her âdear Dutch clockâ had stopped sheâd lost the race with time and was late for all her social engagements. She said she would come back the following day, with her servant to carry the clock, and Salvatore would manufacture a new key, adding before she left: âThen all will be well again.â And after this, she was gone, adjusting her hat as she moved away down the street.
Salvatore sat down. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. He knew beyond any possible doubt â and indeed this knowledge seemed to be the only thing that was truly his since his arrival in England â that the young woman with the fan was his future. âI shall marry her or die,â he said aloud.
She didnât return the next day as promised.
Salvatore had risen early, dressed himself with care, polished the glass of the engraving of Galileo Galilei and waited, but there was no sign of her.
After six days of waiting â during which he went out several times a day and walked up and down the street, searching among the heads of the people for the white roses of her hat â Salvatore told himself that he had misunderstood her. His grasp of English was still shaky, after all. She had not said âtomorrowâ, she had said âthis time next weekâ. And he felt relieved and calmed.
So certain was Salvatore that she would come on this new tomorrow, that again he took extra care with his appearance, dusted the sandglasses and bought lilies from a flower seller to scent the green world of his workshop.
That same morning, he received a letter from his father. âMy dear son,â wrote Roberto Cavalli, âby leaving the family, you have yourself tampered with time and continuity. Now, your mother and I feel cheated of our rightful futures and to console herself my beloved Magnifica is eating without ceasing and could die of this terrible habit, while I have no appetite for anything at all . . .â
Salvatore wanted to write back at once to say that, when his future arrived, when â through his new idea of a marriage â he was fully able to inhabit his new life, then he would return to Piedmont, defying the Kingâs edict by becoming responsible for the repairing of time, a skill for which he had now discovered himself well suited. But he didnât write. He sat at his workbench, waiting.
âToday, she will come,â he told himself, as the hours succeeded one another faster and faster. âToday, she will come.â
Night came, that was all. And then another tomorrow and another.
Salvatore told himself: âYou are so stupid! Why didnât you ask for her name? Then you could find her. You could pay a respectful call, informing her that youâd come to collect the Huygens clock, to save her and her servant the trouble of the expedition. It would be perfectly proper. And then the key that you would make for her! What a key! Just to put it into the heart of the mechanism would be to experience a deep frisson of pleasure. And then to turn it! To set the escapement in motion! To know that time was beginning again . . .â Salvatore knew that his thoughts were carrying him away, but he also believed that if he could only have the clock in his possession he could win the heart of the woman he now thought of as his future beloved.
He began work on designs for keys. Their heads had different emblems: a lyre, a rose, a pair of folded wings. He neglected other work to perfect them. And then, in the middle of the rose design, a realisation arrived in his mind like a canker in the flower: she has found the original key!
It was so simple, so obvious. She had opened the mahogany drawer where she kept her fans and there it lay. And so she had rewound the clock, set the pointers at the right time and given the matter no further thought. She would never come into his shop again. She was lost.
Salvatore put away his designs. He felt sick and sweat began to
Salvatore sat down. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. He knew beyond any possible doubt â and indeed this knowledge seemed to be the only thing that was truly his since his arrival in England â that the young woman with the fan was his future. âI shall marry her or die,â he said aloud.
She didnât return the next day as promised.
Salvatore had risen early, dressed himself with care, polished the glass of the engraving of Galileo Galilei and waited, but there was no sign of her.
After six days of waiting â during which he went out several times a day and walked up and down the street, searching among the heads of the people for the white roses of her hat â Salvatore told himself that he had misunderstood her. His grasp of English was still shaky, after all. She had not said âtomorrowâ, she had said âthis time next weekâ. And he felt relieved and calmed.
So certain was Salvatore that she would come on this new tomorrow, that again he took extra care with his appearance, dusted the sandglasses and bought lilies from a flower seller to scent the green world of his workshop.
That same morning, he received a letter from his father. âMy dear son,â wrote Roberto Cavalli, âby leaving the family, you have yourself tampered with time and continuity. Now, your mother and I feel cheated of our rightful futures and to console herself my beloved Magnifica is eating without ceasing and could die of this terrible habit, while I have no appetite for anything at all . . .â
Salvatore wanted to write back at once to say that, when his future arrived, when â through his new idea of a marriage â he was fully able to inhabit his new life, then he would return to Piedmont, defying the Kingâs edict by becoming responsible for the repairing of time, a skill for which he had now discovered himself well suited. But he didnât write. He sat at his workbench, waiting.
âToday, she will come,â he told himself, as the hours succeeded one another faster and faster. âToday, she will come.â
Night came, that was all. And then another tomorrow and another.
Salvatore told himself: âYou are so stupid! Why didnât you ask for her name? Then you could find her. You could pay a respectful call, informing her that youâd come to collect the Huygens clock, to save her and her servant the trouble of the expedition. It would be perfectly proper. And then the key that you would make for her! What a key! Just to put it into the heart of the mechanism would be to experience a deep frisson of pleasure. And then to turn it! To set the escapement in motion! To know that time was beginning again . . .â Salvatore knew that his thoughts were carrying him away, but he also believed that if he could only have the clock in his possession he could win the heart of the woman he now thought of as his future beloved.
He began work on designs for keys. Their heads had different emblems: a lyre, a rose, a pair of folded wings. He neglected other work to perfect them. And then, in the middle of the rose design, a realisation arrived in his mind like a canker in the flower: she has found the original key!
It was so simple, so obvious. She had opened the mahogany drawer where she kept her fans and there it lay. And so she had rewound the clock, set the pointers at the right time and given the matter no further thought. She would never come into his shop again. She was lost.
Salvatore put away his designs. He felt sick and sweat began to