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電車の中でも寝る前のベッドの中でもサクサク快適に。
もっと読みたい！がどんどんみつかる。
「読んで」「書いて」毎日が楽しくなる小説アプリをダウンロードしよう。
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電車の中でも寝る前のベッドの中でもサクサク快適に。
もっと読みたい！がどんどんみつかる。
「読んで」「書いて」毎日が楽しくなる小説アプリをダウンロードしよう。
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読み終えました…。とても美しくて、胸がぎゅっとなりました。 アンドレアが出会ったお姉さん、彼に「未来」を託して消えてしまうラスト、もう切なくて。最後に咲いていた忘れな草も効いてますね。 あと、「ノブレス・オブリージュ」をきっかけに変わっていく町の人との関係性もじんわり温かくて好きです。 続きがすごく気になります！
As Andrea left the bakery and turned the corner of the cobblestone street, children from the working-class district began to jeer at him.
“Look, Andrea’s buying cheap bread again.”
“Look, Andrea’s wearing patched trousers.”
Giggles drifted after him from the stone wall of the public washing fountain. Andrea pulled his felt hat down low, narrowing his field of vision, and hurried toward his home atop the hill.
On the main street stood a four-wheeled, canvas-topped machine. A stout man with a small mustache was handing out leaflets while loudly shouting the same message over and over.
“Look, everyone! This isn’t just a machine. It’s a new invention called an automobile. Built by our own Alfa Romeo, it rivals America’s Model T Ford. Carriages and carts are things of the past. The age of the automobile is here!”
The machine — “automobile” — wafted the scent of a new fuel called gasoline. Andrea disliked the odor; it was a sharp, stinging smell, far more pungent than lamp oil.
He climbed the darkening road and reached his gate just as his uncle was stepping out the front door. Adjusting the collar of his well-tailored coat, his uncle spoke to him.
“The inheritance matters are mostly settled. Do you really intend to live here all alone?”
Andrea nodded silently, took the front door key from his uncle, and walked straight into the house without sparing him another glance.
His uncle sighed and muttered to himself, “He’s completely shut himself off. I suppose it’s no wonder, though — losing his parents at once and then being forced to witness his relatives squabbling over the inheritance.”
His uncle stepped out the gate and walked down the path leading from the hill, gazing toward the harbor as it sank into the evening gloom.
He remarked, “Trieste has changed completely. It’s a good thing we’re free of the Habsburgs rule now, but…”
After dusting off the dining room table, Andrea ate a supper consisting solely of hard black bread. Although his parents’ inheritance meant he had no immediate financial worries, at fourteen, Andrea was sensible enough to understand the need to save money wherever possible.
Once it was fully dark outside and he had confirmed the presence of moonlight. Andrea — as was his routine — slung a large bag containing his canvas, easel and art supplies over his shoulder. Carrying a lamp in his left hand, he left the house and headed for a neighboring hill a short distance away.
The upstairs room that had once served as Andrea’s studio was no longer usable, as its walls had collapsed. Besides, he found that painting outdoors offered a refreshing change of pace.
Atop the neighboring hill stood ruins where only a few stone walls and the bases of marble columns remained. Andrea did not know what kind of structure had once stood there.
His usual spot was beneath a section of the ceiling that still remained, jutting out into the air. He lit his lamp, set up the easel, mounted the canvas, and took out his pencil — only to hear a voice speak up suddenly, just as it always did.
“I looked forward to tonight as well, my future maestro.”
Saying this, the girl — who was two or three years his senior — giggled, the dark jacket she wore over a blouse trimmed with pure white lace swaying gently.
Yet, unlike the giggling of the children in town, this sound didn’t make him feel uncomfortable.
Andrea removed his hat and offered his usual greeting.
“Good evening. What name are you going by today?”
She gave a different name each time. She tapped her right index finger lightly against her chin, lost in thought.
“Let’s see — what was it last time?”
