Kindle Edition Three colors of the rainbow : Arco’s fabled Paris, Venice and New York Category:  Action/Thriller Publisher: KDP / Amazon Type: Fiction Pages: 401 Copyright: April 15, 2021 ISBN-13: 9798738587412 Price: $4.99 (eBook) I miss Italy.  I miss strangers who speak to you, even when they are nosy.  Ok, sometimes they get on my nerves.  Is it better to be around these Parisians to whom you are invisible and who turn to you only when they have something unpleasant to say?  Compared to Rome or Naples, Milan is supposed to be a cold city.  Compared to Paris, it’s the sunny Mediterranean.  In reality, the sun is often veiled by pollution, and the climate is perhaps the worst in Europe, Venice comes close, with its damp winters and its suffocating summers.  Ah, la bella Italia !  But how about France, mère des Armes, des Arts et des Lois ! (France, Mother of Arms, of Arts and of Laws), which is the title of a beautiful poem by Joachim Du Bellay.  As for New York, rain, drizzle, dirt or snow, I can’t live without it. I now have three passports, Italian, American and French.  Oh là là, do I feel suddenly humble!  Meanwhile life goes on, with my heart split between Margo, my lovely Parisian wife and Flavio, my dashing, jealous Venitian lover, entre les deux, mon coeur balance.  The story is recounted by a thirty-something writer of Italian-American descent, whose parents have settled in Paris; his mother, Emily, a New Yorker by birth, teaches contemporary art at the American University, while his father, Massimo, originally from Monza (Lombardy, Italy) is himself a famous painter.  Arco is a talented author of erotic novels, his books, written in French, are bestsellers.  His wife, Margo comes from a Bordeaux family of famous vintners.  Although not religious, she grew up in the strict Catholic tradition, and has kept a certain moral rigidity, which creates some friction within the couple.  They still don’t have children, and they live in a mansion of the secluded and very posh Villa des Ternes located in the 17th arrondissement, not far from the Concorde Lafayette complex, where Margo owns a gallery of arts and crafts, hailing from the four corners of France.  Arco is a dashing and colorful young man and shuttles between Paris, Italy and New York, where he is invited to large book fairs, gives interviews, has TV shows which are sometimes controversial, since he often targets religious bigots, and presents his own English translations, for he is a bilingual writer, to students of literature at those few universities of the Big Apple that welcome Arco Baleno, calling him a modern and daring mix of Marquis de Sade, Casanova, Rimbaud and Verlaine (who were lovers), as well as Pasolini.  Unbeknownst to his wife, Arco has a long-standing homosexual relationship with Flavio, a young Venitian architect of his age, he met in Paris, a few years after he married Margo. Theirs is a passionate love with, at times, furious squabbles, because Flavio is terribly jealous.  The novel also provides a context for revealing aspects of three different cultures, different mentalities, all deemed from the inside, since the hero is himself multicultural and has lived in these places.  It is a far cry from what tourists or even frequent visitors see. Excerpt ARCO’S FABLED VENICE by Albert Russo Sensational news! Flavio has invited me to stay in his Venitian palazzo for three days, since he has organized a presentation of my book, both at his place and at the bookstore in Piazza San Marco. It will bring back pleasant memories for my parents and I had the habit of staying in the City of the Doges at least twice a year. The drive from Milan on the Serenissima autostrada (highway) took about two hours and a half. Since it will be during the week, Margo won't be able to accompany me. I promised her that we would spend a whole week together during our next vacation and that I would be her 'official' guide since she has never been to Venice. Flavio came to fetch me at the airport. We hadn't seen each other in the flesh in eight months, and as we embraced, I noticed how even more beautifully his eyes shone, glazed that they were with emotion. We took a vaporetto that would bring us at about a hundred meters from his place. It was twilight, the sky was aflame in streaks of orange and blood purple, enveloping the cityscape in the distance with a shimmering veil that lent it an otherworldly aspect, all the while, around us, it set the water on fire as if discharging in it incandescent flows of lava. I peered at the fascinating play of the waves, dancing in their golden reflections. No matter how many times I had seen that spectacle in my youth, it wasn't something which could leave you apathetic, as when you return to a familiar sight, say, like Milan's