Taverna Quotes

I left them to it, the pointing of fingers on maps, the tracing of mountain villages, the tracks and contours on maps of larger scale, and basked for the one evening allowed to me in the casual, happy atmosphere of the taverna where we dined. I enjoyed poking my finger in a pan and choosing my own piece of lamb. I liked the chatter and the laughter from neighbouring tables. The gay intensity of talk - none of which I could understand, naturally - reminded me of left-bank Paris. A man from one table would suddenly rise to his feet and stroll over to another, discussion would follow, argument at heat perhaps swiftly dissolving into laughter. This, I thought to myself, has been happening through the centuries under this same sky, in the warm air with a bite to it, the sap drink pungent as the sap running through the veins of these Greeks, witty and cynical as Aristophanes himself, in the shadow, unmoved, inviolate, of Athene's Parthenon. ("The Chamois")

Não é a lua que lá vai macilenta: é o relâmpago que passa e ri de escárnio às agonias do povo que morrem aos soluços que seguem as mortualhas do cólera.

Mas o mundo é do diabo, assim como o céu é dos tolos.

- Talvez um poeta - talvez um louco. - Muito bem! adivinhaste. Só erraste não dizendo que talvez ambas as coisas a um tempo. Seneca o disse - a poesia é a insânia. Talvez o gênio seja uma alucinação, e o entusiasmo precise da embriaguez para escrever o hino sanguinário e fervoroso de Rouget de l’Isle, ou para, na criação do painel medonho do Cristo morto de Holbein, estudar a corrupção no cadáver. Na vida misteriosa de Dante, nas orgias de Marlowe, no peregrinar de Byron havia uma sombra da doença de Hamlet: quem sabe?

O mundo hoje é tão devasso como no tempo da chuva de fogo de Sodoma. Falais na indústria, no progresso? As máquinas são muito úteis, concordo. Fazem-se mais palácios hoje, vendem-se mais pinturas e mármores - mas a arte degenerou em oficio - e o gênio suicidou-se

The radiant sun draws visitors from the cold climes of Scandinavia, Britain, and Germany, and lively tavernas and discotheques entice vacationers from Asia and the Americas. People come from all over the world to marvel at the breathtaking historical depth and breadth that greets the visitor at every turn. This very mix of nationalities is just the latest of the many waves that have washed upon the Greek Isles for millennia. As they have since ancient, seafaring times, the hospitable inhabitants of the Greek Isles welcome these strangers who come for the beaches and the antiquities--and leave with the gift of the joy of living. As sunset gives way to the blanket of night, the modest lights of a thousand tiny villages twinkle and flicker as if mirroring the star-studded sky. Against the darkness, the columns and stones of ancient temples and theaters glow with a secret whiteness. Sipping a sweet and aromatic coffee, as a mandolin player strums an ancient melody and waves lap up against fishing boats moored for the night, it is easy to understand why the ancients believed these magical islands to be the birthplace of the gods.

Land and Sea The brilliant colors are the first thing that strike a visitor to the Greek Isles. From the stunning azure waters and blindingly white houses to the deep green-black of cypresses and the sky-blue domes of a thousand churches, saturated hues dominate the landscape. A strong, constant sun brings out all of nature’s colors with great intensity. Basking in sunshine, the Greek Isles enjoy a year-round temperate climate. Lemons grow to the size of grapefruits and grapes hang in heavy clusters from the vines of arbors that shade tables outside the tavernas. The silver leaves of olive trees shiver in the least sea breezes. The Greek Isles boast some of the most spectacular and diverse geography on Earth. From natural hot springs to arcs of soft-sand beaches and secret valleys, the scenery is characterized by dramatic beauty. Volcanic formations send craggy cliffsides plummeting to the sea, cause lone rock formations to emerge from blue waters, and carve beaches of black pebbles. In the Valley of the Butterflies on Rhodes, thousands of radiant winged creatures blanket the sky in summer. Crete’s Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe, a magnificent natural wonder rife with local flora and fauna. Corfu bursts with lush greenery and wildflowers, nurtured by heavy rainfall and a sultry sun. The mountain ranges, gorges, and riverbeds on Andros recall the mainland more than the islands. Both golden beaches and rocky countrysides make Mykonos distinctive. Around Mount Olympus, in central Cyprus, timeless villages emerge from the morning mist of craggy peaks and scrub vegetation. On Evia and Ikaria, natural hot springs draw those seeking the therapeutic power of healing waters. Caves abound in the Greek Isles; there are some three thousand on Crete alone. The Minoans gathered to worship their gods in the shallow caves that pepper the remotest hilltops and mountain ranges. A cave near the town of Amnissos, a shrine to Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, once revealed a treasure trove of small idols dedicated to her. Some caves were later transformed into monasteries. On the islands of Halki and Cyprus, wall paintings on the interiors of such natural monasteries survive from the Middle Ages. Above ground, trees and other flora abound on the islands in a stunning variety. ON Crete, a veritable forest of palm trees shades the beaches at Vai and Preveli, while the high, desolate plateaus of the interior gleam in the sunlight. Forest meets sea on the island of Poros, and on Thasos, many species of pine coexist. Cedars, cypress, oak, and chestnut trees blanket the mountainous interiors of Crete, Cyprus, and other large islands. Rhodes overflows with wildflowers during the summer months. Even a single island can be home to disparate natural wonders. Amorgos’ steep, rocky coastline gives way to tranquil bays. The scenery of Crete--the largest of the Greek Isles--ranges from majestic mountains and barren plateaus to expansive coves, fertile valleys, and wooded thickets.

