Ah. Do you already know?"

"Toni told me himself. He told me that in December, when you were posing in Torcello, one day you gave him a boxing lesson and first of all a glass of whiskey. Indeed, more than a glass. And poor Toni, not used to either boxing or morning whiskey, ended up crashing into the sculpture. The head has fallen, detached from the torso and now you probably look like a beheaded John the Baptist*.

"Are you implying that we were drunk?" Papa asked, twisting his mouth, undecided whether to be offended or amused. 

"I would never dare! But you cannot deny that you were happy that day in Torcello."

"Why not? I like Toni Lucarda. So do you want to go to San Vio to see Hemingstein's head decapitated?" he said taking my arm. 

"Yeah, let's go see Hemingstein decapitated," I said, glad he seemed to have forgotten my sheep's head.

*San Giovanni Decollato

Chapter 7

Across the river 

...And then he couldn't write anymore, he said. 

And certainly not because he was bothered by the infection on his face or because he had not been physically well for a while. The vein had dried up, there was emptiness around him.

And then I had arrived. I had so much life, so much enthusiasm in me that I had passed them on to him too. He had started writing again and everything suddenly became easy. He would finish the book and then write another - for me - even more beautiful. Now he could write again and well, and he thanked me.

I was glad of it. I was happy when I could be of help. I had helped several friends by listening, sharing in their problems. I had also helped an adult in crisis by speaking so passionately (so he later told me) of the importance of bearing with intelligence the defects of others, of always putting oneself in the skin of the other before judging, of giving a lot and always without expecting anything in return, that - already on the verge of separating from his wife - he had suspected that part of the fault could be his, had decided to try to follow my ethics and discovered that his marriage was still valid. As a token of gratitude, I am gifted a silver cigarette case, signed by Cartier none the less. For me it was all one...

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surprise: the cigarette case, his marriage crisis, the fact that I had unwittingly helped him.

What Hemingway told me was also a surprise. It was a different case from the usual ones. I didn't ask too many questions: I knew that the writer's labor must remain secret until the fruit has ripened. But I was happy for him.

Chapter 8

My city

When I got to Todaro he got up to hand me a chair. "Did you sleep well?" he asked. 

"Fine but only a little bit. We were late last night. Your Basque pelota lesson was exciting. I'm sorry for the mess we made in your room."

"Don't worry. The people at the Royal Gritti are understanding. They understand that you may want to play Jai-alai even in a Venetian palace." 

"How good Mary is for putting up with us. Where is she now?" 

"At Salviati's, still looking for glassware for Finca Vigia. She would like them pink." 

"And a good color, pink."

"Yes, it's a nice color," said Papa. "Where's Texas-Boy?" 

"He's asleep. With a two-day weekend, he can afford this luxury." 

A waiter approaches: "What is the gentlemen having?" he asked. 

"A Bloody Mary?" suggested Papa. 

"A Bloody Mary without vodka, please," I said.

"A tomato and a Bloody Mary," Papa said to the waiter. 

"So many sailboats, there must be a regatta"...

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I said looking at the Basin. "Fortunately, Garet-el-Fendis is gone..." 

"Garet-el-Fendis? Africa?" 

"Yes, this is how Gianfranco baptized it in return for the place where he fought in Africa. Or, to put it in the words of Federico Kechler who sold it to us, 'a yacht of two tons and twenty cents star-masted.' Since she had taken a few sailing lessons, Francesca felt she was a 'flagship' and commanded: 'You stay the sheet slack!' well not exactly like that but always mysterious phrases for us. 'Be careful not to scratch the paint!' she shouted every time we boarded. It was moored a stone's throw from here..." I said, gesturing to the right, "at the Sailing Club."

"Where once was the Mint that coined the famous gold coins?"

"Exactly. Every departure, an adventure: once we rammed a dingy stopped in front, another time at the first turn we were about to sink a sandal full of people. One day, after unsuccessful attempts to moor to a buoy, we dropped anchor to swim. Garet-el-Fendis, with the help of the current, freed the anchor from the slippery bottom of the lagoon and left alone. Reaching it by swimming was not easy, believe me." 

"Are your sea trips always so complicated?" smiled Papa.

"Always. We were back there" I said pointing in the direction of San Giorgio "and we were peacefully lying in the sun when some women gathered on the neighboring island shouting: "Our Lady is crying! Satan will destroy you! Shame on going around naked! "Even though we weren't actually naked but in bathing suits it seemed useless to discuss it with the women who were screaming louder and louder as they shook the garden gates. We decided...

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to leave. Impossible: Garet-el-Fendis was suspended in the air..."

"Suspended in the air?" Papa repeated and seemed amazed. 

"Yeah. Almost like the horse of the Baron of Munchhausen when the snow melted under the bell tower. In our case it had been the Lagoon going down - and the swift tide here - and Garet-el-Fendis found himself poised on a group of briccole. During the war they cut a lot of wood to make posts, difficult to see when they are at the water's edge. As Garet-el-Fendia creaked higher and higher, we jumped into the sea as a precaution. In the meantime, some nurses came to try to calm the women and only then did we realize that we were close to San Servolo, which by the way is the exact copy of the asylum in Vienna."

"A rather complex situation I would say," observed Papa taking a sip of Bloody Mary. "How did you solve it?"

"A barge passed by, but it did not manage to get the 'two tons and twenty cents' down from the briccole. She went to ask for reinforcements while we, in the water, followed the stages of the battle between the madmen and the nurses, who at a certain moment were about to be overwhelmed by those unleashed furies."

"I suppose you have since avoided San Servolo."

"Of course. The next time we went the other way, towards San Francesco del Deserto. After making sure there were no briccole cut, we dropped anchor and went for a swim. On our return we found Garet-el-Fendis in the middle of a large sandbank. Do you know what sandbanks are?"

"I think so," Papa smiled. "Those islets that absorb water quickly and return it slowly, acting as useful sponges for the lagoons." 

"Exactly. Waiting for the water to return, she was done...

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night. Little or nothing to cover and on the neighboring island a stinking fertilizer. When Garet-el-Fendis began to float again, not even a thread of drool. When the wind picked up, it did a few zigzags with the sails flapping and immediately went into a shoal. In short, we left at 10 and returned at 6 the next morning."

"It seems easier to navigate the Gulf Stream than the Venetian Lagoon." 

"It is certainly easier. The lagoon is full of pitfalls and if you go out sailing you can be sure that the calm will fall immediately. Look... Luchino Visconti." I said, pointing to a man with a medal profile and bushy eyebrows passing in front of him. "He doesn't know that I could be his granddaughter in five years."

"Grandchild?" 

"Jackie and I are friends of Bany and Cady, his brother's sons. In the summer they lived in Palazzo Papadopoli, one of the rare houses with a garden, ideal for playing Indians. But alas, too often our governesses would drag us up and down the Riva degli Schiavoni, a great bore for us children. I remember that one day, while walking, we wondered what we would do when we grew up. Cady said that he would become a redskin, Jackie would become the Pope so as to have the Swiss carry him in a colored armchair and I would become a saint."

"Not a small commitment" Papa smiled. 

"Yeah. In fact, Jackie immediately said that I could never become a saint because I teased him too much. But I was determined - I had just taken my first communion - I would resist the temptation to spite him and I would become a saint. No, he did not think I would resist, Jackie had retorted. I would resist instead, at the cost of locking myself in the big room of the boiler to look at the fire, thinking of hell and thus ward off temptation. No, I would never lock myself up in the big room, he had of...