“Last time, you were Mirella. Before that, Laura-Moana.”
“Then tonight, I’m Claudia. She was a sensible girl — the sort who was always entrusted with leading the prayers at Mass.”
The girl sat down at the base of the pillar opposite Andrea. He set his pencil moving across the canvas. As he sketched, he told her about the unpleasant experience he’d had in town. Tilting her head slightly, she asked in a gentle voice.
“You have told hello to old men at the bakery?”
“Say hello? Why should I?”
“Tell me, Andrea — do you know what ‘noblesse oblige’ means?”
“No, I don’t know it. It sounds French, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right; it means the duty of the noble. Everyone in this world has a role to play. That is why aristocrats must be grateful to commoners, and capitalists to the working class; they must serve with a spirit dedicated to improving their lives. Do you understand?”
“Hmm… I’m not quite sure.”
As the night deepened and Andrea began to feel the fatigue, the girl stood up as usual and approached him, playfully twirling around like a ballerina. Her flared skirt, reaching nearly to her ankles, billowed out roundly like a parachute, its hem fluttering softly in the air. When she leaned in to peer at the canvas, her hair brushed against Andrea’s cheek, and its sweet fragrance made his heart race.
“Amazing. Is it almost finished?”
“The sketch is done, Miss. I’ll start adding color next time. By the way, Miss … were you talking about those tube paints from Raphael?”
“Oh? What are you talking about?”
“That thing you mentioned before — something I have but you don’t. That topic.”
“Ah, right. Too bad — wrong guess again.”
“I wonder what it could be.”
“There’s still time. Take your time thinking about it. Now, you should head home for the night. Even though spring is near, the cold isn’t good for you.”
Andrea nodded, packed his art supplies into his bag, waved to the girl, and started walking home. As was his habit, he glanced back once, only to find that the girl had already vanished. He murmured the words he always said to himself:
“She’s a mysterious person. I wonder where she lives?”
Andrea had first met the girl about a month ago — three months after his parents had passed away.
He had been sketching in a corner of the ruins to take his mind off things when an elder girl suddenly peered over his shoulder, startling him. Even though it was already pitch dark, she wore a beaming smile and asked a series of questions.
“You’re really good at drawing. But why do you only paint abstract art?”
Having realized the allure of the opposite sex for the very first time in his life, Andrea found himself answering before he knew it. It had been about two months since he had last spoken to another person.
“I just like this style. There’s nothing else in this world that makes me want to paint it.”
“Then, will you paint me?”
“You mean a portrait?”
“Yeah!”
Seeing the girl’s incredibly bright, cheerful smile as she nodded, Andrea stopped looking for a reason to refuse.
They agreed that he would paint her portrait at the ruins, but only on rainless nights when the moon was out. She told him there was no need to make plans in advance, as she would know the moment he arrived. Finally, Andrea voiced a question that had been on his mind.
“Why are you so kind to me?”
“Because you have something that we don’t.”
“So that’s it, after all,” Andrea thought, though he decided to ask anyway.
“The Model T Ford in the barn? That’s broken; it doesn’t run.”
“Wrong.”
The girl laughed and shook her head.
“Then maybe the Japanese ukiyo-e print? But my aunt took that away.”
“Hehe, wrong again.”
“Then what is it? I have no idea.”
“Well, take your time and think about it. There’s no rush.”
A few days later, as he was leaving the bakery, Andrea worked up the courage to speak to the owner.
“Ciao.”
The owner looked stunned for a moment before hurriedly replying.
“Ah — take care on your way home.”
Stroking his snow-white beard and wearing an expression of genuine astonishment, the owner called out to his wife in the back of the shop, “Hey, did you hear that? Andrea actually said hello as he left. I’m amazed.”
On the night he first began applying color to the canvas with tube tempera paints, the girl called herself Mariacarla. Mimicking an opera prima donna, she said she was a girl who sang beautifully.
The next time he went into town on an errand, a large rubber ball — big enough to require two arms to hold — rolled to Andrea’s feet. Andrea picked it up and tossed it toward the boys who had been playing with it.
The boys who caught the ball exchanged glances and spoke in wonder:
“Andrea picked up the ball for us.”
“Andrea threw the ball back.”
“Andrea is different than before.”
On the night he finished the background undercoat and began outlining the girl’s full figure in paint, she called herself Francesca.
She said she was a clever girl who loved reading books. The night air had grown warm enough that his hands didn’t go numb, even without gloves.
The next time he went into town, the same group of boys called out to Andrea hesitantly from a short distance away.
“Andrea, won’t you play soccer with us sometime?”
“Soccer? What’s that?”
When Andrea asked, the boys’ eyes lit up as they spoke one after another:
“It’s a new sport from the British colonies.”
“We play it with this ball.”
“We don’t use hands; we kick it with legs and try to get it into the opponent’s goal, kind of like rugby.”
Andrea thought for a moment, then gave a small nod.
“All right, then — next month.”
After Andrea left, the boys chimed in excitedly:
“Andrea’s going to play with us.”
“Andrea’s going to join us.”
“Andrea’s going to be our friend.”
When the full moon shone with exceptional brightness on the night, the painting was finished. That night, the girl said her name was Eleonora.
Andrea said, “It’s done. I finished it!”
Andrea said so in a loud voice and turned the easel — painting and all — to show the girl. The elder girl smiled — a smile that held both happiness and a touch of sadness.
The eastern sky was beginning to pale; it seemed they had been completely absorbed in the painting until dawn.
“Hey, next time, let me paint you in a different outfit. Do you have a party dress or something like that?”
But the elder girl, still smiling that sad smile, shook her head.
“There won’t be a next time. You can live without me now. You should forget about me. But please … don’t forget that we were here.”
“Huh? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Andrea suddenly realized something: the girl’s body was beginning to turn translucent in the morning light, shimmering like a heat haze.
Standing with her back straight, the girl spread her hands at waist level — reaching out toward Andrea — and spoke her final words.
“I’ll tell you the answer to that riddle now. The thing we don’t have, but you do … it is…”
With eyes and a voice full of tender affection, the elder girl said it.
“It is the future.”
Bathed in the morning sunlight streaming in from the sea, the girl’s figure vanished right before Andrea’s eyes.
Stunned and motionless for a few seconds, Andrea rushed over to the spot where the girl had been sitting — the base of a pillar.
Yet, there was absolutely no trace of her left. As a bewildered Andrea sank to his knees, he noticed a multitude of small, vividly colored flowers blooming on the ground. He hadn’t even realized they were there until that moment.
Clusters of pale purple blossoms lined the stems. Andrea did not know their name.
He hurried back to his easel. “Who was that elder girl?” he wondered. “Maybe looking at the painting will help me remember.”
But as he gazed at the canvas, Andrea was once again struck breathless with astonishment.
What was painted on the canvas was a cluster of flowers — the very same kind of flower blooming around the base of the pillar.
“No! What has happened?”
Andrea cried out instinctively.
“I was supposed to be painting her! How did this happen?”
Andrea, however, realized something. He couldn’t remember what the girl looked like.
“What color were her eyes? Black? Blue? Brown? What color was her hair? Black? Blonde? Or brunette? Was she tall? Short?”
He couldn’t remember anything, absolutely nothing!
He must have sat there for about an hour. Andrea put his paintings and supplies away at home and went down to the town in the early morning.
As he walked along the street, Andrea thought: “Why hadn’t I noticed before? This world is so full of color.”
He quickly learned the name of the flower from a female owner of a flower shop. He also asked about the ruins on the hill. She spoke in a sorrowful tone:
“That’s the site of a girls’ school that existed until the last war. Many cannonballs were accidentally fired there during the war. Many young girls died.”
The flower’s name was “Forget-me-not.”
