ABSTRACT

An English Translation of La sonrisa etrusca: The Etruscan Smile

Peter Ferretter

Director: Moisés Park, Ph.D.

La sonrisa etrusca is José Luis Sampedro’s seventh novel and most successful work. This 1985 bestseller is listed in El Mundo’s 100 best Spanish novels of the 20th century, and in 2018 received a film adaptation. These two achievements alone make it a worthy book to translate, and currently it is available in French, German, Dutch, Italian, Lithuanian, Romanian, Arabic, Hebrew, and Chinese. Currently however, there is no English translation. To address this omission, this thesis presents the first thirty chapters of the novel in English.

APPROVED BY DIRECTOR OF HONORS THESIS:

Dr. Moisés Park, Department of Modern Foreign Languages

APPROVED BY THE HONORS COLLEGE:

Dr. Andrew Wisely, Interim Director

DATE:

AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF LA SONRISA ETRUSCA: THE ETRUSCAN SMILE

A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of

Baylor University

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the

Honors Program

By

Peter Ferretter

Waco, Texas

May 2021

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ...... iii

Biography of José Luis Sampedro ...... 1

About the Novel ...... 4

Translators Notes ...... 7

La sonrisa etrusca: The Etruscan Smile ...... 13

Bibliography ...... 191

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to my thesis advisor, Dr. Moisés Park. Thank you for joining me on this endeavour, and for providing me with guidance every step of the way. All your comments and considerations and words of encouragement made me realize how lucky I was to have you as a mentor; I could not have asked for a better one. Thank you for believing in me.

To my parents, thank you for also believing in me.

To my roommates, Harrison Rennie, Ryan Harris, and Josh McFarland. Apartment 358 would be a pretty boring place to work without you all. Thanks for keeping it lively friends.

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BIOGRAPHY OF JOSÉ LUIS SAMPEDRO

"To write is to be a miner of oneself, to become an archaeologist, to delve into oneself, to

go ‘deeper into the thicket'." -J.L.S.

José Luis Sampedro (1917-2013) was born in Barcelona but spent the first thirteen years of his life in Tangier, Morocco. During the early twentieth century, Tangier was under the condominium of many countries. Sampedro himself acknowledged this when he said, “We spoke different languages at school, we bought sweets in different currencies and our weekly days of rest were split between the holy days of three different religions” (Fotheringham). This unique upbringing convinced Sampedro that such a cosmopolitan society ought to extend throughout the entire world. Sampedro spent the rest of his adolescence moving around Spain, picking up an insatiable appetite for reading and writing. When he entered the workforce, he became a customs officer in Santander, but this ended quickly when civil war broke out. After the war, Sampedro self-published his first work La estatua de Adolfo Espejo, and moved to Madrid to study economics.

For the next two decades, Sampedro taught as an Economics professor at the

University of Madrid and other institutions abroad. In the seventies, he became a member of Spain’s Senate, but it was not until the eighties that his popularity started to rise.

Sampedro’s Octubre, octubre (1981) got him noticed as a writer and La sonrisa etrusca

(1985) cemented Sampedro as one of Spain’s leading writers. In 1990 Sampedro was appointed to the Royal Spanish Academy, and in 2011 he was awarded Spain's Orden de las Artes y de las Letras for his “thought committed to the problems of our time” and the

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Premio Nacional de las Letras in recognition of his career as a whole (The Local). His portfolio listed below is a testimony to his prolificness as a writer:

Novels

Congreso en Estocolmo (1951)

El río que nos lleva (1961)

El caballo desnudo (1970)

Octubre, octubre (1981)

La sonrisa etrusca (1985)

La vieja sirena (1990)

Real sitio (1993)

La estatua de Adolfo Espejo (1994)

La sombra de los días (1994)

El amante lesbiano (2000)

La senda del drago (2006)

Cuarteto para un solista (2011)

Economic works

Principios prácticos de localización industrial (1957)

Realidad económica y análisis estructural (1959)

Conciencia del subdesarrollo (1973)

Las fuerzas económicas de nuestro tiempo (1967)

Inflación: una versión completa (1976)

El mercado y la globalización (2002)

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Los mongoles en Bagdad (2003)

Sobre política, mercado y convivencia (2006)

Economía humanista. Algo más que cifras (2009)

Other Works

Mar al fondo (1992)

Mientras la tierra gira (1993)

Escribir es vivir (2005)

La ciencia y la vida (2008)

Reacciona (2011)

Sampedro once proclaimed: “although death is creeping up on me… it's being nice because it's letting me think.” (Sampedro) He did not take this for granted; he continued writing all the way up to his death at the age of ninety-six. He left behind two children and the grandson who inspired La sonrisa etrusca.

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ABOUT THE NOVEL

According to Sampedro, La sonrisa etrusca came into existence one morning when he was visiting his daughter and son-in-law. He heard his newborn grandson,

Miguel, crying in his crib, and being the only one awake, Sampedro got up to calm him.

With the baby cradled in his arms, Sampedro felt a peace that he had never imagined and knew La sonrisa etrusca had to be written.

The title of this masterful Sampedrian work references the Etruscan sarcophagus

The Spouses. The terracotta husband’s and wife’s smiles are a symbol of how one can face death freely when one knows that one has lived a full life. The contented smile is a recurring element of the book, mentioned in the beginning chapter all the way through to the last sentence of the novel: La sonrisa etrusca. Sampedro’s quick, vigorous, and clear prose tells the story of Salvatore, an elderly ex-partisan, who grudgingly leaves behind his beloved Calabria in the south of Italy to seek medical treatment in Milan for cancer.

He moves in with his son and daughter-in-law, thinking that it will just be the three of them alone. But then his thirteen-month grandson, Brunettino appears in the picture. The two quickly form an unbreakable bond, and Salvatore dedicates the rest of his life to teaching Brunettino everything he knows. Spending time with his grandson, the old man reflects on his own life as it is about to end: “Something soft and tender grows inside me you see… before I laughed at such things” (155).

Although Salvatore is a complex protagonist, it perhaps doesn’t seem like this at first; he just seems like an old-fashioned, leave-me-alone, macho character. Sampedro explained that the bristly Salvatore readers are introduced to in the beginning represents a

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“falla tremenda de nuestra cultura / tremendous failure of our culture”; Salvatore is a man who has been with many women but has never known a single one, and he hasn’t been much of a father to his kids. As the book develops, however, Salvatore's relationship with his grandson Brunettino flourishes, and the man we first met begins to transform as he wrestles with what one should truly value in life. Salvatore starts to reflect on his life in the last moments of it; he realizes how much he missed out on by being standoffish.

Memories become unearthed, and Salvatore compares his past with his present. The loving relationship that he comes to enjoy with his grandson allows Salvatore to finally see how one should treat others.

Salvatore recognizes that his new understanding is due to Brunettino and he is grateful to him for this call to reflection. In return for this new awareness, the old man does more than just give his grandson presents and life advice, he genuinely and selflessly cares for him. Salvatore’s love is readily apparent. Salvatore sneaks out of his room at night to guard Brunettino from any dangers, and to make sure the baby does not feel like he is alone. Salvatore also switches his name to Bruno, a nickname given to him in his WWII party, to be even closer to his grandson. Sampedro’s protagonist overcomes his prejudice and accepts, even embraces tenderness and weakness - characteristics that he once deemed as unmanly. He accepts a different form of life “on the brink of [his] death” (131), and therefore Salvatore is reborn in the last moments of his life. In the end, the child has done what Salvatore’s many years and experiences have failed to do; he has made his grandfather human. In illuminating the transformation of Salvatore, Sampedro has highlighted for readers what matters most in life: pain, sacrifice, growth and, most

5 importantly, love. It is perhaps these weighty and universal themes that most make this piece worthy of translation.

Sampedro’s novel embraces juxtaposition; the city is contrasted with the country, the old generation with the new, the internal battles with the external, life with death.

