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Youth

Paolo Sorrentino
Contents ( 77)
  1. Youth
  2. Paolo Sorrentino
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Cover Image

Youth

Paolo Sorrentino

Translated from the Italian by
N. S. Thompson

image

An imprint of Quercus
New York • London

© 2015 by Paolo Sorrentino

Cover art © 2015 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

e-ISBN 978-1-68144-468-0

Distributed in the United States and Canada by
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10104

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

www.quercus.com

1

In the clear spring sunshine of a beautiful hotel garden, an unmistakeably British figure sits with his legs crossed; his pale face is flushed red, he has short fair hair, and is wearing a jacket and tie. He is in his fifties, with an intelligent, earnest expression.

Behind him, at a slight distance, are his two younger assistants.

Further behind them lies a superb swimming pool, surrounded by a few bathers, all wrapped in identical soft white dressing gowns, ready for a dip in the sleepy holiday atmosphere of the early morning.

Gleaming hydromassage tubs are dotted about the immaculate lawn.

In the background stands a wonderful Alpine hotel. It looks warm, sedate and luxurious all at the same time.

And framing the hotel are the sovereign peaks of the Alps.

The fifty-year-old takes out a packet of cigarettes and is about to light one when a calm voice, without any hint of reproach, warns him:

“There’s no smoking here.”

“Not even outside?”

“Nor inside.”

The calm voice belongs to another Englishman, in his eighties, sitting opposite. He is wearing a soft jacket and trousers in matching beige and glasses in imposing black frames, behind which nestle pale watery irises, deepened by melancholy and experience. This is Fred Ballinger.

A table separates the two men. Fred has a newspaper open in front of him. He is calm, quiet and self-contained, his eyes constantly betraying a vague disenchantment as he unwraps a sweet that he pops into his mouth with the practised gesture of the habitual consumer.

“Mr Ballinger, may I call you maestro, as the Italians do?”