Embarrassment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 8 of 79 · 20 per page

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Worthy young lady, through your great love for us you have won for yourself a great honour, which for our sake we trust you will accept. The honour is this, that since you are as yet unmarried, we desire you to take as your husband the person we shall nominate, it being none the less our intention always to style ourselves your loyal knight, and of all your love we require no more than a single kiss.’ The girl was so embarrassed that the whole of her face turned crimson, and in a low voice, making the King’s pleasure her own, she replied: ‘My lord, I am quite sure that if it were known that I was in love with you, most people would consider me to be mad, for they would think I had taken leave of my senses and was unaware of the distinction between your rank and mine. But God alone can see inside the hearts of mortals, and He knows that ever since I first became attracted to you, I have known full well that you are a king, that I am the daughter of Bernardo the apothecary, and that it ill becomes me to direct the ardour of my affections towards so lofty a goal. But as you know far better than I, when people fall in love they are guided, not by reason, but by their natural inclinations and desires. These I repeatedly opposed with all my strength until, no longer able to resist, I loved you then as I love you now and as I shall love you forever. And because I was always prepared, from the moment I fell in love with you, to make my wishes accord with your own, not only shall I be willing to accept and treasure the husband you choose to bestow upon me, who will bring me dignity and honour, but if you were to order me to walk through fire, and I thought it would please you, I should do it gladly. As for my having a king as my loyal knight, you know how well it would suit a person of my condition, and hence I will say no more on the subject; nor will I concede the single kiss that you require of my love, without the permission of my lady the Queen. For the great kindness, however, which you and the Queen have displayed towards me, may God give you thanks and reward you on my behalf, since I myself could never repay you.’

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  When Anaïs and I would have a private tête-à-tête to seriously discuss my search for the one man who would end my search as Rupert had ended hers, she listened with the concentration of a piano tuner. We compared my raunchy affair with an impoverished writer to hers with Henry Miller, my passion for a handsome poet/revolutionary to hers for Gonzolo, and my seduction of a young, gay film director to her attempts with Gore Vidal. These mirror encounters were not really about the men; they were about Anaïs and me, our game of twinship. They were about watching and being watched, the diarist’s obsessions. Now she gave me specific recommendations to seduce Don, offering before I left, “I’ll just have to visit and warm him up for you.” So a date was set for her to have dinner at the Georgina Avenue commune and afterwards address my class and women’s group. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] The morning of the event, she called to say she’d have to postpone dinner for another time, but she would be there at seven for the talk. I had warned my commune members, my class, and my women’s group not to tell anyone else about Anaïs’s visit or it would get out of hand. “I promised her an intimate evening, a furrawn.” I used the odd Welsh word Anaïs was then trying to popularize, my mouth gaping as for the dentist. “Furrawn,” she would say at her lectures, avoiding a yawning fish face by rolling the r and taking “awwn” in the back of her throat. “It means intimate conversation that leads to deep connection. We don’t have a word for it in English, or in French for that matter”—she’d give her guttural half-laugh—“so we have to borrow furrawn from the Welsh.” Privately she’d added to me, referring to her husbands, both of Welsh heritage, “It’s all the Welsh have: a useful word and good-looking men.” Her humor, what she had of it, was so dry that it evaporated before most people got it; but I knew to chuckle because her desiccated jokes were always indicated by her little cough-like laugh. At 6:00 people started arriving. Our commune’s spacious living room looked like an anthill, teaming with longhaired guys and braless young women in tight T-shirts, most of them crashers. The chairs I’d arranged in a large circle were insufficient and people sat lotus-style on the floor and sprawled on the stairwell, overflowing into the dining room, kitchen, and pantry. The whole thing felt like a huge, unruly surprise party. I hoped Anaïs wouldn’t be too surprised when she walked in and saw what had happened to the intimate furrawn I’d promised her.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  A rich and splendid nuptial feast was arranged, to which he invited many of his friends, his kinsfolk, great nobles and other people of the locality; moreover he caused a quantity of fine, rich robes to be tailored to fit a girl whose figure appeared to match that of the young woman he intended to marry; and lastly he laid in a number of rings and ornamental belts, along with a precious and beautiful crown, and everything else that a bride could possibly need. Early on the morning of the day he had fixed for the nuptials, Gualtieri, his preparations now complete, mounted his horse together with all the people who had come to do him honour, and said: ‘Gentlemen, it is time for us to go and fetch the bride.’ He then set forth with the whole of the company in train, and eventually they came to the village and made their way to the house of the girl’s father, where they met her as she was returning with water from the fountain, making great haste so that she could go with other women to see Gualtieri’s bride arriving. As soon as Gualtieri caught sight of her, he called to her by her name, which was Griselda, 3 and asked her where her father was, to which she blushingly replied: ‘My lord, he is at home.’ So Gualtieri dismounted, and having ordered everyone to wait for him outside, he went alone into the humble dwelling, where he found the girl’s father, whose name was Giannùcole, and said to him: ‘I have come to marry Griselda, but first I want to ask her certain questions in your presence.’ He then asked her whether, if he were to marry her, she would always try to please him and never be upset by anything he said or did, whether she would obey him, and many other questions of this sort, to all of which she answered that she would. Whereupon Gualtieri, having taken her by the hand, led her out of the house, and in the presence of his whole company and of all the other people there he caused her to be stripped naked. Then he called for the clothes and shoes which he had had specially made, and quickly got her to put them on, after which he caused a crown to be placed upon the dishevelled hair of her head. And just as everyone was wondering what this might signify, he said: ‘Gentlemen, this is the woman I intend to marry, provided she will have me as her husband.’ Then, turning to Griselda, who was so embarrassed that she hardly knew where to look, he said: ‘Griselda, will you have me as your wedded husband?’ To which she replied: ‘I will, my lord.’ ‘And I will have you as my wedded wife,’ said Gualtieri, and he married her then and there before all the people present.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Titus was overcome with embarrassment, began to have second thoughts, and refused to go. But Gisippus, after remonstrating with him at length, sent him all the same, being no less prepared to do Titus’ pleasure than he had claimed. Having eased himself into the bed, Titus took the girl in his arms, and asked her in a voice no louder than a whisper whether she wanted to be his wife, as though playing some sort of game with her. The girl replied in the affirmative, thinking he was Gisippus, whereupon he placed a fine and precious ring on her finger, saying: ‘And I want to be your husband.’ The marriage was then consummated, and thereafter Titus long continued to disport himself amorously with her, neither Sophronia nor anyone else ever suspecting that the person with whom she shared her bed was not Gisippus. This, then, was where the marriage of Sophronia and Titus stood, when Titus was informed by letter that Publius, his father, had departed this life, and that hence he should return to Rome at once to attend to his affairs. So after consulting with Gisippus, he decided to leave Athens and take Sophronia with him, which he was neither prepared nor easily able to do without explaining everything to Sophronia. So one day, they called her into the room and took her fully into their confidence, nor could she doubt that their story was true because of numerous things that had passed between Titus and herself. And having cast a withering look, first at one, then at the other, she burst into floods of tears, complaining bitterly of the trick Gisippus had played on her. But before anyone else in the house came to hear of it, she took refuge in the house of her father, to whom, as well as to her mother, she recounted the way in which she and they had been hoodwinked by Gisippus, pointing out that she was married, not to Gisippus as they supposed, but to Titus. Sophronia’s father, who took a very grave view of the matter, complained loud and long to his kinsfolk, as well as to the kinsfolk of Gisippus, and there was a huge palaver, followed in turn by a great deal of gossip. Gisippus incurred the hatred of both Sophronia’s kinsfolk and his own, and everyone declared that he deserved to be not only censured but punished most severely. But he maintained that he had acted honourably and in such a way as to merit the gratitude of Sophronia’s kinsfolk, inasmuch as he had married her to someone better than himself.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Williams shook his head as he grinned at her broadly: ‘I’ve got old bones, Miss Stephen, and old bones breaks quick when it’s frosty, so I’ve heard tell.’ 3Mrs. Antrim was waiting for Stephen in the lounge—she was always waiting to waylay her in the lounge, or so it appeared to Stephen. The lounge was a much overdressed apartment, full of small, useless tables and large, clumsy chairs. You bumped into the chairs and tripped over the tables; at least you did if you were Stephen. There was one deadly pitfall you never could avoid, a huge polar bear skin that lay on the floor. Its stuffed head protruded at a most awkward angle; you invariably stubbed your big toe on that head. Stephen, true to tradition, stubbed her toe rather badly as she blundered towards Mrs. Antrim. ‘Dear me,’ remarked her hostess, ‘you are a great girl; why your feet must be double the size of Violet’s! Come here and let me have a look at your feet.’ Then she laughed as though something amused her. Stephen was longing to rub her big toe, but she thought better of it, enduring in silence. ‘Children!’ called Mrs. Antrim, ‘Here’s Stephen, I’m sure she’s as hungry as a hunter!’ Violet was wearing a pale blue silk frock; even at seven she was vain of her appearance. She had cried until she had got permission to wear that particular pale blue frock, which was usually reserved for parties. Her brown hair was curled into careful ringlets, and tied with a very large bow of blue ribbon. Mrs. Antrim glanced quickly from Stephen to Violet with a look of maternal pride. Roger was bulging inside his Etons; his round cheeks were puffed, very pink and aggressive. He eyed Stephen coldly from above a white collar that was obviously fresh from the laundry. On their way upstairs he pinched Stephen’s leg, and Stephen kicked backwards, swiftly and neatly. ‘I suppose you think you can kick!’ grunted Roger, who was suffering acutely at that moment from his shin, ‘You’ve not got the strength of a flea; I don’t feel it!’ At Violet’s request they were left alone for tea; she liked playing the hostess, and her mother spoilt her. A special small teapot had had to be unearthed, in order that Violet could lift it. ‘Sugar?’ she inquired with tongs poised in mid air, ‘And milk?’ she added, imitating her mother. Mrs. Antrim always said: ‘And milk,’ in that tone—it made you feel that you must be rather greedy. ‘Oh, chuck it!’ growled Roger, whose shin was still aching, ‘You know I want milk and four lumps of sugar.’ Violet’s underlip began to tremble, but she held her ground with unexpected firmness. ‘May I give you a little more milk, Stephen dear? Or would you prefer no milk, only lemon?’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Footnote 380: _Quarantanove_, a proverbial expression for an indefinite number.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Eighth] THREE YOUNG MEN PULL THE BREECHES OFF A MARCHEGAN JUDGE IN FLORENCE, WHAT WHILE HE IS ON THE BENCH, ADMINISTERING JUSTICE Emilia having made an end of her story and the widow lady having been commended of all, the queen looked to Filostrato and said, "It is now thy turn to tell." He answered promptly that he was ready and began, "Delightsome ladies, the mention by Elisa a little before of a certain young man, to wit, Maso del Saggio, hath caused me leave a story I purposed to tell you, so I may relate to you one of him and certain companions of his, which, if (albeit it is nowise unseemly) it offer certain expressions which you think shame to use, is natheless so laughable that I will e'en tell it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Footnote 298: _i.e._ women's.] [Footnote 299: See ante, p. 43, Introduction to the last story of the First Day.] As many of you ladies may either know by sight or have heard tell, there was not long since in our city a noble and well-bred and well-spoken gentlewoman, whose worth merited not that her name be left unsaid. She was called, then, Madam Oretta and was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. She chanced to be, as we are, in the country, going from place to place, by way of diversion, with a company of ladies and gentlemen, whom she had that day entertained to dinner at her house, and the way being belike somewhat long from the place whence they set out to that whither they were all purposed to go afoot, one of the gentlemen said to her, 'Madam Oretta, an you will, I will carry you a-horseback great part of the way we have to go with one of the finest stories in the world.' 'Nay, sir,' answered the lady, 'I pray you instantly thereof; indeed, it will be most agreeable to me.' Master cavalier, who maybe fared no better, sword at side than tale on tongue, hearing this, began a story of his, which of itself was in truth very goodly; but he, now thrice or four or even half a dozen times repeating one same word, anon turning back and whiles saying, 'I said not aright,' and often erring in the names and putting one for another, marred it cruelly, more by token that he delivered himself exceedingly ill, having regard to the quality of the persons and the nature of the incidents of his tale. By reason whereof, Madam Oretta, hearkening to him, was many a time taken with a sweat and failing of the heart, as she were sick and near her end, and at last, being unable to brook the thing any more and seeing the gentleman engaged in an imbroglio from which he was not like to extricate himself, she said to him pleasantly, 'Sir, this horse of yours hath too hard a trot; wherefore I pray you be pleased to set me down.' The gentleman, who, as it chanced, understood a hint better than he told a story, took the jest in good part and turning it off with a laugh, fell to discoursing of other matters and left unfinished the story that he had begun and conducted so ill." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Sixth] CISTI THE BAKER WITH A WORD OF HIS FASHION MAKETH MESSER GERI SPINA SENSIBLE OF AN INDISCREET REQUEST OF HIS

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Being as yet unsure of which way the friar was going to jump, the gentleman denied having sent the purse and the belt, speaking without much conviction so as not to undermine the friar’s belief in the story, just in case he had heard it from the lady herself. The friar practically exploded with rage. ‘What!’ he said. ‘Can you really have the effrontery to deny it, you scoundrel? Here, take a look at them – she brought them to me herself, with her eyes full of tears – and tell me whether or not you recognize them!’ The gentleman put on a display of acute embarrassment. ‘Yes, indeed I do,’ he said. ‘I admit that it was wrong of me, and now that I fully appreciate her inclinations, I guarantee that you won’t be troubled again.’ The words now started to flow in good earnest, and eventually the blockhead of a friar handed over the purse and the belt to his friend. Finally, after preaching him a lengthy sermon and getting him to promise that he would call a halt to his importunities, he sent him about his business. The gentleman was feeling absolutely delighted, for not only did it appear quite certain that the lady loved him, but he had also received a handsome present. On leaving the friar, he went and stood in a sheltered place from which he showed his lady that both of the items were now in his possession, all of which made her very happy, the more so because her scheme appeared to be working better and better. All that she was waiting for now, in order to bring her work to a successful conclusion, was for her husband to go away somewhere, and not long afterwards it so happened that he was indeed called away on business to Genoa. The next morning, after he had ridden off on horseback, the lady paid yet another visit to the reverend friar, filling his ears with sobs and lamentations. ‘Father,’ she said. ‘I simply cannot bear it any longer. However, since I did promise you the other day that I wouldn’t do anything without telling you first, I have come now to offer you my apologies in advance. And lest you should imagine that my tears and complaints are unjustified, I want to tell you what that friend of yours, or rather, that devil incarnate, did to me early this morning, a little before matins. ’I don’t know what unfortunate accident led him to discover that my husband went away to Genoa yesterday morning, but during the night, at the hour I mentioned, he forced his way into the grounds and climbed up a tree to my bedroom-window, which overlooks the garden. He had already opened the window and was about to enter the room, when I awoke with a start, leapt out of bed, and began to scream.