The Thirty-Seventh Night

 

Last Saturday was Rose’s final evening here on the island. This coming Tuesday, she boards a plane back to the United States.

I wanted that dinner at my home to be more than just a meal; I wanted it to be an immersive experience, a singular event—one of those rare moments one carries in memory. So I adorned every corner of the house with beautiful, unique objects I had kept in boxes from the days when I lived in a larger house, back in England. Each space became its own little world, and everything was unified by candlelight.

Myriad tiny flames flickered at varying heights, from floor to ceiling—candles of all sizes, shapes, and colors, some close to us, others far.

The dog and Georges seemed stirred by the flurry I’d thrown myself into.

When Nick and Rose arrived, they were truly surprised. It felt, they said, like walking into a different house—not the one they had come to know.

"Where’d all these vases and statues come from?" Nick asked.

"I had them stored away in boxes."

"You made all of these yourself?"

"One or two were bought, but yes—most are my own work."

"Nick told me you want to break into the U.S. art market," Rose said.

"Yes. That’s where I want to begin."

"And you asked my brother to be your agent?"

"If he wants to…"

"Nick would have to go back to America," Rose said, as though it were already decided.

"She wants me to go back with her," said Nick.

"That’s understandable," I said. "The family is finally together again, after so much heartache and so many years apart."

"I want my brother by my side," Rose said.

"I don’t know…" Nick replied, a note of unease in his voice.

"Well, I do know it’s time we sit down and try the appetizers I’ve prepared," I said, heading to the stove and returning with a tray of three small bowls of antipasti, toasted bread, and crackers.

Later, during dinner, Rose hesitated before asking me:

"Do you think my brother will ever be a good Catholic again?"

"Rose!" Nick exclaimed.

"We must always pray for a sound mind in a sound body," she replied firmly. "And that was said by a pagan!"

"I didn’t know you knew Juvenal," I said.

"Is that his name? I’d forgotten. But I’m wrong?"

"Not at all. You’re absolutely right."

"You know what I think about Nick?"

"No."

"I’m sure there are many people praying for him."

"Yes," she said.

"Then I remember what Saint Ambrose told Saint Monica: The child of so many tears cannot be lost."

"Yes," she said, comforted.

"I am right here, you know," said Nick, with a note of protest.

"I’m sure plenty of people are aware of that, Nick."

And as I looked at the two siblings, reunited after so many years, I thought to myself how good it is to be truly loved.

 

Is there nothing then for which men shall pray? If you ask my counsel, you will leave it to the gods themselves to provide what is good for us, and what will be serviceable for our state; for, in place of what is pleasing, they will give us what is best, Man is dearer to them than he is to himself. Impelled by strong and blind desire, we ask for wife and offspring; but the gods know of what sort the sons, of what sort the wife, will be. Nevertheless that you may have something to pray for, and be able to offer to the shrines entrails and presaging sausages from a white porker, you should pray for a sound mind in a sound body; for a stout heart that has no fear of death, and deems length of days the least of Nature's gifts; that can endure any kind of toil; that knows neither wrath or desire and thinks that the woes and hard labours of Hercules are better than the loves and the banquets and the down cushions of Sardanapalus. (Juvenal, Satire X - translated from Latin by George Gilbert Ramsay.)