Scala, seen from the inside, or even the magnificent marble-laced Duomo basilica, which you pass by on your way to a business appointment. After all, I was coming to Venice to promote my book, and the preparation wouldn't leave too much time for leisure. Nevertheless, this is a place like nowhere else on earth. It is magic. No matter how one compares to it the lovely cities of Bruges, Amsterdam, St. Petersburg, or even far away Bangkok - it has a baffling 1,682 canals - jewels in themselves, the comparison doesn't stand. It is like when Beyrouth, before it got half-destroyed, was called the Paris of the Middle East, or the Avenida 9 de Julio, Buenos Aires' Champs Elysées, when the former is even wider. I quite understand why people find these similarities. I used to do the same. Still, after having traveled at length, I no longer do it, because in a way, making such comparisons, although flattering, takes part of the charm and the particular atmosphere away from these places, making them, sort of, second best, when they have their own strong personalities. When I was young, some people said that I looked like John F. Kennedy during his presidency. I was startled because I didn't think so. Maybe I had a similar hairstyle, but that was all. And nowadays, I don't like it when some acquaintances, however well-intentioned they are, tell me that I remind them of such or such a person. I feel slightly diminished, but of course, I don't let it appear, lest I offend them. When you apply this to writing, it is like, not making any distinction between two or more synonyms. Each word has a specific meaning, according to the context you choose. Is 'pretty' the same as 'attractive' or 'ravishing'? Flavio's family palazzo was located along one of the quiet side canals. Solitary gondolas or a rare private motor-boat replaced the noisy vaporetti. The Palazzo, built in the Gothic style, had a distinctive touch of Venitian Byzantine and Moorish elements, was relatively narrow and tall, with three overhanging balconies framed with inflected arches. The main entrance, guarded by red and white striped wooden pillars, led from the boat dock to the reception area. The roof was finally crenelated, giving it a lace-like impression. The whole façade was covered with stucco, studded by red porphyry roundels, which pealed in some places, revealing the red brick structure. In that water-logged city, especially during the aqua alta (when Piazza San Marco, which is the lowest in the city, is flooded), many buildings are damaged, requiring prompt repairs. Venice wages a constant battle against the sea's vagaries, that very same sea which helped her to defend herself against intruders in the past centuries. A two-edged blessing in disguise. The Moses dam, which is a monumental structure of biblical dimension - it is 1.6 kilometers long and cost billions of dollars -, must hold the giant steel-plated sluices in check, even in their most violent swings, to help the city keep dry. Fast forward: for the second time, in October 2020, Moses kept its promise, and its 78 floodgates resisted against the formidable storm, saving the city from high tides. Flavio's parents welcomed me as if I had been a dear nephew they hadn't seen in ages. Signora Helga greeted me effusively, then turned towards her son: "Carlotta has prepared the second bed in your room, darling. Go upstairs, both of you, and settle down." she said with a caring smile, "Dinner will be served at 9 pm, so you have all the time to rest too, for I'm sure our young friend here needs it. Even if the trip just lasted a couple of hours, the waiting and the airports' lines are murder. That's what I dislike most when flying nowadays. And all that because of those terrorists." Flavio's bedroom rested on the third floor and was sparsely furnished. It had two large beds separated by a rather tall nightstand in light blue lacquer wood. A pastoral scene was represented; it had three wide drawers. To the left and the right of the beds stood identical side tables, each with the same curvy lamp-set surrounded by tapered drum shades. Blue, in its palette of nuances, was the dominant color of the room. From the ceiling hung a sizable yet elegant Murano chandelier of varicolored crystal, the likes of which I had never seen; it glittered in different hues, whether it was lit at night or shut during the day. In every case, and wherever you stood, the colors seemed to chase after each other in a fascinating and unstopping carousel, like phosphorescent genies that appeared and no sooner faded away. Four centuries-old painted wooden beams courted the chandelier as if to remind it of their prestigious past. The walls were covered with plain satin and, adorning them, were just three outsize pieces of sculpted geometrical