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Spinelloccio, who was inside the chest and had not only heard all that Zeppa had said but also his wife’s reply and the fandango that shortly thereafter took place directly above his head, was torn with anguish, and felt at any moment he would die. But for his fear of Zeppa, he would have given his wife a severe scolding, even though he was under lock and key. In the end, however, recalling that he himself was to blame in the first place, that Zeppa was justified in doing this to him and that he had chosen a civil and comradely way of taking his revenge, Spinelloccio vowed that, if Zeppa was agreeable, they would thenceforth become greater friends than ever. Having taken his fill of pleasure, Zeppa stepped down from the chest, and on being asked by the lady for the jewel he had promised, he opened the door and summoned his wife. The only words she uttered, on entering the room, were: ‘My dear, you’ve paid me back in my own coin.’ And as she said this, she laughed. Then Zeppa said to her: ‘Open up this chest.’ She duly obeyed, and turning to the lady, Zeppa pointed to the huddled figure of her husband, Spinelloccio, who was now revealed inside it. It would be hard to decide which of the two was the more embarrassed: Spinelloccio, on seeing Zeppa standing over him and knowing that he knew what he had done; or the lady, on seeing her husband and realizing that he had heard and felt what she had been doing directly above his head. However, Zeppa broke the silence, saying to the lady: ‘Here’s the jewel I promised to give you.’ Spinelloccio now emerged from the chest, and without making too much fuss, he said: ‘Now we are quits, Zeppa. So let us remain friends, as you were saying just now to my wife. And since we have always shared everything in common except our wives, let us share them as well.’ Zeppa having consented to this proposal, all four breakfasted together in perfect amity. And from that day forth, each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the men had two wives, nor did this arrangement ever give rise to any argument or dispute between them. NINTH STORYBeing eager to ‘go the course’ with a company of revellers, Master Simone, a physician, is prevailed upon by Bruno and Buffalmacco to proceed by night to a certain spot, where he is thrown by Buffalmacco into a ditch and left to wallow in its filth. When the ladies had quite finished commenting upon the two Sienese and their wife-sharing, the queen, who short of offending Dioneo was the only one left to address them, began as follows:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Andreuccio replied that he would rather do without his companions that evening, and that he would place himself entirely at her disposal, if this was what she really wanted. She accordingly went through the motions of sending word to the inn that they should not expect him for supper. Then after a lot of further talk, they sat down to a splendid supper, consisting of several courses, which she cunningly prolonged until darkness had completely fallen. When they got up from table, Andreuccio said he would have to go, but she refused to hear of it under any circumstances, telling him that Naples was no place to wander about in at night, especially if one was a stranger, and that when she had sent word to the inn not to expect him for supper, she had told them he would not be sleeping there either. He swallowed all this, and since, being taken in by appearances, he was enjoying her company, he stayed where he was. After supper, she engaged him, not without her reasons, in a protracted conversation about this and that, and when the night was well advanced she left Andreuccio to sleep in her room, with a page-boy to show him where to find anything he needed, whilst she herself retired into another room with her maidservants. The heat was stifling, and so, on finding himself alone, Andreuccio stripped to his doublet and removed his hose and breeches, and laid them under his bolster. Nature demanded that he should relieve his belly, which was inordinately full, so he asked the page where he could do it, and the boy showed him a door in one of the corners of the room, saying: ‘Go through there.’ Andreuccio passed jauntily through, and chanced to step on to a plank, which came away at its other end from the beam on which it was resting, so that it flew up in the air and fell into the lower regions, taking Andreuccio with it. Although he had fallen from a goodly height, he mercifully suffered no injury; but he got himself daubed from head to foot in the filthy mess with which the place was literally swimming. Now in order to give you a clearer picture of what has preceded and what follows, I shall describe the sort of place it was. In a narrow alleyway, such as we often see between two houses, some boards, and a place to sit, had been rigged up on two beams, running across from one house to the next; and it was one of these boards that had collapsed under Andreuccio’s weight.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘It’s monstrous, sir, that you should refuse me a hearing, and try to withdraw without giving your verdict. Surely you don’t need written evidence to decide a trifling matter of this sort.’ And whilst they were saying all this, they held on to his clothes sufficiently long for everyone in court to perceive that he had lost his breeches. Then finally, Matteuzzo, having clung to them for some little time, released his hold and made good his escape from the courtroom without being seen, whilst Ribi, deciding he had done quite enough, exclaimed: ‘I swear to God I’ll appeal to the Senate.’ At the same time, Maso let go the judge’s robe on his side, saying: ‘I shan’t go to any Senate. I’ll keep coming back here, sir, until I find you in less of a muddle than you seem to be in this morning.’ Then they both made off in opposite directions as fast as their legs would carry them. It was only at this point that Master Judge, having pulled up his breeches before all those present, as though he were just getting up out of bed, became aware of the deception and demanded to know what had become of the two men who were arguing about the thigh-boots and the saddlebag. But when they couldn’t be found, he began to swear by the bowels of God that somebody should tell him whether it was the custom in Florence for a judge to have his breeches removed whilst sitting on the bench of justice. When the podestà, for his part, was told what had happened, he practically threw a fit. But when it was pointed out by his friends that this had only been done in order to show him that the Florentines knew he had brought fools with him instead of judges so as to save money, he thought it best to hold his tongue, and nothing more was said about the matter. SIXTH STORYBruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino. Pretending to help him find it again, they persuade him to submit to a test using ginger sweets and Vernaccia wine. They give him two sweets, one after the other, consisting of dog ginger seasoned with aloes, so that it appears that he has stolen the pig himself. And finally they extract money from him, by threatening to tell his wife about it. Filostrato had no sooner completed his story, which aroused a great deal of laughter, than the queen called on Filomena to follow, whereupon she began, saying: Gracious ladies, just as Filostrato was prompted to tell you the previous tale by hearing the name of Maso, in precisely the same way I too have been prompted by hearing the names of Calandrino and his companions to tell you another, which I believe you will find to your liking.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Lenore smashed the ball of lint in her palm with her thumb. “That’s when she saw my little weaving and begged me to let her have it.” “I’m supposed to tell you how much she loves it.” Lenore sighed. “I should have kept it.” CHAPTER 3 Greenwich Village, New York, 1962 THE NEXT DAY, MILLIE BROUGHT a tea tray out to where I’d been seated under the shade of an umbrella on the terrace. After a few moments, Anaïs sailed out in a full-skirted Mexican sundress to join me. She smiled mischievously. “So, has Jean-Jacques called you?” “No.” My heart jumped. “Did he ask you for my number? Do you have it?” “I haven’t spoken with him. Would you like me to give him your number? I’ll be happy to give you his.” Embarrassed by my obvious eagerness, I shook my head but I felt transparent, as if she already knew what had happened with him. The fib I was about to tell burned my face. “He saw Lenore’s work and wanted to know if he could buy a piece, but we forgot to exchange phone numbers.” “Oh, he saw her marvelous loft!” “Yes, he had to help me in. I wasn’t feeling too well.” “Lenore was out of town?” I nodded and as I sat, hugging my midriff with crossed arms, she gently asked me delicately phrased questions about my night with Jean-Jacques. Bit by bit she untangled the knot of confusion, shame, and longing I held so tightly. “So you think you are still a virgin?” she asked after considering all I had said. “Technically.” She laughed, and then we laughed together. “He should finish the job!” Anaïs announced gaily. “He’s French, after all. He’ll know what he’s doing, and you can be sure he’ll be sensitive to you because he already has been.” “That’s what I’ve been thinking. How did you know?” “I was eighteen once, though I didn’t have the good fortune to meet a Jean-Jacques. Even if I had, I would have been too shy to let him know my desires. It’s not just men who enjoy sex, you know, although this Puritan American culture makes women ashamed of wanting equal pleasure.” No one had ever spoken with me this way, not my mother or Lenore, certainly not the nuns, or even my girlfriends. Anaïs urged, “You must tell him that you want him to deflower you, otherwise he will have no way of knowing.” “I can’t. I couldn’t get the words out.” “Sometimes it is pleasurable to be passive,” she said, “but it is not always good for you to hide behind shyness. A man cannot read your mind, and things can happen that you do not want if you are not clear.” We both became thoughtful. I became aware of the sounds of traffic and a faraway jackhammer. Anaïs poured us each a tepid cup of tea.

• From Trash (1988)

  But then they turned over the butter bowl and divided it evenly between everyone but me. I stared and Mama explained. “Another week and you can start adding to the pot. Then you’ll get a share. For now just write down two dollars on Mr. Aubrey’s form.” “But I made a lot more than that,” I told her. “Honey, the tax people don’t need to know that.” Her voice was patient. “Then when you’re in the pot, just report your share. That way we all report the same amount. They expect that.” “Yeah, they don’t know nothing about initiative,” Mabel added, rolling her hips in illustration of her point. It made her heavy bosom move dramatically, and I remembered times I’d seen her do that at the counter. It made me feel even more embarrassed and angry. When we were alone I asked Mama if she didn’t think Mr. Aubrey knew that everyone’s reports on their tips were faked. “He doesn’t say what he knows,” she replied, “and I don’t imagine he’s got a reason to care.” I dropped the subject and started the next week guessing on my tips. Salesmen and truckers were always a high guess. Women who came with a group were low, while women alone were usually a fair twenty-five cents on a light lunch—if you were polite and brought them their coffee first. It was 1966, after all, and a hamburger was sixty-five cents. Tourists were more difficult. I learned that noisy kids meant a small tip, which seemed the highest injustice. Maybe it was a kind of defensive arrogance that made the parents of those kids leave so little, as if they were saying, “Just because little Kevin gave you a headache and poured ketchup on the floor doesn’t mean I owe you anything. ” Early-morning