These numerous contrasts set the foundation for La sonrisa etrusca, and I would like to explore some of them in more detail. The novel opens with a clash of culture. Salvatore, a deep-rooted southerner who has lived in the Calabrian countryside his entire life, is, because of cancer, plucked out of his home and placed into ‘the trap’ (his moniker for

Milan, Italy). Salvatore moves in with his adult son and daughter-in-law who are accustomed to urban life, and Salvatore’s old traditional ways of doing things will inevitably come into conflict with the new. How to live, how to love, how to raise a baby

- everything comes into question when Salvatore leaves his beloved Roccasera. Even the central relationship in the novel is a contrast in and of itself - Salvatore is quickly approaching death while his grandson has his whole life ahead of him. This special relationship spans the entire spectrum of human life and is rooted in the extreme opposites of near-birth and near-death. This contrast of age allows Sampedro to play around with a question that many great works of literature attempt to answer: ‘What makes a full life?’. Sampedro persuasively argues that it is never too late to learn how to live fully. This realization remarkably hits the old man in the twilight of his life, and is a catalyst for the transformation to come. This is a man who did not even know his own children when they were young, yet now he fully and selflessly embraces his grandson.

Brunettino completes him, and makes his life full.

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TRANSLATOR’S NOTES

First and foremost, I did not want the translation to call attention to itself. The

19th- century German philosopher Friedrich Schleiermacher put it best when he said,

“the translator’s goal must be to provide his reader with the same image and the same pleasure as reading the work in the original language” (Venuti 302). My plan for this translation was therefore as follows: First, I would read through the book once without translating. Then, wary of Nabokov’s 1964 advice that “anyone who wishes to attempt a translation... should acquire exact information in regard to a number of relevant subjects,”

I would then learn about the historical allusions referenced in the book (Nabokov 129).

For example, Salvatore is an ex-partisan; what does this mean and do for his character?

What would it be like to fight in Italy during WWII? The novel is also set in the 1980s when Salvatore, a southerner, is taken to Milan; how did southern and northern Italy differ culturally, economically, and politically not only in the 80s but also in the years spanning Salvatore’s life? Primary and secondary sources became invaluable; interestingly, Sampedro himself never lived in Italy, so I imagine him doing the same type of research.

After a close reading of the novel, and with a historical background more firmly established, I finally went back to the novel to start translating. After I had a rough draft of the first thirty chapters, I revisited parts that I struggled with on the first round. This stage took the most amount of time and effort, but it was worthwhile. Looking at the passage with fresh eyes, I was able to clear up sections that I struggled with, such as certain chapter endings abundant with poetic language.

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I would now like to discuss some additions I contemplated. I thought about adding a map with all the specific locations mentioned in the novel. With a map, the reader could follow Salvatore’s journey in the first chapters from Rome to Milan on the

Autostrada del Sole. The reader could also view the exact locations Salvatore visits while in Milan; in fact, one could even find the exact block where his Son’s family resides.

While this would have been an interesting addition, I ultimately scratched it. My reasoning for this was akin to Gregory Rabassa’s exclusion of a family tree in his translation of Márquez’ Cien Años de Soledad: if the author had wanted this extra inclusion, they would have included it in the original. Just as Márquez chose to not have a family tree, Sampedro chose not to include a map. To include a map might be trespassing past what I am allowed to do as a translator. Therefore, out of respect for the original, I decided against a map.

Lastly, I also originally wove informational footnotes throughout the text. For example, after the novel’s first sentence, I added a footnote about the Roman Museum of

Villa Giulia. The text does not mention that this is the Museo Nazionale Etrusco, a museum solely dedicated to Etruscan art and artifacts. Without any prior knowledge, a reader wouldn’t know that, and as the novel is named after an Etruscan work of art, this seemed important to me. I originally thought that this added information might be helpful for the reader, yet ultimately, I decided against explanatory footnotes because, again,

Sampedro did not choose to include the information added by the footnotes.

Consequently, the only footnotes in the translation are Sampedros’ originals.

Now I would like to discuss some of the specific challenges I faced in the translational process. One prevalent issue was how to grammatically distinguish thought

8 from the rest of the novel. In the novel, characters frequently express how they feel through thought, so it was important to distinguish their thoughts from the narrator’s voice. Sampedro denotes thought by using the symbols « and ». Since these symbols are not used frequently in English, I decided against using them. The Modern Language

Association says that either italics or quotation marks are appropriate for internal dialogue or thought. Initially, I wasn't happy with either of those choices - quotation marks because they were already being used by external speech and italics because italics already denoted code-switching (the alternation of two different languages). Eugenie

Schoolderman, the translator of the Dutch version of La sonrisa etrusca, opted to use quotation marks for both thought and speech. Seeing this strategy implemented made me realize how confusing this could be for readers as one would often have to reread passages to distinguish thought from speech. Therefore, I opted to use italics, as it seemed much easier for the reader to distinguish code-switching from thought.

Consequently, although that means more of the text is italicized, it makes the book much more comprehensible.

Another challenge I faced was specific diction. Recurring words had to be focused on in great detail. For example, Renato and Andrea address Salvatore differently.

Renato calls the old man padre and Andrea calls him papá. For Renato’s use of padre, I initially opted to use “Dad” instead of “Father”. This was because Renato is, to an extent, an easy-going son. For example, he complements the museum director who bailed on his promise to give him a job, and he is affectionate towards his father who for decades had not thought highly of him. Renato is the opposite of his rigid and macho father, and for that reason, I thought “Dad” suited him well. But ultimately, I switched to “Father”,

9 because I realized upon a second reading that Renato was not as easy-going as he first seems. For example, Renato asks that Andrea use the traditional, more formal address

“papá” while addressing her father-in-law. If he wants his wife to use a more formal address, the chances are he does the same. Therefore, in my translation, Renato addresses

Salvatore as “Father”. For Andrea’s “papá” as it is a “traditional greeting” (#), I decided to code-switch it, as there was no true English equivalent. But with that said, I did not leave it in Spanish. Instead I translated papá into Italian (papà). This is a small, but important distinction. Since all the characters in the novel are speaking italian, it’s integral that their code-switched dialogue is featured in Italian.

Another word that gave me pause was conejera. The Real Academia Española dictionary says this word can either be (1) Someone who breeds rabbits, (2) A rabbit hutch, or (3) Something that resembles the holes rabbits dig. None of these are helpful when it comes to the way conejera is used in the text. Since conejera is used to describe

Salvatore’s ferret Rusca, this is one rare example of how I chose to go outside of RAE’s definitions to find the best suitable word. It turns out the best word is compound; it is most likely that Rusca, a ferret, was pest-control for the old man, and therefore conejera is meant to be understood as “rabbit-hunter”. Rabbiting, the sport of hunting rabbits, usually involves a dog or ferret to track rabbits down, so this is not a far-fetched match. I believe this is what Sampedro intended.

Furthermore, Salvatore, the protagonist, uses certain words to denote unknown objects. For example, he uses “microphone” instead of “stethoscope”, and “machine” instead of “toaster” because he is unfamiliar with these objects. In these instances I chose to literally translate the original word, because it helps the reader understand how

10 traditional Salvatore really is and how out of place he is in Milan. Sometimes the literal

English equivalent of certain words can be difficult to understand, however. For example, the Spanish word tresillo in English literally means a three-piece suite. However, this uncommon English phrase is often confused with a similar, more ubiquitous phrase: three-piece suit. In fact, when my test reader stumbled upon this passage, they were confused as to why a vestibule contained such fancy clothes. It was clear that there was an unnecessary problem planted by this translation. As my goal was to stay true to the original text while also crafting a comprehensible one, I chose to describe what a three- piece suite is (‘one sofa, two chairs’) instead of using the phrase itself.