Minha história? Escutai: o passado é um tumulo perguntai ao sepulcro a história do cadáver! ele guarda o segredo... dir-vos-á apenas que tem no seio um corpo que se corrompe! lereis sobre a lousa um nome— e não mais!

In each portside town, enticing aromas waft from every harborside taverna, mountaintop inn, and home. Not only do the Greeks appreciate good food, it is central to their culture. Produce markets spill over with fragrant local provender: grapes, cucumbers, lemons, and tomatoes, as well as sardines, shellfish, and lamb. Lunch--usually the largest meal of the day--begins after 2 P.M., and is followed by an ample siesta. The long work day resumes, and dinner begins after 9 P.M. It may last well into the night among friends: a glass of ouzo--accompanied by singing, guitar playing, and dancing--often ends the evening meal, postponing bedtime until the wee hours. Laughter and conversation flavor the food at every meal. The Mediterranean climate is conductive to year-round outdoor eating. In each home, a table on the patio or terrace takes pride of place. Many home cooks build outdoor ovens and prepare succulent roasted meats and flavorful, herb-scented potatoes that soak up the juice of the meat and the spritz of a lemon. Tavernas, shaded by grape arbors, are synonymous with Greece and its outdoor culinary culture. One of the greatest pleasures of the Greek Isles is enjoying a relaxing meal while breathing the fresh sea air and gazing out on spectacular vistas and blue waters.

Meals are occasions to share with family and friends. The ingredients are often simple, but the art lies in orchestrating the sun-warmed flavors. Courses follow in artful and traditional succession, but the showpiece of the meal is tender, juicy meat; this often means lamb or goat grilled or roasted on a spit for hours. Souvlaki--melting pieces of chicken or pork tenderloin on skewers, marinated in lemon, olive oil, and a blend of seasonings--are grilled to mouthwatering perfection. Meze, the Greek version of smorgasbord, is a feast of Mediterranean delicacies. The cooks of the Greek Isles excel at classic Greek fare, such as spanakopita--delicate phyllo dough brushed with butter and filled with layers of feta cheese, spinach, and herbs. Cheeses made from goat’s milk, including the famous feta, are nearly ubiquitous. The fruits of the sun--olive oil and lemon--are characteristic flavors, reworked in myriad wonderful combinations. The fresh, simple cuisine celebrates the waters, olive groves, and citrus trees, as well as the herbs that grow wild all over the islands--marjoram, thyme, and rosemary--scenting the warm air with their sensuous aromas. Not surprisingly, of course, seafood holds pride of place. Sardines, octopus, and squid, marinated in olive oil and lemon juice, are always popular. Tiny, toothsome fried fish are piled high on painted ceramic dishes and served up at the local tavernas and in homes everywhere. Sea urchins are considered special delicacies. Every island has its own specialties, from sardines to pistachios to sesame cakes. Lésvos is well-known for its sardines and ouzo. Zakinthos is famous for its nougat. The Cycladic island of Astypalaia was called the “paradise of the gods” by the ancient Greeks because of the quality of its honey. On weekends, Athenians flock to the nearby islands of Aegina, Angistri, and Evia by the ferryful to sample the daily catch in local restaurants scattered among coastal villages. The array of culinary treats is matched by a similar breadth of local wins. Tended by generation after generation of the same families, vineyards carpet the hillsides of many islands. Grapevines have been cultivated in the Greek Isles for some four thousand years. Wines from Rhodes and Crete were already renowned in antiquity, and traders shipped them throughout the Greek Isles and beyond. The light reds and gently sweet whites complement the diverse, multiflavored Greek seafood, grilled meats, and fresh, ripe fruits and vegetables. Sitting at a seaside tavern enjoying music and conversation over a midday meze and glass of retsina, all the cares in the world seem to evaporate in the sparkling sunshine reflected off the brightly hued boats and glistening blue waters.

