Journal of Italian Translation - Brooklyn College - Academic Home ...

Conti/Fusco 93
these things that recall my military exploits? I managed to
exhale a feeble, “yes!”
“Good!” he said. Then he started shaking a big silver bell, saying,
“Now my faithful Clarisses will begin serving us!”
Indeed, a few seconds later the Clarisses made their entrance. Two
women with long raven hair, down to their shoulders, each of whom
was carrying a gilded metal tray (could it have been real gold?) piled
high with steaming hot pasta. Despite the title of “Clarisse,” in reference
to the nuns of Saint Clare, the two women were wearing
short and utterly transparent little tunics, under which they were
completely naked. So that it was quite easy to make out, distinct,
dark, and thick, the “forest of love” forming a patch under their
bellies. It was the first time that my eyes had come to rest on “Venus’s
feral triangle.” So feral, in fact, in the case of the Bard’s two maidservants,
gliding around serving the pasta, smiling and self-possessed,
that I was not only stupefied but actually afraid. What were
those patches of darkness? A disease? Two black kittens holed up
to keep warm? Some strange sign of mourning? When Sister Pecchia
(as I learned afterwards she was called) came over to fill my plate,
my eyes remained glued on the tangle of her pubis. While the eyes
of everyone else at the table were glued on me. And those of my
father, who in addition to being a fervent D’Annunzian was also a
moralist, had a puzzled, severe expression beneath his knitted eyebrows.
The Imaginator noticed the embarrassment around the table
caused by my infantile impact with woman’s secret fur, and he tried
somehow to divert my attention.
“Have you looked carefully, my young boatswain, at the macaroni
that my devoted maidservant has put on your plate?”
“Yes!” I lied, swallowing my saliva.
“Have you noticed their singular, curious shape?”
I looked down at my plate for the first time and noticed that
the spaghetti were not cylindrical like the spaghetti we had at home.
“They look…rectangular” I muttered.
“Almost!” said the Bard, caressing my close-cropped hair. “This
is the characteristic pasta of Abruzzo, my homeland! It’s called pasta
alla chitarra. And do you know why, my blond little white sailor?
“No,” I murmured.
“Because once upon a time the dough was cut with the strings
of a guitar. Which later on was replaced by a tool, furnished with
tightly stretched metallic strings. It is said that this utensil was conceived
by a shoemaker from Palena, on the slopes of Mt. Maiella,