Pulitzer Prize winner Andrew Sean Greer (“A great chronicler of our times.” – Broke and directionless, our young man (the chosen moniker of Told with the signature wit, insight, and deeply felt humanity that made <Less <an international phenomenon, <Villa Coco< is a dazzling, sun-soaked ode to life itself--a romp through a youthfully self-constructed emotional obstacle course, a meditation on what we give and take from others, and a bawdy Mediterranean ballad about becoming who you’ve always wanted to be.

Autorentext

Andrew Sean Greer

Leseprobe
The little Tuscan train station, brown shutters against yellow paint, seemed so fanciful you might unwrap it and find it was chocolate. The departures and arrivals sign had half its bulbs burnt out, so all our young man could discern was a cuneiform description of the current train strike, and while he looked for and could not find a living person, he did find a statue labeled San Drogo. The saint wore a floppy hat and seemed overburdened with a crosier, a scythe, and a sleeping lamb, as if he were carrying the shopping for another, more important saint. Our young man himself was overburdened with books, luggage, gin, fish oil, and doubt. He had followed the telegram’s nonsensical instructions all the way from the Eastern Seaboard to Florence, whose domes and spires he glimpsed only briefly before boarding a tin-can train into the Tuscan hills, and now stood in the hot wind of a late-September day. For a long time it was only himself, San Drogo, and an olive tree whose roots were breaking through its planter. Though in his later travels, on sea and shore, he would become accustomed to the sensation of foreign air, this first arrival in Italy would be minted forever in his memory.

Here is the telegram:

GIOVEDÌ COME BY 5:15 TRAIN FLORENCE TO S. DROGO GAZELLE WILL BE WAITING BRING GIN FOR PRINCESS & FISH OIL FOR FAINA

He had made his way to the Florence train station; he had taken the 5:15; he had brought gin for whatever princess might desire it and fish oil for anyone named Faina. He looked around for this “gazelle” supposedly waiting for him, though, as the range of the gazelle does not extend to Europe, he was dubious.

A car arrived: a beat-up old creature trailing a veil of dust like a warthog bride. It stopped in the middle of the parking lot and for a long time did nothing; Saint Drogo, with all his shopping, seemed more active. The electric sign flashed something in Sumerian. Then the car door opened and out popped a person so lean and small our young man thought it might be an adolescent. But it was an elderly man.

“JOE!” the man shouted, waving. His head was lightly feathered in gray, accompanied by a raptor’s beak and fervid stare; his movements were equally birdlike, jerky, startling.

Our young man’s name was not Joe.

Halting bits of a foreign language were tossed toward him, like gym class balls our young man was unable to catch. “Giovedì” was the one word he picked up: JOE-VE-DEE. From this and the telegram, he realized someone had misunderstood his name for the Italian for “Thursday.” Then again, an American might be called anything. As might a man in a train station.

“Gazelle?” our young man asked.

The man nodded. He did not smile. Gazelle’s name seemed to suit him, as he bounded up to take the bag, threw it into the car as if furious with it, then gestured for our young man to jump in, talking the whole time in guttural dot-dash language that did not at all remind one of the fluid, musical Italian heard in foreign films. The only understandable word was a peculiar one: “MITSU!” he would shout, “BITCHY!” Then he would point at the car and smile proudly. Our young man came to understand it was a Mitsubishi. He clutched his duffel to his chest. The Mitsu-bitchy awakened in surprise. It started, stalled, then started again. A shout from the driver. Then, with a leap over a rock pile, they were off. Our young man sighed to be in a place, at last, where he could take life seriously.

I call him “our young man” because the sight of him—all gangly, double-jointed limbs, waves of filbert hair, and a raised-eyebrow expression of both innocence and arrogance—is so much more like a soulless marionette, an unenchanted Pinocchio, than a twenty-one-year-old American near the end of the millennium, that I can hardly bring myself to write of him in the first person. I’m sure an elderly toad, if magically presented with his younger tadpole form, would sooner eat it up than recognize the creature as any version of himself. So it goes with time.

Because of course the truth is “our young man” was me.

“There’s a place in Italy in need of someone. Why don’t you look into that?”

These were the words of my college adviser upon our final meeting and the only actual advice he ever gave; the rest of our meetings, infrequent as they were, consisted of heavy sighs at my choice in major (Archives and Record Management) and at my amorous choice in gender (my own). A dedicated engineer and committed womanizer, he clearly considered both choices personal failures. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and looked sadly into my eyes. It is unlikely this “place in Italy” had occurred to him unaided; he must have canvassed his colleagues for some way to save his poor, gay, bookish charge. He produced an ad clipped from the paper, which he tossed to me across the table with the regret of an executor producing a meager inheritance:

ADJUTANT DESIRED for owner of modest country house. Collection of books, objects, art such as a Picasso to be cataloged before Christmas. Duties: dictation, pruning, shopping, hunting martens. Italian desired. Stipend, travel, board, and room. Tuscany, Italy. Write to: Baronessa.

An address in a town called San Drogo was provided. I looked up at my adviser and asked what an adjutant was.

“It’s a military term,” he explained, loudly closing a book as a sign that our time was finished. “From adiutor in the Roman army. It means assistant.”

Looking back at the paper, I asked what a marten was.

“It’s a weasel-like mammal with partially retractile claws,” he told me, “and Picasso is a painter goodbye.” He stood up, offering his hand and wishing me good fortune in all my future endeavors. My time in this college backwater was over; I was being thrown into the vast ocean of the world.

I had not considered Italy; then again, I had not considered anything. My mind in college was, shall we say, elsewhere. Let me try to make a funny story out of something hard: It was a time of pandemonium. Freedom had come for men such as myself—sex and romance released all at once as if by a drag Pandora—and oh, the party it was! Yet I was ill prepared for a carnival of flesh. Here I was, as inexperienced as the Amish (no teenage stolen kisses, no prom night fumblings, nothing), suddenly let into the circus tent to join the sword-swallowing, sleight-of-hand, and juggling of partners. The ensuing burlesque lasted for three and a half years, and I ended up the equivalent of the escape artist trapped in his own device (in reality: handcuffed by a boyfriend to a radiator). My roommate (handy with a lock) gave me a note from the school saying I was currently failing two classes for lack of attendance. It was the splash of cold water I needed; I closed down the carnival just in time, sent away the clowns, and managed to graduate. But it had been a narrow escape, and I vowed: No more men for a while. No more chaos. I would cuff myself instead to intellectual pursuits and the neat methodology upon which I had heretofore reli…