tourists who asked first for tomato juice, lemon, and coffee were a bonus. They were almost surely leaving the Jamaica Inn just up the road, which had a terrible restaurant but served the strongest drinks in the county. If you talked softly you never got less than a dollar, and sometimes for nothing more than juice, coffee, and aspirin. I picked it up. In three weeks I started to really catch on and started making sucker bets like the old man who ordered egg salad. Before I even carried the water glass over, I snapped out my counter rag, turned all the way around, and said, “Five.” Then as I turned to the stove and the rack of menus, I mouthed, “Dollars.” Mama frowned while Mabel rolled her shoulders and said, “An’t we growing up fast!” I just smiled my heartbreaker’s smile and got the man his sandwich. When he left I snapped that five-dollar bill loudly five times before I put it in my apron pocket. “My mama didn’t raise no fool,” I told the other women, who laughed and slapped my behind like they were glad to see me cutting up.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Turning now to our story, I should first point out that both Messer Forese and Giotto owned properties in the region of Mug-ello.4 And one summer, when the law courts were closed for the vacation, Messer Forese had gone to visit this property of his, and was returning to Florence astride an emaciated old hack, when whom should he meet up with along the road but the aforementioned Giotto, who was likewise returning from a visit to his property. Giotto was no better accoutred than himself, his mount was just as decrepit, and, since they were both getting on in years and travelling at a snail’s pace, they rode along together. However, they happened to be caught in a sudden downpour such as we often experience in summer, and they took shelter as soon as they could in the house of a peasant, who was known to both men and was in fact a friend of theirs. But after a while, since the rain showed no sign of stopping and they wanted to reach Florence by nightfall, they borrowed a pair of shabby old woollen capes from the peasant, along with a couple of hats that were falling to bits from old age, these being the best he could provide, and resumed their journey. After they had travelled some distance, by which time they were soaked to the skin and bespattered all over by the steady spray of mud that hacks kick up with their hooves (none of which is calculated to improve anyone’s appearance), the weather cleared up a little, and the two men, having ridden for a long time in silence, began to converse with one another. As Messer Forese was riding along listening to Giotto, who was a very fine talker, he turned to inspect him, shifting his gaze from Giotto’s flank to his head and then to the rest of his person, and on perceiving how thoroughly unkempt and disreputable he looked, giving no thought to his own appearance he burst out laughing, and said: ‘Giotto, supposing we were to meet some stranger who had never seen you before, do you think he would believe that you were the greatest painter in the world?’ To which Giotto swiftly replied: ‘Sir, I think he would believe it if, after taking a look at you, he gave you credit for knowing your ABC.’ On hearing this, Messer Forese recognized his error, and perceived that he was hoist with his own petard. SIXTH STORYMichele Scalza proves to certain young men that the Baronci are the most noble family in the whole wide world, and wins a supper. The ladies were still laughing over Giotto’s swift and splendid retort when the queen called for the next story from Fiammetta, who began as follows:

• From Trash (1988)

  She swung the car sharply to the side, making the door swing shut. If it would have helped, I would have told her I was sorry already. Jo put me in the room where her daughter, Pammy, stashes all the gear she will not let Jo give away or destroy—shelves of books, racks of dusty music tapes, and mounted posters on the wall over the daybed. I fell asleep under posters of prepubescent boy bands and woke up dry-mouthed and headachy. Jo laughed when I asked about the bands. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “Some maudlin shit no one could dance to—whey-faced girls and anorexic boys. All of it sounds alike, whiny voices all scratchy and droning. Girl has no ear, no ear at all.” Pammy had been picking out chords on the old piano Jo took in trade for her wrecked Chevy. She spoke without looking up. “You know what Mama does?” she asked in her peculiar Florida twang. “Mama sits up late smoking dope and listening to Black Sabbath on the headphones. Acts like she’s seventeen and nothing’s changed in the world at all.” Jo snorted, though I saw the quick grin she suppressed. She kicked her boot heels together, knocking dried mud on the Astroturf carpet. That carpet was her prize. She’d had her boyfriend Jaybird install it throughout the house. “She’s eleven now,” she said, nodding in Pammy’s direction. “What you think? Should I shoot her or just cut my own throat?” I shook my head, looking back and forth from one of them to the other. They were so alike it startled me, thick brown hair, black eyes, and the exact same way of sneering so that the right side of the mouth drew up and back. “Hang on,” I told Jo. “She gets to be thirty or so, you might like her.” “Ha!” Jo slapped her hands together. “If I live that long.” Pammy banged the piano closed and swept out of the room. My sister and I grinned at each other. Pammy we both believed would redeem us all. The child was fearless. “We need to talk,” I told Arlene when she came to the hospital the day after I moved in with Jo. Arlene was standing just inside the smoking lounge off the side of the cafeteria, waiting for Jack to arrive. “She’s looking better, don’t you think?” Arlene popped a Tic Tac in her mouth. “No, she an’t.” I tried to catch Arlene’s hand, but she hugged her elbows in tight and just looked at me. “Arlene, she’s not going to get any better. She’s going to get worse. If the tumor on her lung doesn’t kill her, then the ones in her head will.” Arlene’s pale face darkened.

