The Volcano Lover by Susan Sontag Read Free Book Online Page A

priest, his auditor would say. Surely another chamberlain, got up in the garb of a priest. Considering the nonsense that priests lend themselves to here, the Cavaliere would reply, it could well have been a real priest.)
    The youth in the coffin was perspiring and the chocolate drops beginning to melt. The King, trying not to laugh, put his fingers to his lips. I shall commission an opera on the subject, he exclaimed.
    &c, &c, &c, concludes the Cavaliere.
    And perhaps the word opera reminds the Cavaliere of a scene he witnessed recently at the San Carlo with Catherine, during the premiere of a new work by Paisiello. It was the last night of Carnival. Two boxes away was the King, who came regularly to watch and hum and shout and eat; rather than sit in the royal box he would often commandeer any of the upper boxes, whose regular subscribers considered it an honor to be so displaced. That night the King had ordered a dish of macaroni brought to him, first imposing the aromas of oil, cheese, garlic, and beef gravy upon those in his vicinity. Then the King leaned over the parapet and started throwing the scalding-hot food with both hands into the pit below.
    (The Cavaliere pauses, waiting for a reaction. What did the wretched spectators do then, asks his auditor. You might think they would mind, says the Cavaliere, but everyone here seems to enjoy the King’s waggery.)
    While a few appeared discomfited by the blossoming of greasy stains on their best apparel—their efforts to clean themselves made the King roar with laughter—many treated the shower of pasta as a mark of royal favor and, rather than dodging it, pushed each other aside to retrieve some of it to eat.
    (How astonishing, his auditor would say. It is like Carnival year round here. But quite harmless, I suppose.)
    And let me tell you, the Cavaliere might continue, about another scramble for food incited by the King which is somewhat less comic. It took place the year after the mock burial I have described to you, when the younger sister of the dead fiancée designated as her replacement, who wept even more copiously than had her older sister upon learning to whom she had been affianced, had been dispatched from Vienna; happily, this archduchess arrived intact, and the days of wedding followed. Now what I must explain, explains the Cavaliere, is that all important court celebrations here include the building of an artificial mountain laden with food.
    (A mountain? his auditor would ask.)
    Yes, a mountain. A gigantic pyramidal scaffolding of beams and boards erected by teams of carpenters in the middle of the great square in front of the palace, which was then draped and sculpted into a very creditable small park with iron fencing and a pair of allegorical statues guarding the gate.
    (May I inquire how high? I am not certain, says the Cavaliere. At least forty feet.)
    As soon as the mountain was finished, tribes of purveyors and their assistants began ascending and descending. Bakers on the foothills were stacking huge logs of bread. Farmers were hauling up bins of watermelon and pears and oranges. Poulterers were nailing live chickens, geese, capons, ducks, and pigeons by their wings to wooden fences along the paths that led to the top. And thousands of people arrived to camp in the square while the mountain was heaped with its hierarchies of foods, festooned with garlands of flowers and pennons, and guarded round the clock by a ring of armed soldiers mounted on nervous horses. By the second day of banqueting inside the palace, the crowd had multiplied tenfold, and their knives, daggers, axes, and scissors were in plain view. Around noon a roar went up when the butchers entered the square, dragging the procession of oxen, sheep, goats, calves, and pigs. As they tied the animals by halters to the base of the mountain, a murmuring hush fell on the crowd.
    (I see I must fortify myself for what comes next, says his auditor, after the Cavaliere paused for