motifs, each of them encased in a frame of different shape, oval, round, and square. On the beds' facing wall, covering a good half of it, stuck a Cabrini Theater Entertainment Center, a state-of-the-art audio and video music ensemble, including a synthesizer. This mix of antique and trendy furniture, added to the high-tech equipment, and reflected the future architect's sophisticated taste. If much of the room held large-sized elements, the minutia wasn't neglected. The entrance door, the wardrobe, and the cabinet drawers, which were genuine antiques, all had exquisite Millefiori glass knobs sporting the latest designs. Here again, tradition and modernity were linked in a time-lapse continuity. Once I had settled all my clothes in the wardrobe, with the help of Flavio, and took a nice hot shower, I slipped between the cornflower-blue satin sheets of my bed. I was at once terribly excited to be with my lover and exhausted by the day's trip. We kissed tenderly, and, unable to keep my eyes open, I soon fell into a slumber. "Relax now, caro (dear), I'll wake you up before dinner-time," he whispered as our lips parted, and I inhaled the licorice-scented perfume of his breath. The last image I perceived was Flavio sitting at his desk in front of a large white-framed desk computer. Feeling light and cheerful, and donning my most elegant tan leather jacket, with matching mocassins, a tieless linen shirt, and dark brown pants, I descended the two flights of stairs, following Flavio to the dining-room. His parents were waiting for us, and we soon took our seats opposite them. We were facing large windows ornated with bright-colored stained-glass that gave onto the canal, whose activity we could only divine. A pear-shaped and imposing crystal chandelier hung high above our heads. At the same time, all around us were wall-length paintings that depicted scenes of Venitian life in the city's heyday. Dozens of well-dressed personages were displayed, in different positions, while a few couples were dancing. Some scenes took place in the Molo on which flocks of people were disembarking from gondolas or sail-boats. We were surrounded by the tinted ghosts of a sprightful populace. These paintings and their portrayals owed more to Rubens than to Canaletto, so rubicund and playful were the revelers. And to add to the feasting atmosphere, the four corners of the ceiling were dressed with gilt acanthus leaves and winged cherubs. Carlotta, the maid, was a pretty girl - she must have been in her late twenties - with thick mid-long auburn hair, freckles, and grey eyes. She wore no makeup and reminded me a little of a young Deborah Kerr, but with a more angular face. A lot of Venetians have northern traits, which is probably due to an Austrian ancestry. The city-state was for long periods occupied by Austria. She wore a pearl-colored apron adorned with lace. She had a dimple on her left cheek, which was visible only when she smiled. She served us with grace and agility. For the antipasti (hors d'oeuvres), she brought us Cicchetti, an array of small appetizing finger tidbits, some deep-fried crustaceans, tiny sandwiches, or mini sausages, which you usually pick with tooth sticks. To accompany it, we had the choice between white wine and Spritz - a very unItalian name for this light cocktail, containing Aperol, Prosecco wine and soda water, to which ice cubes are added. It has a gentle flavor and a slightly sour aftertaste, which I like. Then came a long dish with Baccala mantecato, buttered stockfish served with crispy potato balls. After that, we got Sarde in Saor, sardines, accompanied with onions, dipped in balsamic vinegar. It has a sharp taste, but the red wine, raisins, and pine nuts sweeten it. For dessert, we had a bowl of fresh fruit and Buranelli - crumbly donut-shaped biscuits, which I ate with my cup of caffè allungato - I never fancied espresso, which the majority of Italian men drink in the morning before going to work or after dinner. Actually, oh, blasphemy, and so unpatriotic! my favorite has always been the famed cappuccino, at any time of day, or even to end a meal. That first supper at the Braninis was succulent. The rosé wine made my head reel pleasantly, what with the excitement of being with Flavio and the tiredness of the journey. Before retiring with my young host to our room, I thanked Signora Helga for all those wonderful specialties, which brought me back to the times my parents and I would come to Venice. "Your compliments should be addressed to Aldo." She said, turning to her husband with a wink of pride. "He is our chef, and he enjoys cooking and showing his culinary talents to our guests." "Bravissimo, Signor Branini, everything was delicious, mille grazie," I said, a little taken aback, for I had presumed that