Moreover, some words I decided to keep in the original language. For example,

Migas, the dish Slavatore makes for his son. The name of this Iberian dish carries over into English, but I still decided to code switch it. Whenever the dish name popped up with a side-title, such as Migas resobadas, English equivalents sounded unnatural. So I decided to code-switch the few references of the dish. Also, the dish was first made by shepherds like Salvatore himself, and is a symbol of the old man's homeland. It is a way

Salvatore and his son connect in the text, so keeping it in the original language is a way to highlight this moment and cross of culture. Salvatore puts it best when, over a plate of

Migas, he thinks to himself: “esta noche… habitamos el mismo país; estamos juntos / tonight... we live in the same country; we are together” (133). A dish powerful enough to bring people together ought to stay in its original language.

The rest of the translator's notes will be discussing the poetic language that some of the chapters in La sonrisa etrusca end with. These moments are a shift from the usual, ordinary style of narration present throughout the novel. The end of many chapters is a

11 time of deep reflection from Salvatore, and it is usually caused by the time he has spent with his grandson, Brunettino.

In chapter 20, the old man’s sheer elation of holding his grandson turns the last paragraph of this chapter into an almost stand-alone poem. Sampedro chooses to portray these special moments poetically to convey just how powerful they are and to show the transforming power of love. Salvatore is not simply holding a child in his arms here; he is having a life-changing moment. The poetic language allows the reader to almost feel this change. Just as stories or fairy tales often end with a lesson or moral, Salvatore elevates the ending of each chapter to something that the reader recognizes is vital. The poetic language used at the end of many chapters reminds the reader that the themes Sampedro speaks of are universal - love can transform anyone. Just as poetry elevates the soul, so, too, does Sampedro’s rich and lyrical language. In this way, a small change is achieved by Salvatore at the end of each chapter until he is utterly transformed. Usually these scenes occur at night, when Salvatore sneaks out of his room to look after Brunettino, and makes sure the child doesn’t get frightened sleeping alone. This solitary environment of grandson and grandfather enveloped by quiet allows Salvatore a chance not only to get to know his grandson, but also himself.

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The Etruscan Smile

ONE

In the Villa Giulia Roman Museum, the guard in section five continues his patrol.

The summer has ended, and with it, the herds of tourists, and the excitement of his job.

Today however, he is intrigued by a certain visitor, and walks with growing curiosity towards the small room housing The Spouses. Will he still be there? he wonders, quickening his gait up to the door.

He is. Still sitting there on the bench, admiring the grand Etruscan sarcophagus, molded out of terra-cotta, centered within the vault. It’s the jewel of the museum, exhibited as if in a case, lying in the room draped with ocher hangings that imitate the original crypt.

Yes, there he is. He hasn't moved for an entire half hour, as if he too were dried up from the fire and centuries. The chestnut hat and tanned face make up a clay bust emerging from the tieless white button-up, the typical dress of elderly men down there, in the southern mountains: Apulia, or rather, Calabria.

What does he see in that statue? The guard wonders. He does not understand or dare leave in case something happens. But he does not enter either, held back by an unexplainable respect. This morning that has started out like all the others, has deviated into something distinct. In the doorway, the guard continues looking at the old man who, unaware of his presence, concentrates on the sepulcher and the human couple that recline on it.

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The woman, resting on her left elbow, two braids falling on her chest, bends her right hand exquisitely near her fleshy lips. Behind her the man, his beard sharp under a faun-like mouth, reclines as well, and wraps his right arm around her. In both bodies, the reddish tint of the clay wants to betray a sanguine background invulnerable to the passage of time. And under their almond eyes, orientally oblique, blooms the same indescribable smile: wise and enigmatic, serene and sensual.

Hidden spotlights dynamically illuminate the two figures, giving them a chiaroscuro pulse of life. By contrast, the motionless old man sitting in the shadows becomes the statue in the guard’s eyes. Like a thing of magic, the guard thinks without meaning to. To calm himself down, he decides to persuade himself that everything is normal: the old man is tired, and he is only sitting there to make the most out of his ticket.

That's how people from the countryside are. After nothing happens, he withdraws.

The guard’s absence thickens the air around the crypt’s three inhabitants: the old man and the couple. Time slips away…

Shattering this air is a young man, nearing the old one:

“There you are Father! Now we can get out of here. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting for so long, but that director…”

The old man looks up. That boy, always rushing, always apologizing… and to think he is my Son.

“First, tell me what this is.”

“That? The Spouses? It’s an Etruscan sarcophagus.”

“Sarcophagus? You mean a box for the dead?”

“That’s another way to put it… Now then, we really should get going.”

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“Did they bury them in there? In that sort of divan-looking thing?”

“Yes, inside the triclinium. It’s because the Etruscans ate reclining like they did in

Rome. And I should clarify, they didn't exactly bury them. Instead, they deposited the sarcophagi in a closed crypt, painted like the inside of a house.”

“Like the Malfarti mausoleum, back in Roccasera?”

“Exactly like that… but Andrea can explain it to you better. I’m no archeologist.”

“Your wife? Well, I’ll have to ask her.”

The son looks at his Father amazed. Why the sudden interest? He consults his watch once more.

“Milan is still a long way away Father… we should really get going.”

The old man rises from the bench slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the couple.

“They were buried eating.” He murmurs admiringly. Reluctantly, he finally follows his Son out.

As they exit the old man touches on another subject.

“It didn’t go very well with the director, I see.”

The son’s lip curls.

“It’s the same story. They promise you this and that, but in the end… nothing.

Mind you, he had great praise for Andrea. He even knew her latest article.”

The old man remembers when, right after the war, he went up to Rome with

Ambrosio and that other partisan (What was his name, that Albanian with a good shot?...

Damn memory!) to demand agrarian reform for the Pequeña Sila region from a party member.

“Did he see you out and pat you on the shoulder?”

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“How did you know? He was very kind.”

The Son smiles, but the old man furrows his brow. Always the same. Three people had to die in the peasant uprising of Melissa, neighboring Santa Severina, before the Roman politicians were frightened enough to do something.

They reach their car and settle inside. The old man grumbles while fastening his seatbelt. Why is this here! As if I didn’t have the right to kill myself! They pull out and take the exit towards Rome. Soon after paying the toll on the Autostrada del Sole, the old man slowly rolls a cigarette.

“They buried the two together?”

“Buried who, Father?”

“That couple. The Etruscans.”

“Oh them. I don't know. Possibly.”

“And How? They couldn't have possibly died at the same time.”

“You have a point, Father… well, I’m not sure. Press here for the lighter by the way.”

“Forget about the lighter. Half the fun is in the matches.”

The old man skillfully rubs one of his matches and ignites his cigarette in the gap formed by his hands. He then throws the match out the window and smokes slowly. The silence is only broken by the humming of the motor, the whispering of pneumatics, and the honking of an impetuous car. The car starts to smell of black tobacco, evoking the

Son's childhood memories. He surreptitiously lowers the car window a little. The old man looks at him: he has never gotten used to that delicate profile, inherited from his mother,

16 becoming more perceptible every year. The Son drives seriously, eyes glued to the road...

It makes sense, he has always been a serious boy.

“Why were they laughing in that way, so… so... well there's no words for it. And inside of their own tomb, no less!”

“Who?”

“Who do you think! The Etruscans, man, the couple in the museum! What are you thinking about?”

“Goodness me, the Etruscans!... How could I know? To be honest, I don’t think they weren’t laughing in the first place.”

“Oh, you bet they were laughing! Laughing at everything, didn't you see? With their lips together too... And what lips they had, especially hers, just like…” He stops himself so as to not say a name (Salvinia) impetuously remembered.

The son gets impatient. He’s obsessed! Maybe the disease has already affected his brain?

“They weren’t laughing, father. Only smiling. A smile of beatitude.”

“Beatitude? What is that?”

“Beatitude is like the saints in holy paintings, when they behold God.”

The old man let out a laugh.

“What is this of contemplating God? They, the Etruscans? Not a chance!”

The Son purses his lips. They overtake a large and fast car, driven by a dressed-up chauffeur. In the back seat lies the fleeting profile of an elegant lady. This Son of mine… thinks the old man. When will he learn about life?

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“The Etruscans laughed, I'm telling you. They laughed even within their tomb.