De dentro da taverna, com passo apressado, veio ao seu encontro uma negra suja, carapinha desgrenhada, com um caco de pente atravessado no alto da cabeça, calçando umas remendadas chinelas de tapete. Estava meio embriagada. Cassi espantou-se com aquele conhecimento; fazendo um ar de contrariedade, perguntou amuado: — Que é que você quer? A negra, bamboleando, pôs as mãos nas cadeiras e fez com olhar de desafio: — Então, você não me conhece mais, "seu canaia"? Então você não "si" lembra da Inês, aquela crioulinha que sua mãe criou e você... Lembrou-se, então, Cassi, de quem se tratava. Era a sua primeira vítima, que sua mãe, sem nenhuma consideração, tinha expulsado de casa em adiantado estado de gravidez. Reconhecendo-a e se lembrando disso, Cassi quis fugir. A rapariga pegou-o pelo braço: — Não fuja, não, "seu" patife! Você tem que "ouvi" uma "pouca" mas de "sustança". A esse tempo, já os freqüentadores habituais do lugar tinham acorrido das tascas e hospedarias e formavam roda, em torno dos dois. Havia homens e mulheres, que perguntavam: — O que há, Inês? — O que te fez esse moço? Cassi estava atarantado no meio daquelas caras antipáticas de sujeitos afeitos a brigas e assassinatos. — Eu não conheço essa mulher. Juro... — "Muié", não! - fez a tal Inês, gingando. - Quando você "mi" fazia "festa", "mi" beijava e "mi" abraçava, eu não era "muié", era outra coisa, seu "cosa" ruim! Um negro esguio, de olhar afoito, com um ar decidido de capoeira, interveio: — Mas, Inês, quem é afinal esse moço? — É o "home qui mi" fez mal; que "mi" desonrou, "mi pois" nesta "disgraça". — Eu! - exclamou Cassi. — Sim! Você "memo", "seu" caradura! "Mi alembro" bem... Foi até no quarto de sua mãe... Estava arrumando a casa. Uma outra mulher, mas esta branca, com uns lindos cabelos castanhos, em que se viam lêndeas, comentou: — É sempre assim. Esses "nhonhôs gostosos" desgraçam a gente, deixam a gente com o filho e vão-se. A mulher que se fomente... Malvados! Cassi ouvia tudo isso sem saber que alvitre tornar. Estava amarelo e olhava, por baixo das pálpebras, todas as faces daquele ajuntamento. Esperava a polícia, um socorro qualquer. A preta continuava: — Você sabe onde "tá" teu "fio"? "Tá" na detenção, fique você sabendo. "Si" meteu com ladrão, é "pivete" e foi "pra chacr’a". Eis aí que você fez, "seu marvado", "home mardiçoado". Pior do que você só aquela galinha-d'angola de "tua" mãe, "seu" sem-vergonha! Cassi fez um movimento de repulsa e que a rapariga não perdeu. — "Oie" - disse ela, para os circunstantes -; ele diz que não é o tal. Agora "memo se acusou-se", quando chamei a ratazana da mãe dele de galinha-d'angola... É uma "marvada", essa mãe dele - uma "véia" cheia de "imposão" de inglês. Inglês, que inglês... Soltou uma inconveniência, acompanhada de um gesto despudorado, provocando uma gargalhada geral. Cassi continuava mudo, transido de medo; e a pobre desclassificada emendava: — "Tu" é "mao", mas tua mãe é pior. Quando ela descobriu "qui" eu "tava" com "fio" na barriga, "mi pois" pela porta afora, sem pena, sem dó "di" eu não "tê pronde í". E o "fio" era neto dela e ela "mi" tinha criado... Vim da roça... Ah! Meu Deus! Se não fosse uma amiga, tinha posto o "fio" fora, na rua, que era serviço... Deus perdoe a "tua" mãe o que "mi" fez "i" a meu "fio", "fio" deste "qui tá i", também, Deus lhe perdoe! E a pobre negra abaixou-se para apanhar a barra da saia enlameada, a fim de enxugar as lágrimas com que chorava o seu triste destino, talvez mais que o dela, o do seu miserável filho, que, antes dos dez anos, já travara conhecimento com a Casa de Detenção...