• From Trash (1988)

  “Meet me for lunch on Monday,” she insisted, while her eyes behind her glasses kept glancing at me, turning away and turning back. My palms were sweaty, but I nodded yes. At the door she stopped me, and put her hand out to touch my face. “Your family is very poor, aren’t they?” My face froze and burned at the same time. “Not really,” I told her, “not anymore.” She nodded and smiled, and the heat in my face went down my body in waves. I didn’t want to go on Monday but made myself. Her secretary was confused when I asked about lunch. “I don’t have anything written down about it,” she said, without looking up from her calendar. After class that afternoon the sociology professor explained her absence with a story about one of her children who had been bitten by a dog, “but not seriously. Come on Thursday,” she insisted, but on Thursday neither she nor her secretary were there. I stood in the doorway to her office and tilted my head back to take in her shelves of books. I wanted to pocket them all, but at the same time I didn’t want anything of hers. Trembling, I reached and pulled out the fattest book on the closest shelf. It was a hardbound edition of Sadism in the Movies, with a third of the pages underlined in red. It fit easily in my backpack, and I stopped in the Student Union bookstore on the way back to the dorm to buy a Hershey bar and steal a bright blue pen. On the next Monday, she apologized again, and again invited me to go to lunch the next day. I skipped lunch but slipped in that afternoon to return her book, now full of my bright blue comments. In its spot on the shelf there was now a collection of the essays of Georges Bataille, still unmarked. By the time I returned it on Friday, heavy blue ink stains showed on the binding itself. Eventually we did have lunch. She talked to me about how hard it was to be a woman alone in a college town, about how all the male professors treated her like a fool, and yet how hard she worked. I nodded. “You read so much,” I whispered. “I keep up,” she agreed with me. “So do I,” I smiled.

• From Trash (1988)

  Don’t Tell Me You Don’t Know I came out of the bathroom with my hair down wet on my shoulders. My Aunt Alma, my mama’s oldest sister, was standing in the middle of Casey’s dusty hooked rug looking like she had just flown in on it, her gray hair straggling out of its misshapen bun. For a moment I was so startled I couldn’t move. Aunt Alma just stood there looking around at the big bare room with its two church pews bracketing the only other furniture—a massive pool table. I froze while the water ran down from my hair to dampen the collar of the oversized tuxedo shirt I used for a bathrobe. “Aunt Alma,” I stammered. “Well . . . welcome . . .” “You really live here?” she let out a loud breath as if, even for me, such a situation was quite past her ability to believe. “Like this?” I looked around as if I were seeing it for the first time myself, shrugged and tried to grin. “It’s big,” I offered. “Lots of space, four porches, all these windows. We get along well here, might not in a smaller place.” I looked back through the kitchen to Terry’s room with its thick dark curtains covering a wall of windows. Empty. So was Casey’s room on the other side of the kitchen. It was quiet and still, with no one even walking through the rooms overhead. “Thank God,” I whispered to myself. Nobody else was home. Aunt Alma turned around slowly and stepped over to the mantel with the old fly-spotted mirror over it. She pushed a few of her loose hairs back and then laid her big rattan purse up by a stack of flyers Terry had left there, brushing some of the dust away first. “My God,” she echoed. “Dirtier than we ever lived. Didn’t think you’d turn out like this.” I shrugged again, embarrassed and angry and trying not to show it. Well hell, what could I do? I hadn’t seen her in so long. She hadn’t even been around that last year I’d lived with Mama, and I wasn’t sure I particularly wanted to see her now. But why was she here, anyway? How had she found me? I closed the last two buttons on my shirt and tried to shake some of the water out of my hair. Aunt Alma watched me through the dark spots of the mirror, her mouth set in an old familiar line. “Well,” I said, “I didn’t expect to see you.” I reached up to push hair back out of my eyes. “You want to sit down?”