What a marvelous people!”

The old man takes another drag of his cigarette and continues:

“What happened to them anyways?”

“They were conquered by the Romans.”

“The Romans! Always being a pain!”

The old man recalls his old history, and ruminates on the dictatorship, the war, and the politics thereafter, while the car rolls toward the north.

The sun’s path culminates, warming the autumn crops. Up on a hill grapes are still being harvested, whereas back in Roccasera they are already starting to ferment. Some unequal furrows catch the old man’s attention. If one of my workers did a job like that, he thinks, I’d kick him out of my house instantly. Every detail of the landscape holds significance to the old man, even if it’s so different from his own. More green, softer for these northerners.

“All this land was Etruscan,” the Son lets out, trying to be pleasant.

The fields become even more lush in the eyes of the old man. After a while he is forced to ask:

“Can you stop for a moment Son? The snake inside me is beginning to stir.”

The Son returns to worrying about his Father’s grave illness, the catalyst for traveling to Milan and its doctors, and he blames himself for ignoring his Father's problems for his own. Sure, he cares about his wife’s possible move to Rome, but his

Father takes precedence now. He turns toward him affectionately.

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“I’ll pull off the first chance we get. While we’re at it, I'll get a cup of coffee to keep me awake.”

“I can wait, don’t rush.”

The son looks over his Father’s profile. His aquiline nose is familiar, but his

Adam's apple is already tapering, like a swallowed pebble, and his eyes are collapsing into their sockets. How long will he be able to contemplate this once invulnerable face, a face that had always inspired a sense of security. Life has distanced them, taken them to different worlds, and yet... how he will miss this old oak’s protective shadow! A stab of anxiety: If he speaks, he might tear up. The old man wouldn’t like that.

They park at a service station. The Son fills up the car, and when he enters the building, his father is already sipping on a steaming mug.

“Father! Didn't the doctor forbid caffeine?”

“So? Life must be lived after all!”

“That's why it’s forbidden!”

The old man smiles, savoring his coffee. Afterwards he rolls another cigarette.

They resume their course and after a few minutes on the Autostrada del Sole they read the next exit sign: Arezzo, to the right.

“It was a great Etruscan city,” the son explains while passing the sign, leaving it behind.

Arezzo - the old man holds onto the name.

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TWO

The car gets back on the highway from a roadside inn where the two travelers had dined lightly. Fog extends over the plains of the Po like the advance of night, tangling up its tufts in the rows of poplars. Those monotonous and soft lands, with their tamed orchards, do not hold the old man’s attention, and soon he falls asleep.

Poor guy, thinks the Son, looking at his Father nodding off. He must be so tired…

I never thought he would agree to leave his beloved Roccasera behind. Does he have hopes of recovering? Surely… Why else would he come?

When the old man opens his eyes again it's the dead of night. He takes a look at the dashboard clock and sees a green, weakly illuminated 10:10. He closes his eyelids once more, shutting out the irritating thought of returning to Milan. The first time he went, recently widowed, he didn't even last fifteen days into a two month stay.

Everything was unbearable: the city, the Milanese, the tiny apartment, his daughter-in- law… And yet here he is, coming back! What a pleasure it would have been to die at home, he thought, Damn Cantanotte! Why won’t he piss off already?

“Good nap?” Says the son when the old man finally decides to shift positions.

“We're just getting into the city now.”

Yes, they are just getting into the trap. Cities, for the old man, have always acted like a funnel, where the bloodthirsty officials, politicians, landowners, businessmen, and other parasites all prey on the poor. The exit of the highway, with its toll booth eager to give out tickets, acts as the trap’s mouth.

20

They enter the suburbs, and the old man looks around suspiciously from one side to the other. Walls, hangars, closed shops and cheap houses, parking lots and puddles... smoke and mist, dirt and debris, solitary and sinister streetlights. Everything inhuman, sordid, and hostile. As the old man lowers his window, a damp mist reeking of trash and chemicals seeps in. He takes off his seat belt and is relieved to feel unrestrained and ready for the next threat.

It's a good thing that Rusca is calm today, he thinks to himself. The old man calls his illness Rusca, after a female ferret that Ambrosio gifted to him after the war. There was never a better rabbit-hunter in the whole village. You have consideration for me, eh

Rusca? You understand that coming to Milan is a hard enough blow already. The same goes for you, I know. If things weren't the way they were, we would end our days down there together, in our land.

He remembers the affectionate little muzzle - and below that the ferocious fangs - of his beloved critter. He remembers one of Cantanotte’s dogs killing her too. In revenge, he cut off the dog’s tail, and the rival had to swallow the insult. Furthermore he deflowered Concetta, one of his rival’s cousins. The memories make him smile.

Outside, the houses squeeze and compete for room. The walls surround them every which way except for straight ahead, in effect luring them more and more towards the heart of the trap. The streetlights turn into sardonic signs that mechanically put out luminous signals in order to regulate a flow of traffic non-existent at this hour.

Occasionally, disturbing surprises arise: the deafening ring of a seemingly purposeless bell, the sudden clamor of a train riding on the metal viaduct above, and the unexplainable bellows and whiffs of manure.

21

“The slaughterhouse,” the Son clarifies, pointing at the walls to the right. “That's who we get our meat from.”

So it's a trap for animals too, thinks the old man.

They enter a different avenue. What’s the deal with those women dancing around that bonfire? They’re like witches in a wasteland.

A red light stops them by the curb and one of the women comes towards the car, unzips her short jacket a little, and flaunts her chest.

“You want a good time, boys? I can give it to you both!” Her painted mouth screeches.

The streetlight turns green, and the car zooms off.

“Unbelievable” Murmurs the Son, as if he were to blame.

What a good pair, thinks the old man joyfully. They put better bait in the trap now.

The labyrinth continues to enclose them. After a while, the Son slows down and parallel parks between two sleeping cars. They get out. The old man is surprised to see a sign on the corner: Viale Piave.

“We’re here?” He comments. “I don't remember anything.”

“The other house was too small with a baby on the way,” explains the son while opening the trunk. “And we wanted to live in a better neighborhood. Thanks to the back windows overlooking via Nino Bixio, we can afford an apartment here. Andrea is in love with it.”

22

The kid, of course! thinks the old man, blaming himself for not remembering. But with the death of his wife, and his own declining health, so many things have been preoccupying him.

They cross through a vestibule furnished with one sofa, two chairs and a mirror, before stopping at the elevator. The old man does not want to take it but knows that eight floors are beyond his limit. Don’t worry Rusca.

Arriving at the top, the Son opens a door slowly and turns on a soft light, recommending that the old man stay quiet because of the sleeping child. A silhouette appears in the hallway:

“Renato?”

“Yes Dear. We’re here.”

The old man barely recognizes Andrea without her glasses, but her thin and serious mouth under high cheekbones and a gray glare give her away.

“Welcome home, papà.”

“Hello, Andrea.”

He hugs her and those thin lips brush past his cheek. It’s her, for sure. He remembers the bones protruding from her back, her flat chest. She still calls me papà?

The old man thinks, disgusted. He does not suspect the effort it costs her to produce the traditional welcome, or that Renato highly recommended it in the first place. For Andrea, it reminds her of two horrible weeks as a newlywed honeymooning in the old man’s country, where everyone analyzed her like an insect under a magnifying glass. The women even gathered around the patio to see the drying fancy underwear of la milanesa!

“What took you so long?”

23

The old man recognizes the sharp tone. Renato blames the fog, but Andrea doesn't listen to him. She walks into the front hallway, sure that the two are following. She turns on a light and shows the old man his room, indicating to Renato the closet where the sheets are for the sofa bed.

“I didn't have time to make your bed,” she apologizes. “It took me a long time to get the baby to sleep… Excuse me, papà, I am giving my class first thing in the morning so it’s off to bed for me.”

The old man says goodnight, and Andrea retires. While Renato opens the closet, the old man walks around his prison-cell. Thin curtains over a single window, a bedside table and lamp, a lone chair, and a muddled picture of… birds, perhaps?

