{"product_id":"casanova-in-bolzano-isbn-9780375712968","title":"Casanova in Bolzano","description":"Another rediscovered masterpiece from the Hungarian novelist whose \u003cb\u003eEmbers\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ebecame an international bestseller—a sensuous, suspenseful, aphoristic novel about the world’s most notorious seducer and the encounter that changes him forever. In 1756 Giacomo Casanova escapes from a Venetian prison and resurfaces in the Italian village of Bolzano. Here he receives an unwelcome visitor: the aging but still fearsome Duke of Parma, who years before had defeated Casanova in a duel over a ravishing girl named Francesca and spared his life on condition that he never see her again. Now the duke has taken Francesca as his wife—and intercepted a love letter from her to his old rival. Rather than kill Casanova on the spot, he makes him a startling offer, one that is logical, perverse, and irresistible. Turning an historical episode into a dazzling fictional exploration of the clasp of desire and death, \u003cb\u003eCasanova in Bolzano\u003c\/b\u003e is further proof that Sándor Márai is one of the most distinctive voices of the twentieth century.“Scintillating. . . . An intricate duel of wits. . . . \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eCasanova in Bolzano\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e provides posthumous evidence of Marai’s neglected brilliance.” –\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A novel of philosophical adventure. . . . Suspenseful, ornate, discursive to the verge of synaptic collapse (ours), and witty to the occasional verge of terror. . . . Ingenious.” \u003cbr\u003e–\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003eSándor Márai was born in Kassa, in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, in 1900, and died in San Diego, California, in 1989. He rose to fame as one of the leading literary novelists in Hungary in the 1930s. Profoundly antifascist, he survived the war, but persecution by the Communists drove him from the country in 1948, first to Italy, then to the United States. His novel \u003ci\u003eEmbers\u003c\/i\u003e was published for the first time in English in 2001.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSándor Márai’s \u003ci\u003eEmbers\u003c\/i\u003e is available in Vintage paperback.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTranslated from the Hungarian by George SzirtesIt was at Mestre he stopped thinking; the dissolute friar, Balbi, had  very nearly let the police get wind of him, because he had looked for  him in vain as the mail coach set off, and only found him after a  diligent search, in a coffeehouse, where he was blithely sipping a  cup of chocolate and flirting with the waitress. By the time they  reached Treviso their money was gone; they sneaked through the gates  dedicated to St. Thomas, into the fields, and, by creeping along the  backs of gardens and skirting the woods, managed to reach the  outskirts of Valdepiadene about dawn. Here he took out his dagger,  thrust it under the nose of his disgusting companion, and told him  they'd meet again in Bolzano: then they parted. Father Balbi slunk  off in a bad mood through a grove of olives, brushing past their bare  trunks, a shabby, slovenly figure disappearing into the distance,  casting the odd sullen look behind him, like a mangy dog dismissed by  his master.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce the friar had finally gone, he made for the central part of town  and with a blind, sure instinct sought accommodation at the residence  of the captain of the local militia. The captain's wife, a  mild-mannered woman, received him, gave him supper, had his wounds  cleaned--congealed blood was sticking to his knees and ankles, from  the scraping he had given them when he had leaped off the lead  roof--and, before falling asleep, he learned that the captain  happened to be away searching for an escaped prisoner. He stole out  in the early dawn and made a few more miles. He slept over in  Pergine, and, three days later, arrived--by coach this time, having  extorted six gold pieces from an acquaintance--in Bolzano.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBalbi was there waiting for him. They took rooms at The Stag. He had  neither baggage nor topcoat and was ragged on arrival, rags being all  that remained of his finecolored silk suit. A harsh November wind was  already snapping at the narrow streets of Bolzano. The innkeeper  nervously examined his tattered guests.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The finest rooms?\" he stuttered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The finest,\" came the quiet but firm answer. \"And look to your  kitchen staff. You tend to cook everything in rancid fat rather than  in oil in these parts, and I haven't had a decent meal since leaving  the republic! I want capon and chicken tonight, not one but three,  with chestnuts. And get some Cyprus wine while you're at it. Are you  staring at my clothes? Wondering why we have arrived without any  luggage, empty handed? Don't you get news here? Don't you read the  Leyden Gazette? Nincompoop!\" he shouted in a cracked voice, having  caught a chill on his journey, his windpipe seized by agonized  coughing. \"Have you not heard that a Venetian nobleman and his  servants were robbed on the frontier? Have the police not been round  yet?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No sir,\" answered the frightened innkeeper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBalbi sniggered into his sleeve. They were eventually shown to the  finest rooms: a parlor with two big casement windows giving onto the  main square, furniture with gilded legs and a Venetian glass above  the fireplace. There was a French four-poster in the bedchamber.  Balbi's room was at the end of the corridor, at the foot of steep and  narrow stairs that led to the servants' quarters. The accommodation  was greatly to his satisfaction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"My secretary,\" he said to the innkeeper, indicating Balbi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The police are very strict,\" apologized the innkeeper. \"They'll be  here any moment. They register all visitors.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tell them,\" he carelessly answered, \"that you have a nobleman as  guest. A gentleman...