• From Trash (1988)

  I came out of the bathroom with my hair down wet on my shoulders. My Aunt Alma, my mama’s oldest sister, was standing in the middle of Casey’s dusty hooked rug looking like she had just flown in on it, her gray hair straggling out of its misshapen bun. For a moment I was so startled I couldn’t move. Aunt Alma just stood there looking around at the big bare room with its two church pews bracketing the only other furniture—a massive pool table. I froze while the water ran down from my hair to dampen the collar of the oversized tuxedo shirt I used for a bathrobe. “Aunt Alma,” I stammered. “Well . . . welcome . . .” “You really live here?” she let out a loud breath as if, even for me, such a situation was quite past her ability to believe. “Like this?” I looked around as if I were seeing it for the first time myself, shrugged and tried to grin. “It’s big,” I offered. “Lots of space, four porches, all these windows. We get along well here, might not in a smaller place.” I looked back through the kitchen to Terry’s room with its thick dark curtains covering a wall of windows. Empty. So was Casey’s room on the other side of the kitchen. It was quiet and still, with no one even walking through the rooms overhead. “Thank God,” I whispered to myself. Nobody else was home. Aunt Alma turned around slowly and stepped over to the mantel with the old fly-spotted mirror over it. She pushed a few of her loose hairs back and then laid her big rattan purse up by a stack of flyers Terry had left there, brushing some of the dust away first. “My God,” she echoed. “Dirtier than we ever lived. Didn’t think you’d turn out like this.” I shrugged again, embarrassed and angry and trying not to show it. Well hell, what could I do? I hadn’t seen her in so long. She hadn’t even been around that last year I’d lived with Mama, and I wasn’t sure I particularly wanted to see her now. But why was she here, anyway? How had she found me? I closed the last two buttons on my shirt and tried to shake some of the water out of my hair. Aunt Alma watched me through the dark spots of the mirror, her mouth set in an old familiar line. “Well,” I said, “I didn’t expect to see you.” I reached up to push hair back out of my eyes. “You want to sit down?” Aunt Alma turned around and bumped her hip against the pool table. “Where?” One disdainful glance rendered the pews for what they were—exquisitely uncomfortable even for my hips. Her expression reminded me of my Uncle Jack’s jokes about her, about how she refused to go back to church till they put in rocking chairs.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Meanwhile the monk, who had only pretended to go to the wood, had hidden himself in the corridor, and when he saw the Abbot entering the cell by himself, he felt quite reassured, being convinced that everything was proceeding according to plan. And when he perceived that the Abbot had locked himself in, he was left in no doubt whatsoever. Emerging from his hiding-place, he quietly crept up to a chink in the wall, through which he saw and heard all that the Abbot was doing and saying. The Abbot, deciding he had spent enough time with the girl, locked her in the cell and returned to his room. And after a while, hearing the monk and supposing he had just returned from the wood, he determined to give him a jolly good scolding and have him locked up, so that he alone would possess the prize they had captured. So he sent for the monk, put on a stern face, reprimanded him most severely, and ordered him to be locked in the punishment-cell. Without hesitating for a moment, the monk replied: ‘Sir, I have not yet been long enough in the Order of Saint Benedict to have had a chance of acquainting myself with all its special features, and you had failed until just now to show me that monks have women to support, as well as fasts and vigils. But now that you have pointed this out, I promise that if you will forgive me just this once, I will never again commit the same error. On the contrary, I shall always follow your good example.’ The Abbot, who was no fool, quickly realized that the monk had outwitted him and, moreover, seen what he had done. Being tarred with the same brush, he was loath to inflict upon the monk a punishment of which he himself was no less deserving. So he pardoned the monk and swore him to secrecy concerning what he had seen, then they slipped the girl out unobtrusively, and we can only assume that they afterwards brought her back at regular intervals. FIFTH STORYThe Marchioness of Montferrat, with the aid of a chicken banquet and a few well-chosen words, restrains the extravagant passion of the King of France. As they listened to Dioneo’s story, the ladies at first felt some embarrassment, which showed itself in the modest blushes that appeared on all their faces. Then, glancing at one another and barely managing to restrain their laughter, they giggled as they listened. When it came to an end, however, they gently rebuked him with a few well-chosen words, in order to show that stories of that kind should not be told when ladies were present. Then the queen turned to Fiammetta, who was sitting on the grass next to him, and indicated that it was her turn to continue. Whereupon, with a cheerful smile towards the queen, she gracefully began:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As many of you will know, either through direct personal acquaintance or through hearsay, a little while ago there lived in our city a lady of silver tongue and gentle breeding, whose excellence was such that she deserves to be mentioned by name. She was called Madonna Oretta, and she was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. One day, finding herself in the countryside like ourselves, and proceeding from place to place, by way of recreation, with a party of knights and ladies whom she had entertained to a meal in her house earlier in the day, one of the knights turned to her, and, perhaps because they were having to travel a long way, on foot, to the place they all desired to reach, he said: ‘Madonna Oretta, if you like I shall take you riding along a goodly stretch of our journey by telling you one of the finest tales in the world.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the lady, ‘I beseech you most earnestly to do so, and I shall look upon it as a great favour.’ Whereupon this worthy knight, whose swordplay was doubtless on a par with his storytelling, began to recite his tale, which in itself was indeed excellent. But by constantly repeating the same phrases, and recapitulating sections of the plot, and every so often declaring that he had ‘made a mess of that bit’, and regularly confusing the names of the characters, he ruined it completely.2 Moreover, his mode of delivery was totally out of keeping with the characters and the incidents he was describing, so that it was painful for Madonna Oretta to listen to him. She began to perspire freely, and her heart missed several beats, as though she had fallen ill and was about to give up the ghost. And in the end, when she could endure it no longer, having perceived that the knight had tied himself inextricably in knots, she said to him, in affable tones: ‘Sir, you have taken me riding on a horse that trots very jerkily. Pray be good enough to set me down.’ The knight, who was apparently far more capable of taking a hint than of telling a tale, saw the joke and took it in the cheerfullest of spirits. Leaving aside the story he had begun and so ineptly handled, he turned his attention to telling her tales of quite another sort. SECOND STORYBy means of a single phrase, Cisti the Baker shows Messer Geri Spina that he is being unreasonable. Madonna Oretta’s timely remark was warmly commended by all the men and ladies present, and then the queen ordered Pampinea to continue in the same vein. Pampinea therefore began, as follows: