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Zusatztext “Scintillating. . . . An intricate duel of wits. . . . Casanova in Bolzano provides posthumous evidence of Marai’s neglected brilliance.” – Chicago Tribune “A novel of philosophical adventure. . . . Suspenseful! ornate! discursive to the verge of synaptic collapse (ours)! and witty to the occasional verge of terror. . . . Ingenious.” – The New York Times Book Review Informationen zum Autor Sandor Marai Translated from te Hungarian by George Szirtes Klappentext Another rediscovered masterpiece from the Hungarian novelist whose Embers became 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, Casanova in Bolzano is further proof that Sándor Márai is one of the most distinctive voices of the twentieth century. Leseprobe It 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. Once 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. Balbi 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. "The finest rooms?" he stuttered. "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'r...
