Calvino is in Cambridge, near Harvard where he was meant to deliver these lectures, standing at the bank of the Charles River. I, too, am at the bank of the Charles but directly opposite him on the Boston side not far from where I grew up. I'm an audience of one, but what can he expect lecturing from the afterlife? To hear each other, he must scream at the top of his lungs.

“Yes,” I shout, “everything!”

“Lightness?” Calvino yells. The word seems to float across the water nestled under the curl of a question mark. I take note of its peculiarity. It's a sound but also something I can picture. The word, from his mouth, is a kind of story in itself. I know right off that I'm unable to do such a thing.

“Yes,” I shout again. Then more softly, “yes.”

“Give me a minute while I look...

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