Ancient Ways Considering their favorable strategic location, pleasant climate, and natural beauty, is it any wonder that the Greek Isles became the cradle of Western culture? For millennia, the Greek islands have exerted a powerful magnetic force on people around the world. Seafaring conquerors have long recognized the importance and beauty of these islands. Ancient Phoenician ships came ashore as early as the third millennium B.C.E., followed by would-be conquerors from mainland Greece, Rome, Venice, and Turkey. Invaders have laid claim to these islands from antiquity well into the modern era. Pleasure seekers have also been drawn to the area. Ancient Minoan kings built their luxurious palaces among the citrus groves and rugged hillsides that overlook the placid seas. Scenes depicted in ancient wall paintings and on decorated pottery suggest that the islands have been a center of hedonistic activity--dancing, drinking, and romance--for eons. Today, visitors from around the world indulge in these same activities, drawn to the beaches, tavernas, and discotheques that pepper the many island harbors. Contemporary travelers to the Greek Isles come for myriad reasons and find a dazzling array of unexpected delights, for each of the more than three thousand islands has its own particular character. From the larger, bustling islands of Crete, Rhodes, and the island nation of Cyprus to the quieter havens of Folegandros and Kárpathos, to the hundreds of tiny, uninhabited islets of the region, the Greek Isles present a collage of diverse landscapes and customs. Mykonos is fun-loving, with lively tavernas and populated beaches. Delos is stoic, protecting the ruins of its ancient sanctuaries in solemn dignity. Milos is magical, with its volcanic rock formations and stunning village vistas.

What is it about the Greek character that has allowed this complex culture to thrive for millennia? The Greek Isles are home to an enduring, persevering people with a strong work ethic. Proud, patriotic, devout, and insular, these hardy seafarers are the inheritors of working methods that are centuries old. On any given day, fishermen launch their bots at dawn in search of octopi, cuttlefish, sponges, and other gifts of the ocean. Widows clad in black dresses and veils shop the local produce markets and gather in groups of two and three to share stories. Artisans stich decorative embroidery to adorn traditional costumes. Glassblowers, goldsmiths, and potters continue the work of their ancient ancestors, ultimately displaying their wares in shops along the waterfronts. The Greeks’ dedication to time-honored occupations and hard work is harmoniously complemented by their love of dance, song, food, and games. Some of the earliest works of art from the Greek Isles--including Minoan paintings from the second millennium B.C.E.--depict the central, day-to-day role of dance, and music. Today, life is still lived in common, and the old ways often survive in a deep separation between the worlds of women and men. In the more rural areas, dancing and drinking are--officially at least--reserved for men, as the women watch from windows and doorways before returning to their tasks. At seaside tavernas throughout the Greek Isles, old men sip raki, a popular aniseed-flavored liqueur, while playing cards or backgammon under grape pergolas that in late summer are heavy with ripe fruit. Woven into this love of pleasure, however, are strands of superstition and circumspection. For centuries, Greek artisans have crafted the lovely blue and black glass “eyes” that many wear as amulets to ward off evil spirits. They are given as baby and housewarming gifts, and are thought to bring good luck and protect their wearers from the evil eye. Many Greeks carry loops of wooden or glass beads--so-called “worry beads”--for the same purpose. Elderly women take pride in their ability to tell fortunes from the black grounds left behind in a cup of coffee.

Era di nuovo notte. La locanda della Pietra Miliare era in silenzio, e si trattava di un silenzio in tre parti. La parte più ovvia era una quiete vuota, riecheggiante, formata da cose che mancavano. Se ci fosse stato del vento, avrebbe spirato attraverso gli alberi, fatto scricchiolare l’insegna della locanda sui suoi cardini e spazzato via il silenzio lungo la strada come vorticanti foglie autunnali. Se ci fosse stata una folla o anche solo un gruppetto di avventori, questi l’avrebbero riempito con conversazioni e risa, il fracasso e gli schiamazzi che ci si aspetta da una taverna nelle buie ore notturne. Se ci fosse stata musica...ma no, ovviamente non c’era alcuna musica. In realtà non c’era nulla di tutto ciò, perciò rimaneva il silenzio. All’interno della Pietra Miliare alcuni uomini erano radunati a un angolo del bancone. Bevevano con calma determinazione, evitando serie discussioni di notizie preoccupanti. Nel fare ciò essi aggiungevano un piccolo, cupo silenzio a quello, vuoto, più grande. Formava una sorta di lega, un contrappunto. Il terzo silenzio non era facile da notare. Se foste rimasti in ascolto per un’ora, avreste potuto cominciare a sentirlo nel pavimento di legno sotto i piedi e nei ruvidi barili scheggiati dietro il bancone. Era nel peso del focolare di pietra nera che tratteneva il calore di un fuoco spento da molto. Era nel lento andirivieni di un bianco panno di lino che sfregava le venature del bancone. Ed era nelle mani dell’uomo che se ne stava lì in piedi a pulire un tratto di mogano che già risplendeva alla luce delle lampade. L’uomo aveva capelli di color rosso vivo, come fiamma. I suoi occhi erano scuri e distanti, e lui si muoveva con la sottile certezza che proviene dal conoscere molte cose. La Pietra miliare era sua, proprio come il terzo silenzio. Era appropriato, dato che dei tre era il silenzio più grande, che avvolgeva gli altri. Era profondo e vasto come la fine dell’autunno. Era pesante come una grossa pietra levigata dal fiume. Era il paziente suono di fiori recisi, di un uomo che sta aspettando di morire.