Nothing speaks to him, but he’s not surprised.

Mentally, he shrugs his shoulders: Up north, what more could one expect?

24

THREE

Despite the Son’s struggles, the sofa bed refuses to unfold. The old man doesn’t know how to help him, nor does he want to get involved with such a machine, so different from his own bed. His only bed since his wedding night, a tall and sturdy one rising from the bedroom like a mountain. The polished chestnut headboard becomes the peak, and the three mattresses (two woolly one’s over a horsehair base - the same story in every respectable household) become the rolling fields below. Absolute, definitive, made to enjoy, multiply, rest, and die!... Before that there was hard ground in the sheep fold, dry straw in the haylofts, the army bunk and grass on cave floors, corn stalks that crackled under passionate romps… a whole world foreign to this current bed, filled with hidden springs like a hunter's trap.

Finally the mechanism gives, and the bed unfolds almost all at once. The son sets out the sheets and places a single blanket down because - he advises - there is heating.

The old man doesn’t mind; he brought his usual blanket with him, worn by a half century of use. There was no chance he was leaving it at home, for the blanket acted as his second skin. It had protected him from rain and snow and warmed him in the best and worst hours of his life. Decorated with a bullet hole, this blanket was going to be his shroud.

“Need anything else?” Renato asks at last.

What the old man needs is everything and nothing; he has more than enough yet desires so much. What he longs for, above all, is a slow sip of wine, a red from home, strong and sharp, meant for the throats of men. Unfortunately, the ones in Milan are pure

25 chemicals… What else could get rid of this foul flavor in his mouth? Something natural…

“Do you have any fruit?”

“Oh, yes. We have gorgeous pears from Yugoslavia. Let me get you some.”

The Son leaves and returns quickly with two fresh looking pears and a knife, atop a plate he balances on the bedside table. Then he directs his father’s attention to the hallway, so he can indicate the kitchen door - “In the fridge there is a little bit of everything” - and further along, the bathroom door.

“Make sure you don't make too much noise in there when the baby is sleeping, because his room is next one down… You’ll see him tomorrow, alright? Better to let him sleep tonight. But I'll leave you with this - he’s beautiful and takes after you.”

“Yes, better tomorrow”, the old man answers, annoyed by his son’s adulation.

Nonsense! Newborns don't look like anyone, and they are nothing more than babies.

Nothing but bundles that cry.

“Good night Father, welcome back.”

The first thing the old man does alone is draw back those useless rags that block the window. Now he can see the building's courtyard, surrounded by walls with closed windows. He decides to open his and peek out. Above him is Milan’s night sky: a low canopy of fog and smoke reflecting the violaceous and neon city lights. Below him is a black well giving off the smell of cold food, soaked clothes, plumbing, and gas…

Upon closing the window he realizes that he opened it instinctively, because of a wartime reflex: always check for possible escape routes. There are none here. Like in the

Gestapo de Rimini... trapped behind the thick border wall, until I managed to trick them

26 into letting me go… Thanks to the fact that Petrone endured his torture and didn't say a word. Oh, Petrone!

There were no pears in the Rimini dungeon, however. He takes one and gets out his pocketknife, ignoring the one on the plate. He starts to whittle away at the skin.

Damn, where’s the smell? He tries the first one: cold and tasteless like ice, so much for those gorgeous pears. Fool me once... He peels the second one so Renato can see the scraps in the morning. Afterwards, he opens the window and drops both pears into the murky well, hearing them plop on the metal awning below.

Calling those pears Yugoslavian is a disgrace he thinks while closing the window, because Yugoslavia produced Dunka. Dunka! Your body was certainly sweet and fragrant! And your warm skin was never cold, but summery and vivacious. Oh, my unforgettable companion in pain and pleasure… Oh Dunka, Dunka! Your figure fades away during those last times, but it will always live on in this old heart, animating it as soon as it surfaces from the past...

When he gets undressed, the old man strokes the tiny sack hanging from his neck, containing his charms against the evil eye. After turning off the lights, he gets into bed, and fixes his blanket so it can cling around him like a sleeping bag.

“I also live, Dunka… I live!” He whispers, savoring the words. At that moment another memory surfaces. Like that couple in the museum who made their tomb out of clay instead of wood destined to rot. That couple ensured their everlastingness, like I did with the oil in my earthen jars.

The sea of his subconscious reflects the image of Dunka:

27

We had dinner like that couple, not on a divan but on a bed, with no other light than the moon because of the enemy planes above… The moon was sliding over the sea towards us… Who needs more light? We illuminate one another with caresses and kisses!

And how we kissed, Dunka, how we kissed!

He even smiles when he embraces her in his dream.

28

FOUR

The old man wakes up, like always, before dawn. If he was home, he would get up for his morning routine of walking on the damp ground fresh with dew, breathing in the air of a new day, seeing the dawn widen through the sky, and listening to the birds…

There yes, but here…

At this hour Rosetta will be getting up… Yesterday, she cried a lot while we said goodbye, but I’m sure her swine of a husband has already calmed her down. That good- for-nothing, falser than gypsy’s gold. Why did my daughter turn into a fool for him?

Women!... It's a good thing they didn’t have kids; they would have ended up miserable.

My Rosa gave me little; being part of a rich race didn’t make her fertile. Three miscarriages in three years… Well at least she tried, unlike my Francesco. For all I know he still lives isolated in New York. So Renato ended up being the one to give me my sole grandchild… what's his name? It was on the baptism invitation, but I couldn’t go, I was in the middle of a lawsuit with Cantanotte over the Soto Grande… I’m sure it’s Maurizio or Giancarlo, a name along those lines: a gentleman’s, to the taste of Andrea… Who for all her flaws, was capable of giving me a Grandson, whereas the Nino…

The infant’s cry crawls through the hall, as if triggered by the grandfather’s thoughts. The cry is not irritated or plaintive, but rather rhythmic and tranquil, just affirming an existence. I like him, thinks the old man, I would cry like that if I ever did…

Those footsteps, Andrea’s?... No, that's not her humming; it must be Renato… and they say you lose your hearing when you're old, bah! My hearing is better than when I led my

29 team through enemy territory… Anyways, Renato the nanny, how embarrassing! Andrea has turned him into a Milanese man, if you can even call it that!

The snake that stirs within the old man calms down. You're right, Rusca, I shouldn’t care… Hungry? You’re like the other Rusca, always starving! Well when

Renato returns to the bedroom, I’ll fetch some food for the two of us. The little one might be hungry too, I should wake Andrea up to feed him… But a baby bottle is another thing this woman doesn’t have.

The crying ceases and he hears Renato returning to bed. The old man gets up, puts on his pants and heads straight to the kitchen. Instead of turning on the lights to see he relies on the dim glow of the streetlights seeping through the windows. He finds the pantry: back at home his would let out a blast of smells, from onion and salami to oil and garlic. Here, it's completely odorless. He inspects bottles and cans and boxes with brightly colored labels - some in English - before deciding on a promising packet of rice.

All that's inside however is hollowed-out and half-burnt grains.

In the fridge, the cheese is bland and yellowish; thank god there is some chopped onion in a sealed plastic box to go with it... The wine is Tuscan and, to make matters worse, stone-cold… The manufactured panneto is too; If only he could get his hands on a large round loaf, straight from Mario’s oven... What is that, milk soup? And the black in that transparent cylinder... coffee? But how do you make it?

A sudden noise: an alarm clock in the bedroom. The house becomes animated, and Renato appears with a groggy good morning. He activates the coffee machine and takes another machine from the pantry, plugs it in, and puts two square pieces of panetto

30 into it. He escapes to the bathroom, and the old man quickly hears water running. Andrea appears and exclaims in the middle of a yawn:

“But, Father, why are you up so early?”

