Acqua Alta

Начало книги

Dalla sua pace la mia dipende,quel che a lei piace vita mi rende,quel che le incresce morte mi d à .S’ella sospira, sospiro anch’io,è mia quell’ira, quel pianto è mioe non ho bene s’ella non l’ha.

My peace depends upon hers:what pleases her gives me life,that which pains her gives me death.If she sighs, I will sigh as well,her anger and her sorrows are mineand I have no joy unless she shares it.

Mozart, Don Giovanni

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Chapter One

Domestic tranquillity prevailed. Flavia Petrelli, the reigning diva of La Scala, stood in the warm kitchen and chopped onions. In separate heaps in front of her lay a pile of plum tomatoes, two cloves of garlic chopped into fine slices, and two plump-bottomed aubergines. She stood at the marble counter, bent over the vegetables, and she sang, filling the room with the golden tones of her soprano voice. Occasionally, she pushed at a lock of dark hair with the back of her wrist, but it was no sooner anchored behind her ear than it sprang loose and fell across her cheek.

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