Carlotta was the cook. "I am happy you liked my recipes. I fancy messing around in the kitchen. Please call me Aldo and my dear wife, Helga. You are now like a nephew to us." We bade good night, and soon enough, Flavio and I lay together in his bed, leaving mine in disorder, I having slipped into a nightshirt, he, wearing a pair of striped blue and orange silk pajamas. I was ready to doze off when suddenly I got out of my slumber, something piquing my curiosity. My back now erect against the pillow I asked Flavio: "Isn't Helga a German name? Although your mother has nothing of a foreigner, except maybe her hair, which is just a bit lighter than the typical Venitian blond. She has a perfect Italian accent." Flavio gave a little chuckle and said; "This is a long story, going back two generations. We are both tired, especially you. Let's talk about it tomorrow." And before I could respond, he took me in his arms and kissed me ravenously. I was submitted to him, and savored his gentle penetration, letting him come in me, then, without moving or opening my mouth, I fell asleep. The next morning, I couldn't remember whether it had happened or not, or whether I had just dreamt it, because this time, I gave myself to Flavio with vigor and felt my whole body respond to his sexual assault, nerves, and sinews, my pores tingling with lust. We went downstairs, lightly dressed, in Bermudas and sneakers, for this beginning month of May was already warm, just the way I liked it, not yet sizzling and damp, as it can get. The climate in Venice is quite unhealthy, with its high rate of humidity. During carnival in February, the cold penetrates to the marrow. Most of the Veneto and Lombardy regions have this type of climate, all year round, Milan being the worst, since it lies in the Po valley, forming with Piedmont (Turin is the site of Fiat's gigantic automobile plant) Italy's famous and richest industrial triangle. There is a morbid detail about the Milanese - if you remember. At the same time, I grew up in Monza, at a stone's throw from the capital of Lombardy, where I spent my university years. Whenever an autopsy is performed on an adult, even on a young one, the coroner inevitably finds black-stained lungs, because of the soot one breathes which is sprayed in the air by the numerous factories located in the city's immediate surroundings. And yet, what is exceptional about Milan, is that you can reach, in just about half an hour's drive, the Dolomites or the Pre-Alp mountains, inhaling the purest blast of air there is, and be in the splendid lake region in a mere forty-five minutes, pending on the traffic. Weekends, of course, are not the ideal time to travel, the lines of cars can be draining and hard on your nerves. After a hearty breakfast, consisting of soft and delicious fegato alla veneziana (cubes of liver), warm risotto with crab meat, and three slices of prosciutto and melon, which, unlike Flavio who drank a glass of Valpolicella wine, I downed with a large cup of cappuccino, taken in the company of his parents. They were as pleasant as ever and very discreet. Their welcoming attitude raised the question as to whether they knew about their son's homosexuality, and if so, were they accepting of it? I felt a bit uncomfortable about the thought and promised myself to pose the question to Flavio as soon as we would be out. We made it through some of my old haunts, like the old Jewish ghetto and its tall and narrow buildings, the Piazzetta opposite La Fenice opera house, where I had enjoyed a few splendid performances of Verdi's or Puccini's masterpieces. The building had been destroyed several times by fire, then, taking several years each time before it could be restored to its glorious original, resurrecting like the mythical phoenix after which it was named. Because of its situation, wood is the most widely used element in the city's constructions since it is the lightest but, at the sme time, most flammable. We ran after each other like schoolboys in the mostly deserted calli (those alleys are so narrow that two pregnant women can't cross each other). Still, unlike teenagers, we played it boldly. Flavio would push me into a corner, pin me against a wall, unzip my fly and suck my cock. I was at once exhilarated and on the watch for any sudden and unwanted encounter. Twice we were almost caught in flagrante, but Flavio was as swift as a gust of wind and stood erect, pointing at an imagined stain on my forehead, pretending to wipe it with his finger, all the while my cock was still out of my Bermudas, which was concealed by Flavio suddenly pressing his body against mine. Sometimes I wished he weren't so impulsive. Yet, this is what made him unique, and lovable, for life with him was full of surprises. It was refreshing, compared