Glorious Ones Read Free

wandering, half-crossed eyes, that moustache on her upper lip! Perhaps, if we are lucky, she will grow a beard like mine.
    “Yes, this beauty suits my needs perfectly. Even without a mask, she will have my audience howling with laughter. And certainly, I could parade her naked across the stage, and the blessed pope himself would never accuse me of sins against chastity!”
    Sweet Jesus, Flaminio! What devil prompted you to say those things? Did you think I had no heart, no mind? Did you believe that a body like mine could not have a soul?
    I think you knew the truth, Captain, you with your famous eye for character. But why, why did you insult me that way?
    For five years, I asked myself that question, day after day after day. I whispered it into the mirror when I put on my makeup; I pestered the gypsies we met on the road. Sometimes, when I shrieked and somersaulted on stage, it was all an effort to drive the sound of it from my ears. For five years, that question echoed in my mind so loudly that I never heard the cheering, the applause. And yet, when I finally found the courage to speak it aloud, I whispered as softly as if I were at confessional, in church.
    Remember? It was the first thing I asked you on that morning I awoke to find you beside me. How strange! That question seemed so important that it kept me from saying how much you had pleased me; it kept me from thanking you for having reconciled me with my own flesh. Tell me, Flaminio—if I had said those things, would that have persuaded you to spend a little longer in my bed?
    But this is what I said: “Flaminio Scala,” I asked, “why did you say those terrible things about me, that day you saved me from the convent?”
    For a moment, you looked startled, confused. Then you sighed, and kissed me tenderly on the forehead.
    “Ah, my darling Armanda,” you said. “If only you had asked me earlier. How easily I could have explained this matter, which has obviously caused you great pain and confusion. For as always, the truth is far prettier than these loathsome scenarios we enact.
    “Rest easy, my dear. I only invented those lies to expose the hypocrisy of that vain and silly nun. I assure you, Armanda, my decision had nothing to do with your physical appearance. No, the real reason I chose you for my troupe was this.
    “Even in that crowd of ragged, pitiful orphans, your beautiful spirit shone through to me with an almost blinding light. It was a vision of sorts, Armanda, a vision which I have never forgotten. Over the years, it has given me hope, inspiration, and the courage to keep myself chaste. But it has also intimidated me, and kept me from declaring my perfect love.
    “Finally, last night, I could stand it no longer. Searching for that pure light, I forced myself on you with bestial rudeness. And now, I am wondering: how can I ever make you forgive me?”
    “There is no need to apologize,” I answered coldly. “You were not the first one. There is a shortage of women in this troupe.”
    By then, you see, all my pride was back. For I had not wanted you to say any of those things, Flaminio, I had no desire to hear your praises of my soul. I had wanted you to tell me that my face and body were ethereally lovely, painfully beautiful! But how could I have expected you to lie?
    And so I settled for something less, and made it suffice: I settled for your vision of my beautiful soul.
    Are you wondering why I believed you, when I had heard so many of your lies? I swear to you, Captain: it was not the heat of love which convinced me, but the cold argument of logic. For once, I had no cause for doubt: what else but the folly of passion could have brought you to the bed of a woman like me? And it was true that you had kept yourself chaste. If you had ever paid the slightest notice to the crazy women who pressed their bodies against you after the performances, Armanda Ragusa would have been the first to see. Had you loved another actress in our troupe, I would