She leaves without waiting for a response and accidentally runs into her husband in the hallway. The sounds multiply: faucets are turned on, liquid gurgles in the drains, bottles clink, the electric razor purrs as the shower spatters… then the couple are together in the kitchen, getting in each other's way while making breakfast. The old man accepts a cup of watery coffee from them and goes into the bathroom to wash up. After a few moments, Renato enters:

“Father, we have hot water.”

“I don't want hot water. It doesn't wake me up.”

He doesn’t bother trying to explain to his Son the pleasures of cold mountain pools, the aroma of recently burned fires, and the sight of goats roaming around i n bushes white with frost. Meanwhile, his Son and Daughter-in-law come and go cautiously from the bedroom to the kitchen, getting dressed while eating the slices of toast that popped out of the machine.

“Come and see your Grandson, Father. Let’s change him and give him something to eat.”

Will Andrea be breastfeeding him? He thinks, shocked, because he has not seen any bottle prepared.

Intrigued, he derisively follows Renato towards the baby's room where Andrea, over a table with a flannelette sheet, finishes changing the little one.

31

The old man is paralyzed by shock. There’s nothing newborn about him; he is a child already capable of sitting on his own. Intrigued by the appearance of the old man, the child waves away the spoonful of baby food offered by his mom, and instead fixes his dark round eyes on him. The baby releases a tiny growl, swipes at him for a moment and, finally, deigns to open his little mouth for some food.

“What a big boy!” The old man ends up saying.

“Right, papà?” boasts the mom, “At only thirteen months old too.”

Thirteen months already? thinks the old man, still in shock… My Grandson, my blood, there, right in front of me… How did I not know it before?... He really is beautiful!... Why does he look at me so seriously, why is he swiping at me? What will he want to say to me?... Were my kids, Renato and the others, like this?... Now he’s smiling; what a cheeky little face!

“Look at your grandpa, Brunettino; he has come a long way to see you.”

“Brunettino?” exclaimed the old man again, overcome by astonishment, bringing his hand to the tiny bag around his neck, the sure cause for this miracle.

“Why did you name him Brunettino, why?”

They look at him amazed, while the little one lets out a giggle. Renato, misunderstanding, apologizes:

“Sorry, Dad; I know the first one is usually named after the Grandfather, and I wanted to name him Salvatore after you; but Andrea and my friend Rezno, his Godfather, insisted, because Bruno is more firm, more serious… I apologize again.”

The old man stops short, and his voice stutters in amazement:

32

“Why do you feel like you have to apologize? I am happy; you have given him my name!”

Andrea looks at him, astonished.

“You have to know, Renato, that the partisans called me Bruno. Has Ambrosio not told you that time and time again?”

“Yes, but your name is Salvatore.”

“Foolishness! My Father named me Salvatore, whoever he was, but I named myself Bruno, My own name... Brunettino!” Concludes the old man savoring the diminutive, thanking his lucky stars that Andrea did what she did. Bruno fits him so well, looking at those little cunning eyes, as if the child understands everything.

He shyly advances a finger toward the baby’s soft cheek. He does not remember ever touching the skin of an infant so small. If anything, he picked up his own children only once or twice, well dressed and to show off to friends.

A light fist, avid like an eaglet in his nest, catches the wrinkled finger, intending to lead it toward his mouth. The old man smiles, delighted: What strength this little bandit has! He is amazed that the child possesses such power and nerves. The world is full of surprises!

His finger is let free. The child, drawn to the old man, dodges a spoonful.

“Come on, darling, eat a little more” the mom pleads, looking at her watch. “For your Grandpa.”

Today’s morning is full of surprises: Andrea manages to use a loving intonation.

But the child dips his head energetically. Suddenly he lets out a whitish puff.

“Is he sick?” The old man says alarmed.

33

“Father, please…” Renato says smiling. “It’s only air, a little burp. See? He's already eating again… It’s like you’ve never had kids before!”

No, I haven’t had them, the old man realizes, noticing that he has never had a day like this before. In the village us men don't have kids. We have newborns, to brag about them during their baptism, especially if they’re male, but then they disappear among the women… although they do sleep in our beds and cry: But even that is only for the mom to handle… later they are only noticed as a nuisance if they are crawling around the house, but they don't count until we see them taking the donkey from the branch to the water or casting feed in the corral for the chickens: then is when we start to love them… if they are not afraid of the donkey or the chickens… And the daughters, even worse: they are not born until they start to bleed every month and then you have to walk around with eyes in the back of your head, in order to guard their honor… So you are the first kid,

Brunettino, taking up all the attention, even your parents forget to be in a hurry...

“Do you want to take him?”

The old man is caught off guard; before he can prepare himself, he already has that light weight in his arms, but it’s difficult to hold. “My god, how should I hold him?”

“Raise him up more, like this (they position the baby right). Cup your arms, papà!

(He feels clumsy)... Put his head over your shoulder… (Like in an agarrao, cheek to cheek). That way he can breathe; take this towel over your jacket so he doesn't get it dirty… Don’t cry, darling; it’s your grandpa, and he loves you very much… Move back and forth, papà… like that. See how he is relaxed now?”

The old man balances him carefully. Andrea and Renato - both back to their busy lives - have disappeared, and the old man is left bewildered like never before, wondering

34 what emotion is taking hold of him… Fortunately no one from the village sees him and they will not be able to laugh at him, but what is a lone man to do in such a case?

He brushes his cheek against the child’s, and the child withdraws, although it was enough contact to know a skin smoother than any woman’s. And this ineffable smell surrounding the old man: soft, milky, lukewarm, with a pinch of bittersweet and vital fermentation, as the wineries smell from afar! A smell tender and sickly-sweet, yet so intoxicating and possessive!

The old man surprises himself when he presses the little body towards his chest and, out of fright, loosens his hold for fear of suffocating him. But soon the old man goes right back to holding him tight, so as to not drop him… This little lamb does not tremble.

Instead, he is sturdy like little Jesus was to Saint Cristopher, one of the few saints the old man likes, because he was big and strong and could cross any river.

Suddenly the child gives a little kick against the old man’s belly, giving him a superstitious shock, because it’s the exact point where the snake bites. Does the child know? He turns his head quickly to examine the little face and brushes against the soft cheek, causing a cry of protest from the child.

“It’s your beard, mister,” says an unknown voice, as two hands alleviate him of a tender weight. “I’m Anunziata, the maid. The parents have just left.”

The woman skillfully places the kid back into his crib.

“He’s sleepy; surely he will be asleep soon… With your permission, I’m going to continue cleaning.”

The old man is surprised by something… That’s it! Why did he not warn him before?

35

“The child sleeps there?” inquires the old man. And at the subsequent silent approval, adds: “In the evenings too? But...”, his anger conspicuous, “Does that mean babies in Milan don’t sleep with their parents? Who cares for them, then?”

“That was before, when I was a nanny. Now it's different; the doctors strongly advise that they sleep alone.”

“That’s ridiculous! And if they cry? And if something happens?”

“It's highly unlikely something will happen at his age… Look, it's better that the mom gives their child some space. When it comes to a baby, you measure them, weigh them, and take them to the best doctor… And have a book full of pictures that explains everything!”

A book! the old man thinks scornfully, while the woman leaves the room. If books were needed, how would good mothers who never learned how to read be able to take care of their children? It’s clear: That's why they take better care of them and don’t send them off early.

Now the small sleepy face fills with compassion, yet suddenly, in one brisk movement, his little hand clutches the edge of the blanket… He's completely defenseless!

The old man brushes his own hand over his cheek and, in effect, scrapes his beard.

Poor thing, going through the whole night alone! You can’t even talk yet!... And what if your parents don’t hear you cry? And what if, all alone, you get a cramp or start suffocating in the sheets? And what if a rat or a snake bites you, like the eldest of

Piccolitti? Well here there are no snakes, they can’t put up with Milan, but strange things still happen! What about witches and other wicked conjurors, I’m sure Milan is full of them!… Poor innocent abandoned thing!

36

He fixes his eyes on that little mystery asleep in the crib. After so many years, three children in his home and God knows how many more in other people’s, now his first Grandson has been born to him… What’s going to happen now?