to all the people I grew up with in Monza. Margo, with her sparkling personality and her curiosity ever alert, was the first person who gave me what I had always lacked, a sense of awareness and the joy of discovery. Even when, like now, I was with Flavio, I missed her. Sex with Margo was wonderful, undoubtedly titillating, but more appeased and somehow more reassuring. With Flavio, I knew I would climb to peaks. His passion, which I didn't wish to thwart, scared me nevertheless. I sometimes saw myself perched on a high cliff, with him behind me. Not that I feared he would push me over on purpose, but that an accident might happen, which would drag us both down, into the void, against the rocks. We then strolled along the calli of Sestier Dorsoduro, after having crossed several bridges, and rested on a low wall not far behind the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, an eighteenth-century palazzo, which the American heiress whose father died in the Titanic had turned into a world-famous museum of modern art. We stopped at a cafeteria and sipped a fresh limoncello on its tiny terrace; it held just three small round tables, separated from the canal by a guard-rail. Like a conjuror, the sun dropped a willowy fleece of golden rays into the water, playing hide and seek between the lucky wavelets, inviting us to catch its myriad twinkling pinpricks. In an instant, the magic ceased, and we were left wondering whether that mesmerizing little game was but an apparition. As I slowly turned my gaze toward Flavio, I held my breath. Staring at the stretch of water in which the sun had just thrown its wand and let it so quickly sink to the bottom of the canal, Flavio looked ethereal. The handsome, playful guy, full of tricks I knew, was now plunged into a reverie, musing about things that would never be revealed, for such moments can be secrets even unto oneself. The vision was too precious to be interrupted. So, I let him doze with his beautiful eyes wide open for a few long minutes, then, like a conjuror, I clicked my fingers and woke him out of his enchanted stupor. As if nothing had taken place, he returned to his exuberant self and said: "Now now now, enough loitering, Monsieur l'arc-en-ciel - he jocularly pronounced my name in French. I winced, but so swiftly that he couldn't notice it. As you might remember, my dear father, Massimo Baleno, the talented and famous painter, didn't think better than to complete his surname by calling me Arco, arcobaleno, turning me thus into a walking 'rainbow' with which my schoolmates continually poked fun. Thank goodness, my full name in France means nothing. It just sounds Italian. "Oh, oh, oh!" I followed the cue. "Not so fast, Signor Speedy Gonzales. You promised me something last night. I'm curious. Let's just stay here another while and order a cappuccino." "What might that be?" he asked, looking up at the sky as if to refresh his memory. "We've done so many things in these last 24 hours. Remind me." "You were going to tell me about your family tree and explain why your mom has a Germanic name." "That's right," he said, with a more composed mien. "My maternal grand-father Hans was German. He was born in 1937 in a Nazi family. My mom is his daughter. Divorced from his Mexican-American wife, Hans came to live in Venice, bringing my mom with him, who was just three years old. I adored him. When we go back home, I will let you read the first chapter of Hans' diary, and you will then have a clear picture of that side of my family. As for my father, he is the descendent of an old line of Venitian aristocrats. Our Palazzo was built by one of my ancestors. Here too, I'll show you the booklet relating the history of the Balenos, as well as a photo album, with many pictures of my granddad, beginning in his troubled childhood." Flavio left me wanting, but now I was looking forward to spending some time, later on, delving into the past of his forebears, on both the German and Italian sides. Before coming here, I never expected Flavio to be other than one hundred percent Italian. In Paris, he never once mentioned that he spoke German fluently. When I met his folks last evening, his mother addressed me in such perfect Italian, and without the trace of an accent, that the little I have learned now comes to me as a real surprise, especially with the hint that her grandparents were Nazis. Lots of skeletons must be lying behind the Palazzo's secret doors. And I'll be watching for some exciting ghosts. The place may very well be haunted. But knowing this beforehand, I shall welcome their visits and question them. Hans' diary will certainly not reveal all the details I wish to examine, like how he met his ex-wife, where they lived, and why he came to settle in Venice with his daughter.

