No, this Venice should... I meditated scratching my head with the brush, it should be internally illuminated by a pale gold mosaic that spread all around, turning into an increasingly bright yellow to finish in orange (joy-love) which then was canceled in a black sky, more and more black (despair-death). Here, that was fine.
At breakfast I had listened, smiled, answered absently. As soon as I passed into the boudoir for the coffee I asked Papa to follow me for a moment, I had something to show him.
In front of the drawings lined up on the desk I was expecting him to say at least "thank you" or "what a surprise!" Nothing, he looked at them and said nothing.
Yet how difficult were all those letters in the right colors to write them straight! And they were many: Hemingway Across the River and Into the Trees, repeated over and over again, quite boring.
Maybe I had offended him. It's okay to joke, but a book is a serious thing and Hemingway was a serious writer, even if I didn't give it much weight. "I thought... if you want one to... to cover the book when it comes out..."
"Thanks, Daughter" and he finally smiled. I was glad he wasn't offended. "I would like them all, please."
"All of them? For just one book? Of course, if you want, and each with your name."
"My name..." He paused for a moment in thought. "Listen, Adriana: you help me to write, I already told you. Now you have made these drawings, with my name. Do you want to become my partner?"
"What does 'partner' mean exactly?"
"Work, do, share things together. For better and for worse. And with you I will always try to share the best, I promise .. partner" and shook my hand.
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