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Indeed!\" enthused the innkeeper, now humble and curious, bowing  deeply, his tasseled cap in his hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A gentleman from Venice!\" he affirmed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pronounced this as though it were some extraordinary title or  rank. Even Balbi pricked up his ears at the tone of his voice. Then  he wrote his name in a precise and expert hand in the guest book. The  innkeeper was red with excitement: he wiped his temples with a fat  finger and couldn't make up his mind whether to run to the police  station or to go down on his knees and kiss the man's hand. Being  undecided he simply stood there in silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEventually he lit a lantern and escorted his guests up the stairs.  The servants were busying themselves about the apartment: they  brought large gilt candlesticks, warm water in a silver jug, and  canvas towels manufactured in Limburg. The visitor undressed slowly,  in regal fashion, like a king at his toilette. He handed his filthy  garments one by one to the innkeeper and his servants, his  blood-bespotted silk pantaloons having to be cut away on both sides  with scissors because they were sticking to him, and then soaked his  feet in a silver bowl full of water while leaning back in an  armchair, matted and solemn, almost faint with exhaustion. At certain  points he dropped into sleep, mumbled, and cried out. Balbi, the  innkeeper, and the servants came and went about him with open mouths,  making up the bed in the chamber, drawing the curtains, and snuffing  out almost all the candles. They had to knock at his door for some  time when it came to supper. As soon as he had eaten he fell fast  asleep, and remained sleeping till noon the next day, his face smooth  and untroubled, as indifferent as a day-old corpse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A gentleman,\" said the girls, giggling, whispering, and singing as  they went about their tasks in the kitchen and the cellar, washing  cutlery, wiping plates, chopping up firewood, serving in the bar, now  talking in low voices with fingers held to their mouths, now giggling  again, eventually calming down, and passing on the news officiously  then laughing: a gentleman, yes, a gentleman, from Venice. In the  evening two men from the secret service appeared, drawn by his name,  that name so notorious and irresistible, so dangerous and  fascinating, a name redolent of adventures and flight, a name that  attracted the secret service in whatever town it appeared. And they  wanted to know everything about him. Is he asleep?...Has he no  luggage?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A dagger,\" replied the innkeeper. \"He arrived with a dagger. That is  his sole possession.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A dagger,\" they repeated, nodding vigorously, bemused. \"What kind of  dagger?\" the secret service men inquired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A Venetian dagger,\" answered the innkeeper, in awed tones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nothing else?\" they insisted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nothing,\" the innkeeper said. \"Nothing but a dagger. That's all he has.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe information took the secret service men by surprise. They would  not have been amazed to find that he had arrived bearing loot:  precious stones, spirits, necklaces, and rings that he had slipped  off the fingers of innocent women as he traveled. His reputation  preceded him like a herald announcing his name. The prelate had  already sent word to the police chief that morning, requesting the  force to send the notorious guest on his way. That same morning, and  after mass in the evening, the taverns of Tyrol and Lombardy were  full of tales of his escape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Watch him,\" the secret service men said. \"Watch him carefully and  take note of every word he says. You have to be extremely wary of  him. If he receives any mail you must find out who it is from. If he  sends any, you must find out where it is addressed. Observe his every  movement! It seems,\" they whispered into the innkeeper's ear, cupping  their hands, \"that he has a protector. Not even his grace, the  prelate, can touch him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not for the time being,\" added the innkeeper, sagely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not for the time being,\" echoed the secret service men, solemnly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey departed on tiptoe, with gloomy expressions, oppressed by their  cares. The innkeeper sat down in the tavern and sighed. He didn't  like notorious guests who roused the prelate's or the police's  suspicion. He thought of the guest himself, the dark fires and embers  that flickered in his sleepy eyes, and he was afraid. He thought of  the dagger, the Venetian dagger, his guest's sole possession, and was  even more afraid. He thought of the news that dogged his guest's  footsteps and he began, silently, to curse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Teresa!\" he barked angrily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA girl entered, already dressed for bed. She was sixteen and held a  burning candle in one hand while clutching her nightshirt with the  other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Listen to me,\" he whispered, and invited her to sit on his knee. \"I  can't trust anyone except you. We have dangerous guests, Teresa. That  gentleman...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"From Venice?\" the girl asked in a singsong schoolgirl voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Venice yes, Venice,\" he muttered nervously. \"Straight from prison.  Where the rats are. And the scaffold. Listen, Teresa. Mark his every  word. Let your eyes and ears be ever at his keyhole. I love you like  a daughter. Indeed, I have brought you up as I would my daughter, but  if he calls you into the room, do not hesitate. Enter. You will take  his breakfast in to him. Guard your virtue and watch him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I will,\" said the girl, then got up to return to her room, delicate  as a shadow. At the door she stopped and complained in a thin,  childish voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I am afraid.