Um poeta a amaria de joelhos.

When I think of my father's house it's the mixed-up smell of medicine and wine in the street that I remember, and also the idea of women giving birth as they listen to people singing in the taverna and of people singing as they listen to women screaming.

The cats of Athens, like the citizens, are very intelligent. Just after the war I used to eat almost every night in an open-air taverna in the Plaka. One end of the garden was separated by a high wall from an outdoor cinema, and at the same moment every night, a huge black and white tom-cat stalked over the tiles to sit with his back towards us on this wall, intent and immobile except for the slow rhythmic sway of his hanging tail. After exactly five minutes he would saunter away again over the roofs. The waiter’s verdict on this procedure was obviously correct: “He comes for the Mickey Mouse every night,” he explained. “You could set your watch by him.

La locanda della Pietra Miliare era in silenzio, e si trattava di un silenzio in tre parti. La parte più ovvia era una quiete vuota, riecheggiante, formata da cose che mancavano. Se ci fosse stato del vento, avrebbe spirato attraverso gli alberi, fatto scricchiolare l'insegna della locanda sui suoi cardini e spazzato via il silenzio lungo la strada come vorticanti foglie autunnali. Se ci fosse stata una folla o anche solo un gruppetto di avventori, questi l'avrebbero riempito con conversazioni e risa, il fracasso e gli schiamazzi che ci si aspetta da una taverna nelle buie ore notturne. Se ci fosse stata musica... ma no, ovviamente non c'era alcuna musica. In realtà non c'era nulla di tutto ciò, perciò rimaneva il silenzio. All'interno della Pietra Miliare alcuni uomini erano radunati a un angolo del bancone. Bevevano con calma determinazione, evitando serie discussioni di notizie preoccupanti. Nel fare ciò essi aggiungevano un piccolo, cupo si- lenzio a quello vuoto più grande. Formava una sorta di lega, un contrappunto. Il terzo silenzio non era facile da notare. Se foste rimasti in ascolto per un'ora, avreste potuto cominciare a sentirlo nel pavimento di legno sotto i piedi e nei ruvidi barili scheggiati dietro il bancone. Era nel peso del foco- lare di pietra nera che tratteneva il calore di un fuoco spento da molto. Era nel lento andirivieni di un bianco panno di lino che sfregava le venature del bancone. Ed era nelle mani dell'uomo che se ne stava li in piedi a pulire un tratto di mogano che già risplendeva alla luce delle lampade.

But Habib was overwhelmed by all his options. Why spend the night with Sophia when spending the night with Katrina might be even more sensational? Why smoke some opium when getting drunk on ouzo might be more fun? Or what about both? Time and again, I would find him on the terrace of Loulou’s taverna in a paralyzing dither. Often, I had to suppress a chuckle over his befuddling embarrassment of riches, but for Habib it was no laughing matter. Hedonism made him anxious.

Когда вы долго живете в иностранном государстве, …, вы начинаете ощущать себя своим, и вам кажется, что у вас есть такие же права, как и у граждан этой страны. На самом деле так не получается. Никогда. Даже если вы американец.

Le nere scale della mia taverna tu discendi tutto intriso di vento. I bei capelli caduti tu hai sugli occhi vivi in un mio firmamento remoto.

Greeks and foreigners lived in parallel universes separated by language and custom. Greeks started work at seven, foreigners at nine. Greeks finished at three and came home for lunch. Greeks went to bed for the afternoon and got up for coffee when the foreigners were having drinks. Greeks went out to dinner when the foreigners were coming out of the taverna to go home to bed.

Where is the shop?” she asked. “South of San Giovanni,” Falco said. “There is a string of palazzos just across the water. Perhaps we can go there?” They weren’t likely to stumble across the masked man just out wandering the streets of the city, and Cass wasn’t even sure she would recognize him; she had seen nothing but the hardness of his eyes. All she’d had was a feeling about him--that something was off, dangerous. She remembered how he’d spoken of the beauty of war. But it meant a long gondola ride with Falco, and with the threat of her wedding looming closer and closer, she was willing to go just about anywhere with him. Before she could agree, the door to the taverna creaked and Falco moved away from her. She whirled around. Paolo’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “Signorina. It appears we have a mutual friend,” he said. “You should join us.” “This isn’t really the place for a lady,” Falco said. His voice was light, but contained a bit of an edge. “Something tells me you can protect her, Falco.” Paolo held open the door of the taverna. “I insist. What harm can one drink do?” Falco arched an eyebrow at his roommate. “Fine. One drink. Then Signorina Cassandra and I have some plans of our own.” “I can only imagine.” The tall boy’s eyes glittered like black glass. “I take it I shouldn’t expect you home tonight then.” Heat surged through Cass’s cheeks. She prayed that no one could see her blushing in the dim light.

Signorina. It appears we have a mutual friend,” he said. “You should join us.” “This isn’t really the place for a lady,” Falco said. His voice was light, but contained a bit of an edge. “Something tells me you can protect her, Falco.” Paolo held open the door of the taverna. “I insist. What harm can one drink do?” Falco arched an eyebrow at his roommate. “Fine. One drink. Then Signorina Cassandra and I have some plans of our own.” “I can only imagine.” The tall boy’s eyes glittered like black glass. “I take it I shouldn’t expect you home tonight then.” Heat surged through Cass’s cheeks. She prayed that no one could see her blushing in the dim light. She followed Falco and Paolo back into the dim taverna, and over to a table where two other boys sat swilling some sort of alcohol out of tarnished pewter mugs. Paolo pulled a chair over and situated it next to Falco, who glanced over at her with an apologetic expression as she settled awkwardly into her seat. “So this is what’s been taking up so much of your time.” Paolo held up his lantern so he could see Cass better. “A bit skinny, but otherwise not bad. How do you afford her?” The other boys laughed. Cass stared down at the tabletop, her cheeks burning again. She concentrated on the seams in the knotty wood. Falco folded his hand around hers, lacing their fingers together. “This is Signorina Cassandra. Cass, you’ve met Paolo. And this is Nicolas and Etienne.” He gestured to the other men, and then turned back to his roommate. “Cass is a friend of mine, so it might be best to keep your attempts at humor to yourself.” “A friend, huh?” Paolo’s eyes narrowed. “Well, there’s no accounting for her taste. How did you two meet?” Cass half listened as Falco spun a tale about doing her portrait as a present for her aunt. All she could focus on was the feel of his hand on hers. His fingertips, pressing tiny indents in her flesh. Ass heard a roaring in her head, felt a rushing, as if all of her body’s blood was making its way into that hand.

De Montaigne. He described marriage as much like a cage full of birds, where the unmarried struggle to get in and the married struggle to get out. Do you agree, Signorina?” Cass struggled to swallow a mouthful of the sour ale, then set her goblet down on the warped tabletop and met Paolo’s challenging gaze. “As you know, there is no conversation more boring than one in which everybody agrees,” she said, firing back some of de Montaigne’s exact words. “Personally I have no desire to force my way into the cage of marriage.” Cass took another long drink of ale. It tasted better the second time. Paolo’s dark eyes widened. “The lady also read de Montaigne. Impressive.” Falco squeezed her hand. She cast a glance sideways to see that he was looking at he with a mix of surprise and admiration. She wondered what Agnese would do if she found out Cass was using her tutoring to impress boys at the local taverna. The thought made her laugh out loud. “Well, was it not de Montaigne himself who said, ‘There is no desire more natural than the desire for knowledge’?” Cass drained her goblet and smiled triumphantly. Paolo broke into a grin--the first time Cass had seen him smile. “Learned and lovely,” he said. “I see now why you’ve been spending time with her, Falco. Just because she cannot be your bride doesn’t mean she cannot be your muse.

