ONE
osa the Beautifu
arrabds came to us @ sea， the child Clara wrote in her deli-
cate calligraphy. She was already in the habit of writing
down important matters， and afterward， when she was mute，
she also recorded trivialities， never suspecting that fifty years
later I would use her notebooks to reclaim the past and
overcome terrors of my own. Barrab~is arrived on a Holy Thursday. He
was in a despicable cage， caked with his own excrement and urine， and
had the lost look of a hapless， utterly defenseless prisoner; but the regal
carriage of his head and the size of his frame bespoke the legendary giant
he would become. It was a bland， autumnal day that gave no hint of the
events that the child would record， which took place during the noon mass
in the parish of San Sebastifin， with her whole family in attendance. As a
sign of mourning， the statues of the saints were shrouded in purple robes
that the pious ladies of the congregation unpacked and dusted off once a
year from a cupboard in the sacristy. Beneath these funereal sheets the
celestial retinue resembled nothing so much as a roomful of fumiture awaiting
movers， an impression that the candles， the incense， and the soft moans of
the organ were powerless to counteract. Terrifying dark bundles loomed
where the life-size saints had stood， each with its influenza-pale expression，
its elaborate wig woven from the hair of someone long dead， its rubies，
pearls and emeralds of painted glass， and the rich gown of a Florentine
aristocrat. The only one whose appearance was enhanced by mourning
was the church s patron saint， Sebastifin， for during Holy Week the faithful
were spared the sight of that body twisted in the most indecent posture，
pierced by arrows， and dripping with blood and tears like a suffering
: L;~~*:
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