An Embrace of All Humanity by C. Richard Mathews New York City
In the world of letters, it is hard to imagine anyone more accomplished in more genres than Albert Russo: novelist, poet, memoirist, critic, short story writer, creator of volumes of his own beautiful photographs and commentary, translator, social critic, wry and insightful observer of his times. Those already familiar with his work will not be disappointed by the current volume and those not yet familiar will be quickly won over by his inventiveness, descriptive powers, humor, diverting and diverse casts of characters – but most of all, I believe, they will come to appreciate the sheer embrace of humanity and of Life in all its aspects that permeate his work.
This volume is a kind of post-modern, dizzying ride through a funhouse of tableaux and characters. The narrator, Arco Baleno (“rainbow” in Italian, as he informs us), addresses the reader directly, from the start, as a friend. He warns us that he eschews traditional narrative and to be prepared for the unexpected – and if you don’t like it, too bad, you’re not a true friend. A little later he tells us that we need to be alert to the fact that one of the characters in a story he’s about to tell – a Mr. Ripov – should, indeed, be taken to represent himself! When was a presumably fictional narrator ever so explicit about a ploy of story-telling?
The text bounces back and forth in time, but is clearly written in the present, third decade of the twenty-first century, given numerous references to current social and political issues and even to communicating via Skype. There are a number of forms within the work: straight narrative, poems, chapters of dialog in the form of a play, prose poetry, haiku.
Russo first received wide recognition with his initial publication of “Mixed Blood” in 1992 (translated into numerous languages and since renamed and reissued several times). That novel and many of his other writings takes place in several countries on different continents. This is an aspect of his work that is particularly notable and laudable: the ability to get ‘underneath the skin’ of a diverse group of characters: men and women, young and old, African and European and American, gay and straight. It’s often done so smoothly and unostentatiously that the reader marvels later at how he does it!
So, too, in this work, we see him investigating with gentle humor and insight the foibles of his hero, Arco, another one of his characters who is a product of different cultures and regions – his mother American, his father Italian. But also the thoughts, desires, agonies and exploits of a host of other characters who come into Arco’s life, either directly, in person, or through the stories about them told by persons whom Arco meets on his kind of Bildungsroman, including his great Italian friend Flavio.
Arco’s peregrinations take him from Italy, where he was born, to Paris and New York and back to Italy, where the other characters and situations he encounters help create the atmosphere that the particular city evokes. Indeed, the work can be viewed as a paen to Arco’s favorite cities: Venice, Paris and New York, a view confirmed by the Epilogue that reviews the pluses and minuses of the three.
The embrace of humanity in all its quirkiness and ridiculousness and variety and tragedy comes through everywhere and leaves one with a sense of what a complex and colorful tapestry mankind is made up of and what a tragic, sad mess it sometimes makes of things. But a tragedy certainly relieved by moments of humor, a human comedy indeed, if only we are open to recognize and welcome its manifestations. Russo’s brilliant text(s) in this latest work help us to do this.
I write “text(s)” advisedly, for this is not just a novel, it is many, wrapped between two covers. Indeed, at points Russo explicitly interjects in a chapter a secondary, long story that both relates to the overall schema of the book and is, in itself, a complete work. And within that story, a character may launch into a further story, so that the chapter becomes a kind of literary “Russian doll”.
Several of the stories within stories in the book end abruptly, unexpectedly, as if a deus ex machina had descended and stopped the show. But the endings are not arbitrary – they flow naturally from the story itself. Much as in life, the unexpected is what is consistent in Russo’s work.