Learned and lovely,” he said. “I see now why you’ve been spending time with her, Falco. Just because she cannot be your bride doesn’t mean she cannot be your muse.” Cass’s good mood faded instantly. Even in the dingy taverna, the reality was obvious to everyone. She and Falco could never be together. “Let’s get out of here, my lovely muse,” Falco said, as if sensing that Paolo’s words had upset her. He pulled her chair back for her, and she stood and adjusted her skirts. Cass bid the other artists good night and let Falco lead her to the door. “Falco.” Paolo’s sharp voice cut through the hazy darkness. Falco turned around. “Yes?” “I trust she knows little of your line of work?” Cass felt Falco’s body tense up momentarily, and then relax. “We’ve spoken briefly about the work I do for Tommaso, if that’s what you mean.” Paolo stared at Falco without speaking. Nicolas and Etienne looked up as well. Cass could have sworn they were having an entire conversation without words. “Let’s go.” Falco broke the spell by turning away. He pulled Cass through the door and out into the night. “What was that about?” she asked, shivering in the damp air. Falco put an arm around her and pulled her close. “Who knows,” he said. “Paolo feels the need to make himself a pain to everybody. I just let him pretend he’s in charge.” Falco led Cass behind the bakery where a small batèla was tied. “Are you ready for our next adventure?” he asked, untying the ropes of the wooden rowboat as though he stole boats every night of his life. “Skulking about the outskirts of a few wealthy palazzos should be child’s play compared with some of the work we’ve done.

No need to split my eardrums. I’m not going to hurt you.” Something familiar about the boy’s lilting tone made Cass stop screaming and flailing in his grip. She looked up just slightly, into his face. Even by the dim light of the moon, she recognized his dazzling blue eyes. “You,” she breathed. “Mourning girl?” The boy laughed, and steadied her on her feet. “So nice to run into you again.” She wrenched away from his grasp, pulling her cloak tight around her body. “What are you doing here?” The boy shrugged his broad shoulders. “I was just standing here enjoying the view when you almost ran me over.” “The view?” Her voice rang out shrilly. “In a graveyard? At this hour?” Her fear began to give way to irritation. He was clearly lying to her. The boy gestured around him. In the dark, a group of flowering weeds looked like a giant hairy spider crouched against the side of a crypt. “These flowers actually grow best in cemeteries. Did you know that? Something about the mix of soil and shade. Death and life, intertwined. One feeding off the other. It’s kind of magical, don’t you think?” He seemed distracted for a moment, like he really was fascinated by their surroundings. Just as Cass was about to respond, he turned to her again. “Plus the company here is much more agreeable than at la taverna. And much less likely to talk my ear off.” Cass felt dizzy. She took one more step back. “What’s on your face?” she demanded, pointing at his right cheekbone. “What?” He licked a finger and wiped haphazardly at the area Cass had indicated. His hand came away smudged with red. “Oh. Paint, probably. It gets all over everything.” His lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile. “It’s a wonder you aren’t the one being mourned, as accident prone as you seem to be.” “I hardly think you jumping on me earlier qualifies me as accident prone.” She was surprised by how quickly the response came to her. “Oh, if I had jumped on you, you’d know it,” he said with a wink. He reached toward Cass to dislodge a twig from her hair. “I’m Falco, by the way.” Cass narrowed her eyes. Now, since he was obviously laughing at her, she found his mischievous grin annoying. Still, it didn’t seem to be the deranged smile of a murderer.

I was actually just looking for a place to get a little rest.” For a second, the smile dropped from his face, and an expression passed across it that Cass couldn’t identify. “Sleep in a graveyard?” Cass frowned. “You can’t be serious.” Again Cass felt certain he was lying to her. Could he have had something to do with the body stashed in the contessa’s family tomb? Cass didn’t think so. He was a bit too relaxed for having just killed a woman. Behind him, in the darkness, Cass again thought she saw movement. Her breath caught in her throat, but it was just one of the stray cats, darting out in front of a crypt. If Falco noticed her look of alarm, he didn’t comment on it. “Why not? Normally it’s quiet,” he said, grinning at Cass. “No wild women running about. My roommate and I were drinking at Il Mar e la Spada and got into a fight as usual. Tonight I decided to avoid the inevitable thrashing.” He coughed. “His, not mine.” Il Mar e la Spada. San Domenico’s finest--and only--taverna. Cass had never been inside the decrepit old place. “Come on,” Falco said. “I’ll see you safely home to your fancy sheets. I’d say you need your beauty sleep, but it looks like you’ve been getting plenty.” He took Cass’s hand in one of his own, his warm touch like a bolt of lightning, causing her to jump.