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Me too,\" said the innkeeper. \"Now go to sleep. But first bring me a  glass of red wine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the same, none of them slept well that first night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They slept in flurries, snoring, panting, and puffing, and, as they  slept, were aware that something was happening to them. They sensed  that someone was walking through the house. They sensed someone was  calling them and that they should answer in ways they had never  answered before. The question posed by the stranger was insolent,  saucy, aggressive, and, above all, frightening and sad. But by the  time they awoke in the morning they had forgotten it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile they were sleeping the news rapidly spread: he had arrived, had  escaped the Leads, had managed to row away from his birthplace in  broad daylight, had thumbed his nose at their graces the terrifying  lords of the Inquisition, had run rings round Lawrence the militia  chief, had sprung the unfrocked friar, had more or less strolled from  the doges' citadel, had been spotted in Mestre bargaining with the  driver of the mail coach, been observed sipping vermouth in a  coffeehouse in Treviso, and there was one peasant who swore he had  seen him at the border putting a spell on his cows. The news spread  through Venetian palazzos, through suburban inns, and as it did so,  cardinals, their graces the senators, hangmen, secret agents, spies,  cardsharps, lovers and husbands, girls at mass and women in warm  beds, laughed and exclaimed, \"Hoho!\" Or in full throat, with deep  satisfaction, laughed out loud, \"Haha!\" Or giggled into their pillows  or handkerchiefs, \"Teehee!\" Everyone was delighted he had escaped. By  next evening the news had been announced to the Pope, who recalled  him, remembering when he had personally presented him with some minor  papal award, and he couldn't help laughing. The news spread: in  Venice, gondoliers leaned on their long oars and closely analyzed all  the technical details of his escape and were glad, glad because he  was a Venetian, because he had outwitted the authorities, and because  there was someone stronger than tyrants or stones and chains,  stronger even than the Leads. They spoke quietly, spitting into the  water and rubbing their palms with satisfaction. The news spread and  people's hearts grew warm on hearing it. \"What crime had he  committed, after all?\" they asked. \"He gambled, and, good God, he  might not have played an entirely honest hand, he certainly ran  tables in low bars and wore a mask when playing with professional  gamblers! But this was Venice, after all! Who didn't?...And yes, he  roughed up a few people who betrayed him and he lured women to his  rented apartment in Murano, a little way from town, but how else do  you spend your youth in Venice? And of course he was impudent, had a  quick tongue and talked a lot. But was anyone silent in Venice?...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo they muttered and, every so often, laughed. Because there was  something good about the news, something satisfying and heartwarming.  Because everyone knew the Inquisition had its teeth in one or another  piece of their own flesh, that one or another part of them was  already living in the Leads, and now somebody had demonstrated that a  man could overcome despotism, lead roofs, and the police, that he was  stronger than the messer grande, the emissary of the hangman, and the  bringer of bad news. The news spread: in police stations they were  slamming files on tables, officers went round shouting, magistrates  listened with reddened ears to those accused of crimes and angrily  sent men to prison, into exile, to the galleys, or to the scaffold.  They spoke of him in churches, preached against him after mass for  having concentrated all seven deadly sins in one accursed body,  which, according to the priest, would boil in its own individual  cauldron, then roast in a fire especially set aside for it in hell,  forever. His name was even mentioned in the confessional booth by  women with heads bowed low, who beat their breasts while accepting  the prescribed penance. And everyone was pleased, for something good  had happened in Venice, and in every village and town of the republic  he passed through.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey slept, and smiled as they dreamed. Wherever he went they took  greater care than usual to close their windows and doors by night,  and behind closed shutters men would spend a long time talking to  their wives. It was as if every feeling that yesterday had been ashes  and embers had started to smoke and spout flames. He cast no spells  on cows, but cowherds swore that calves born that year were prettier  and that there were more of them. Women woke, fetched water from the  well in wooden buckets, kindled fires in their kitchens, warmed pans  of milk, set fruit out on glazed trays, suckled their infants, fed  the men, swept out the bedrooms, changed the beds, and smiled as they  worked. It was a smile that took some time to disappear from Venice,  Tyrol, and Lombardy. The smile spread like a highly active and  harmless infection: it even spread over the borders, so that they had  heard of it in Munich, and waited for it, smiling in readiness, as  they did in Paris where the tale of his escape was recounted to the  king while he was hunting in the deer park, and he too smiled. And it  was known in Parma, and in Turin, Vienna, and Moscow. And everywhere  there was smiling. And the policemen, the magistrates, the militiamen  and the spies--everyone whose business it was to keep people in the  grip of fear of the authorities--went about their work suspiciously  and in ill temper. Because there is nothing quite as dangerous as a  man who will not yield to despotism.A Novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301285908709,"sku":"NP9780375712968","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375712968.jpg?v=1767723447","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/casanova-in-bolzano-isbn-9780375712968","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}