The reader will find that sometimes the story within a story is said to have actually “happened”, i.e., is a historical event, while at other times the author very candidly states that such-and-such situation or person sparked a desire to create a story related to the “stimulus” – that is, to create something from his own mind and in his own words that embellishes or draws upon or takes off from the stimulus. Thus, the reader is immersed in a story that is asserted to be “fact” – the exploits of a young hero, Arco -- while experiencing other stories that may or may not be “true” in a literal sense but which carry kinds of truths that in themselves reflect views or thoughts or moods of the narrator. At other points actual historical characters appear, such the playwright Ionesco, rather aged and doddering, in an especially comical chapter.
The stories within stories span most of the latter three quarters of the twentieth century, such as Arco’s plucky elderly friend Anne’s story about her life helping in the Resistance during World War II, somewhat parallel in time to Flavio’s grandfather, Hans’s, story, revealed through diary entries.
A notable aspect of Russo’s writing is his evident love of food and all its delicious varieties, which he lovingly describes in detail, varieties as different and unique as the human characters he depicts. There is also an abundance of sex, and the sex and the ingestion of tastefully-prepared meals reflect the positive, joyful, even ‘primitive’ side of life, the natural, the spontaneous, the instinctive. The Yin alongside the Yang of the political, urban, collective existence.
One may sense affinities to other works of literary art -- Proust (who is specifically mentioned several times, and whose dear Parc Monceau is also a favorite Parisian retreat of Arco’s) and Thomas Mann come to mind: Proust for the narrator’s encounters in various social settings of a broad cross-section of literate society and Mann in respect of his “The Magic Mountain,” where his hero repairs to a mountain sanitarium and meets an interesting cross-section of society who are seeking a kind of “cure” or relief from illness, much as Jules, a character in the short story written by Arco out of which his first successful novel was born, does in the long episode where, at his mother’s urging, he goes off to a “curiste” facility, a kind of spa for people with various real or perceived ailments.
For this reader, the joys of this long work included especially my “revisiting” places that I haven’t been to in recent times, due to the worldwide pandemic. And it should be pointed out that the “sights” we are privileged to visit are not just the typical tourist-visited locales such as, in Paris, the Père Lachaise cemetery or the Left Bank bistros. I was overjoyed to see reference to that large complex in the south of Paris, the Cité Internationale Universitaire, a vast array of student housing not frequently seen by tourists, where I once spent a month (in 1964) living in its Maison des Arts et Métiers. And, when Arco is invited to a conference in Tunisia, the reference to its second city, Sfax delighted me, as I visited it during Ramadan in the spring of 1965.
The work is not lacking in many felicitous turns of phrase that inform so much of Russo’s other works. Two that struck me were: “the crowded world of solitude” (indeed!) and “the immensity of the sphere of love”, a much larger sphere than Arco has been aware of but which is revealed to him when he meets and falls in love with Flavio.
The author’s message (through Arco) is perhaps this: Embrace everything that comes your way; you only live once; find enjoyment and fulfillment in all aspects of your life, the Yin and the Yang. Or, as he writes at the end of the work: “No human being escapes life’s challenges and vagaries.” So best to accept that fact and all that Life offers. Life does not necessarily involve only “either/or” choices. As the last lines, suggest, Arco accepts the seeming ambiguity of embracing both a feminine love (Margo) and a masculine (Flavio): “entre les deux, mon coeur balance”.

Mr. Mathews is an art historian, writer, translator, artist, and attorney living in New York City. Following a successful career as a business lawyer, he earned a Masters in Art degree in art history from Hunter College, City University of New York, specializing in late Renaissance/Mannerist art in Italy and France. He writes and presents live online illustrated lectures for the Morgan Library & Museum in New York City about various of its priceless holdings. In 2020 he completed a new English translation of A. de Saint-Exupery’s “Le Petit Prince” that was published by l’Aleph (available through Amazon outside of France and the US). A Vietnam veteran, he supports various environmental, homeless relief, and animal rights organizations and previously served as President of the Board of The Lower Eastside Printshop, a community arts organization founded in the late 1960s in New York City.