Suddenly Brunettino lifts his eyelids and looks at the old man piercingly. Were you reading my thoughts? Nonsense, but this kid… The two dark marbles intimidate the old man, who shrinks as if he were under the finger of destiny. The eyelids close slowly, while a smile blooms on the little face. The child, entrusting himself to that man, succumbs to a peaceful dream at last.

The old man takes a deep breath. He becomes amazed again that Andrea, completely unaware and amidst a sea of names, chose that one… He whispers:

If they want to call you Brunettino, I will be Bruno….

37

FIVE

The next day the old man takes to the streets.

“Do you know how to get back, papà? Remember: eighty-two, viale Piave.”

Does she take him for a fool? He doesn’t bother answering someone who would easily get lost on his mountain back home.

He reaches the end of the street. A large plaza with intense traffic. On the other side are some gardens, but he won’t find what he’s looking for that way. He goes back to the narrower, more promising streets. His shepherd habits make him notice every detail

(shop windows, doorways, signs) so that he will remember the way back, because in

Milan it is impossible to use the sun to orient yourself. Finally he finds a barber shop on a narrow street: Via Rossini, a good omen. His tactics have paid off.

Instead it was quite the opposite of a good omen. The pompous decor puts the old man on guard, and the unctuous idle talk mixed in with offers of cosmetics gives him an uneasy feeling. Although he rejects all the extra offers, his simple shave still adds up to six thousand Liras.

Six thousand! And without the steady hand nor the care of Aldu in Roccasera, who would pass him an alum block that left his face smooth as jasper every Wednesday and Saturday. None of that here.

“There’s five thousand and change,” he pronounces dryly, throwing his bills on the counter. “I’m not waiting for change because I can't stand being with you thieves a moment more. Fra Diavolo at least risked his life!... Anyone got a problem with that?”

38

“Hey, mister…” the boss starts. But he shushes upon seeing the old man reach for his pocket with a resolute gesture.

“Leave him, boss!” whispers a smug young man in a green robe.

A large silence encompasses the still old man while gazes crash and bounce off his face. Finally he turns around, leaves slowly, and goes back home. On the way back, he acquires a small and simple bladed mechanism. Renato offered him his electric razor, but he knows that they come with the chance of electrocution. Plus they’re noisy, and he wants to shave daily without waking anyone up.

That barbershop was a disgrace! It makes sense though; today was bad from the start. While Renato was having breakfast alone (Andrea was in the shower) the old man asked him why the child doesn't sleep with them. That’s the way it's always been after all.

Renato smiled condescendingly:

“Nowadays we start to educate them sooner. They must sleep alone as soon as they get to this age, Father, so they don't grow any insecurities.”

“Insecurities? What are those? Something adults can spread to their kids?”

Renato, piously, retained seriousness and explained in simple terms he thought a rural man might understand. In short, letting the child sleep with them would lead to excessive dependence. The old man looked at him fixedly:

“Who are they supposed to depend on then? If they can’t walk or speak, they sure as hell can't take care of themselves!”

“They still depend on their parents, sure, but not excessively… Don't worry about it Father; the child is looked after as he should be, Andrea and I have studied well.”

“Right… your parenting books.”

39

“Of course. And, above all, we listen to the doctor; that's just how it is dad. You have to... hedge affection at this stage of development.”

The old man became silent. Hedge affection? What would reserving your affection even look like?... something controlled, something fake. He doesn't objurgate further because at the end of the day Renato is still the parent. But that is how the day started off on the wrong foot. He has been furious all morning, and standing up to the barber was simply his way of letting off steam.

Fortunately, a different establishment salvages his view of the neighborhood. The old man finds himself on via Salvini, another narrow street, when a modest grocery store facade catches his eye. In addition, a woman with the appearance of knowing how to buy just the right thing enters. This store seems to promise everything.

Indeed, as soon as anyone walks in, they are enveloped by the smells of the countryside: strong cheeses, marinated olives, herbs and spices, fruits, all of it, without any transparent packaging or weighted cardboard… and, just in case that isn’t enough, what a woman behind the counter, what a woman!

Forty something, the golden age. Fresh as the shop’s apples. She excuses herself from a recent customer, evidently with confidence, before smiling at this newcomer more with her vivacious eyes than her rounded mouth.

“What would the mister like?”

And the voice. A real stacca, like a well-bred mare.

“What would I like? Everything!” He says as he smiles back and points around.

Because the shop is an authentic treasure. It contains what one is looking for and more, like the items that are never seen in other storefronts…authentic bread: fresh round

40 loves, sesame Bastone, Rosca, and even the special bread you can stuff sofrito and salsa into that overflows as you bite. Like the Catanzaro saying goes: With morzeddhu, you eat, drink, and wash your face!

The woman leaves the counter to assist him. Nice hips, not too fatty. Calves too, with slender ankles. And a soothing accent, that prompts him to ask:

“You’re from the south, aren’t you, signora?”

“Just like yourself. I’m from Taranto.”

“Well, I’m from Roccasera, next to Catanzaro and up in the mountains.”

“It’s all the same in the south.” She laughs. “Apulia and Calabria are like two peas in a pod!”

She expressly matches the indices of each hand, while giving a slight wink. This gesture that connects both regions seems to also unite themselves in equivocal complicity.

The old man goes about the store, picking his groceries, and arguing about the quality and price. She attends to him by playing along with the joke, but without giving him reason for excessive confidence, and looks at him intrigued until she has to ask:

“What are you doing shopping? Do you live alone?”

“No, I live with my Grandson!… Well, him and his parents!”

He adds the latter sentence as an afterthought, and begins to dwell over the first, realizing it's his first time pronouncing it. It's true, he is my Grandson, and I, his nonnu.

“Your Grandson will grow up to be very handsome,” she teases, looking him over.

41

Handsome? Is Brunettino handsome?… Nonsense! the worries of a woman!

Brunettino is something else. Brunettino is… a child. And that’s that.

“Well…” he answers evasively. This one knows how to sell. If I’m not careful, I’ll buy what no one else will… Nonsense, no one cajoles me… But she does have a knack for it; she lives off others well.

He remembers the woman from Beppo, in the cafe, serving drinks, always flaunting her chest. You make a business out of your wife’s breasts, the husband’s friends would mock, and the husband could only pretend to be angry, because his Giulietta was very faithful, and everyone knew it: the sentence was made with no bad intention. But it was also the truth; the man had that kind of luck only a few can boast about. But this woman in the shop is finer. Yes, beautiful, just look at those hands that do the packaging and hand out change!

Will you be as faithful? doubts the old man, who is rather good at guessing those sorts of things. Here in the city things happen… But another obsessive subject surfaces in his mind and he asks quickly:

“Excuse the blunt question, ma’am, but it’s for my Grandson: When did you stop sleeping with your children when they were little?”

“Ah, we have not had children!... God didn’t send us a single one.”

What could God have been thinking when he decided not to give this woman any babies? the old man ponders while apologizing, bewildered. She downplays the situation, understanding... and to break the silence, changes the subject:

“I’m sorry I can’t send your package home today. We have a boy for that, but today he’s sick. And my husband has gone to replace the sold produce.”

42

An astute woman, knowing that it’s not right for men to carry packages down the street. The old man says goodbye:

“Goodbye, signora…, signora...”

“Maddalena. But it’s not goodbye, it’s a rivederci! Because you’ll return, right?

We have everything here.”

“Who wouldn’t return to see you?… a rivederci.”

When the old man gets back on the street, his smile still persists. But, he thinks, how could she not have had kids, being so desirable and from the south?… Well, who am

I to judge, I’m just looking forward to seeing her again. Plus, that delightful store is my solution! A little bit of everything, and all at a decent price. From now on, I will always get up as God intended.