She took a deep breath and opened the door to the tavern, not knowing what she’d do if Falco wasn’t there. The place was warm and dark, reeking of sweat and sour ale. Despite the late hour, the taverna was crowded, and every man seemed to look up as the door swung shut behind her. A rumble of startled disbelief went through the crowd--the taverna was not a place for a woman, especially so late at night. Cass hoped the dim lamplight prevented her from being recognized by any of the villagers. But then her heart leapt in her chest. He was here, just as he had promised he would be. Falco sat with three other boys at a table on the far side of the bar. He hadn’t yet looked up. Cass couldn’t stop herself from breaking into a beaming smile. Just the curl of his dark brown hair against the worn collar of his shirt made her heart thud. Falco’s roommate, Paolo, glanced at her with a knowing smirk. He leaned in to whisper something to Falco. Falco looked up. His whole body seemed to relax when he saw Cass. Bounding off his chair, he weaved his way through the crowded taverna to where she stood just inside the door. “My lovely starling,” he said. He cast a glance back at his friends. “Maybe we should talk outside.” Cass and Falco stepped out into the cool night. As the taverna door creaked shut, Falco immediately pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. Cass rested her chin on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of paint and soap. There were so many things she wanted to ask him: had he missed her, as she had missed him? Had he been thinking about her? Had he been thinking of their kiss? Her lips were just inches from the skin of his neck.

What about now, Cassandra?” he asked, touching his hand to her left cheek, his other hand coming to rest on her slender waist. “Are you ready now? I must return to France to study. Come back with me. I can protect you. I will protect you. And I will try--I will do everything I can to make you happy.” Cass didn’t know what to say. She stared into Luca’s eyes--patient, warm, kind. He would be an excellent husband. An almost-perfect husband. But would he be the perfect husband for her? Cass didn’t know. Just then, something moved in the shadows. Instinctively, Cass tensed up. Her head whipped around as a figure emerged from the taverna behind them. It was Falco, holding a canvas sack over his shoulder. He froze, watching her and Luca, and Cass saw them as he must: standing close like lovers, their arms intertwined. He was still at a distance, but his stare radiated heat. Not anger, just his own peculiar energy. Luca did not appear to notice her attention had been distracted. “Will you go with me?” he prompted. “As my wife?” “I--” Cass looked up into Luca’s face. Her fiancé would love her and protect her. He understood pain and loyalty. He would die to keep her safe. Falco was moving now, walking toward the shoreline. Cass’s heart rose into her throat. Her first love. Falco understood her desire to be free from expectations. The man who would support her in living the life she wanted to live. But what life was that? Cass stood frozen, unable to decide. Luca was still staring at her expectantly. Falco reached the two of them, raising his blue eyes just long enough to give her a single soft look as he passed by. As Falco waved an arm to signal a passing fisherman, the sun dipped completely below the horizon.

Az ilyen propagandában rejlő elvek igen egyszerűek. Keressünk egy egyszerű vágyat, mindennapi, nemtudatos félelmet vagy szorongást, találjuk ki, hogyan tudnánk ezt a vágyat vagy félelmet összekapcsolni a termékkel, amit el akarunk adni, aztán verbális vagy képi jelképekkel építsünk egy hidat, amin a vevő ténytől az álomhoz, álomtól ahhoz az illúzióhoz juthat, hogy ha termékünket megveszi, valóra válthatja ezt az álmot. „Nem narancsot veszünk már, hanem életerőt, nem autót, hanem presztízst.” Igaz ez bármi másra is. A fogkrémmel nem egy tisztálkodási- és fertőtlenítőszert veszünk, hanem megszabadulunk a félelemtől, hogy szexuálisan esetleg visszataszítóak vagyunk. A vodkával és whiskyvel nem egy protoplazmás mérget vásárolunk, amely kis mennyiségben pszichikailag kellemesen megnyugtatja az idegrendszert, hanem barátságot és jó haverokat, a Dingley Dell melegét és a Mermaid-taverna ragyogását. Hashajtóinkkal egy görög isten egészségét, Diána egyik nimfájának szépségét vesszük meg, a hónap sikerkönyvével kultúrát, kevésbé olvasott szomszédaink irigységét és a műveltek tiszteletét szerezzük meg. A motivációs elemző minden esetben talál egy mélyen rejlő vágyat vagy félelmet, amelynek energiájával ráveszi a vásárlót, hogy pénzétől megváljon, és így mozgassa az ipar gépezetét. Ez a potenciális energia, amely számtalan egyén agyában és testében rejtőzik, gondosan egymás mellé helyezett jelképek sora révén felszabadul és áthelyeződik, eközben pedig kijátssza a racionalitást és elhomályosítja a valódi problémát.

Eu o interrompi, empurrando-o para que ficasse em pé de novo, com a ponta da minha espada. “Não deveria fazer diferença se eu sou uma criada de taverna ou uma princesa. Quando eu o vir tratando os outros com respeito, independentemente da posição que ocupam, ou da sua anatomia, então seu pedido de desculpas significará alguma coisa.” Eu me virei para ir embora enquanto ele ainda falava, cansada porque essa era uma batalha que eu teria que lutar repetidas vezes.