He had made up his mind since Andrea removed his goat cheese and onion breakfast from the pantry - “Jesus papà, the pantry stinks,” she exclaimed - expecting him to bury what he bought inside little casket-boxes within the fridge. Instead he hid his groceries, wrinkled under the sofa-bed within that complicated maze of iron bars, wrapped in plastic bags with his cigarettes to conceal the smell. Andrea has forbidden smoking in the house due to the child. Fortunately, however, Andrea and the housekeeper have a horrible sense of smell. He is not surprised; life in Milan starves the senses.

From now on, he will have breakfast like a man, smelly and flavorful, cut with his knife, served with authentic bread and soaked in a good red throat-scratcher of a wine that Andrea could not find an excuse to reject in the kitchen.

43

In the mornings I will be free of her panetto, her leftover pastas, frozen and reheated, and the rest of her processed junk… You and I, Rusca, we will eat at least once a day from the goodness of the earth!

He sits on a bench in the grand plaza and starts to roll a cigarette to smoke outside of the house. Some passerby looks at him curiously. As his tongue passes over the gummed edge of the paper, a thought strikes him:

Well, Andrea may be right about one thing; smoke probably won’t sit well with the child… What do you say, Rusca? It calms you, but the doctor says it upsets me. And now, in addition to Cantanotte, I need to be strong for Brunettino… I know, Rusca, the smoke is not good for him, even if we smoke in our room.

After wetting the paper, he rolls up his cigarette and lights it with a match. He inhales the smoke methodically, but it’s not the same. He feels guilty; it is a disloyalty to

Brunettino.

44

SIX

While it’s a sacrifice to quit tobacco, the old man’s clandestine breakfasts are a pleasure, especially three days later when he’s not allowed to eat. They are going to draw blood at nine for a prescribed analysis by a famous doctor, whose consultation Andrea took him to the day before. Prescribed, in reality, by some assistant who was as thick as

Andrea is thin - yet somehow, she talked just like her. It was prescribed by the assistant because, after the organized reception of waiting, corridors, and other preliminary rites, they didn't come close to piercing the doctor’s sanctuary. The old man laughs as he thinks about how Andrea is going to light up when she appears in the kitchen and sees him meekly refraining from breakfast.

This fasting before the analysis thing, he thought while he savored his cottage cheese with onions and olives, shows how doctors are nothing but fools. It's all a performance to take more. Analysis? For what? In any case the results are going to be bad, isn't that right Rusca? You’ll see to it.

They don't take his blood in the famous doctor’s office, but in the Hospital

Mayor. Renato takes him in his car. He has time and drops him off on his way to the factory, in the industrial zone of Bovisa. They park, enter, and move through the corridors and counters of hospital bureaucracy towards the same waiting room, where, once again, he hears the same instructions:

“You already know, Father, but on the way out be sure to take a taxi next to the same door to return home.”

45

The father listens attentively, but his smile becomes disdainful when Renato walks away. I would have liked to see young people today try to flee from the Germans in an unknown city… Take a taxi: what a brilliant idea! Only ten thousand Liras!

Signora Maddalena explained to him the day before - this woman knows everything - that bus fifty-one will stop at the hospital and arrive in piazzale Biancamano, and from there all he has to do is follow via Moscova and the gardens to arrive home.

That’s why the old man turned a deaf ear to Renato. Another older patient has figured out his plan and looks at him with knowing eyes.

The old man, for his taste, would leave without pricking himself, but the famous doctor will demand that the analysis follow routine. Routine and farce, that is what I hate… Do they think that I am a senile old man? Do they think that I have come here to heal? Disgraceful! If it wasn’t for that bastard Cantanotte still breathing, god damn it!

Any day I would have consented to dying at the village, at ease on my bed, between friends and the view of my mountain, the calm Femminamorta, under the sun and the clouds.

But Cantanotte still breaths, although he is no longer standing, immobilized up to the waist by paralysis. He wheezes on, wearing his fascist, black-rimmed glasses as always. The old man had to face this vision on the day of his departure, because the very bastard was brought down to the plaza in a chair by his two Sons, as soon as the day dawned. There they met up with a group of his puppets, making conversation at the door of the Casino, waiting for the grand spectacle to begin.

The grand spectacle, the goodbye of the old man, is re-lived while he waits for the nurse to call. The plaza is like a yellowish photograph in the old man’s mind, and in the

46 photo’s center is Renato’s car surrounded by children. The plaza’s uneven ground is delimited by an irregular rectangle of expectant facades whose doors and windows, seemingly closed, are implacable observatories of local life, as they wait for the final exit of old Salvatore. In focus are the two longest sides of the rectangle: that of the church and the casino, presided over by Cantanotte, and that of Beppo’s cafe with the Municipality, territory of the old man and his comrades, with Salvatore’s home inherited from his

Father-in-law, right next to the cafe.

The morning light was asserting itself while the old man tried to buy time, in the mad hope that the paralysis of the enemy would suddenly rise like soda foam, drowning his horrid heart. He touched his little bag of amulets above his shirt, wishing in vain for this miracle. The old man had already taken his blanket and knife, arguing with his daughter about bringing his lupara: his sawed shotgun, his first firearm, and his endowment as a man. Renato grew impatient when he remembered his business with the museum director. When the sun was on the brink of coming out, he couldn't take it anymore:

“Father, wouldn’t it be better if I pulled the car up to the corral door, and we got out of here immediately?”

A shameful proposition, decided the old man, who stared down his Son. He put down the lupara, kissed Rosetta, gave his Son-in law a vague hand gesture, and decided violently:

“We’re going, but through the grand door! And you, Rossetta, as you cry from the balcony, I will go back up, and give you a piece of my mind. If you can't stand it, don’t look out.”

47

The old man loudly descended the stairs once more and emerged more upright than ever from the shadows of the hall. His friends went with him up to the cafe, behaving like the men they were: All were smiles and plans for when Salvatore returned cured. Renato was settled at the wheel, waiting impatiently.

Finally the old man distanced himself from his people and went alone towards the car, which brought him closer to the Casino. He advanced staring at his seated enemy, the two sons standing next to the chair, and the somber group of henchmen.

Under black-rimmed glasses, a wide mouth shot out sarcastically, “Goodbye

Salvatore!”.

The old man anchored to the ground. Sturdy, with separated knees and arms ready.

“You can still talk, Domenico?” - he responded with a firm voice, “It's been a while since I’ve heard you complain.”

“Obviously those that have life have words too.”

“Well then, you must have been dead when I cut the tail off your dog, Nostero, because you didn't squawk then!”

“I spoke by killing your Rusca in front of you, a good critter, yes sir!” replied the paralytic, making his supporters laugh.

“And you must have been dead when I dishonored your niece Concetta! Dead and rotten, just like now!” the old man spit furiously, taking hold of the knife in his pocket. In that moment he wished to end it there once and for all: To die taking the other one with him.

48

The sudden silence of the plaza was enough to cut the air. But Cantanotte had put his hands on the forearms, already nervous, of his two Sons. And he concluded by saying, with a scornful gesture of his fat ringed hand:

“Time repaired her honor, better than the doctors will be able to fix you… Go on, leave, have a good trip!

There was no more.

Everything's been said, thought the old man in a flash. Here we know it all. That

Conetta married a war black marketeer for his money and is now a lady in Catazaro.

That my trip ends in the cemetery and yours will not be long in coming too. That I still have time to stick my knife in him and feel him die underneath me while his sons stab me… for what? There is no more to be said.

The passivity of the other side in the face of Salvatore’s challenge gave him the right to go up dignified and slowly to his car, which when pulled out, sent a cloud of dust towards the Cantanottes.

“Well done, Renato,” congratulated the old man, satisfied. “I liked that you stuck around just in case, but, when it comes to those lowlifes, I have it under control.”

However, something was not in order and it saddened him: The inexplicable absence of Ambrosio among those that saw him off. He was the one that got him out of the waters of Crati, where he was bleeding to death, during the coup against the Germans of Monte Casiglio.

But Ambrosio would soon be there, how could he not be? At the first bend in the hill, next to the elm of the chapel, waiting with his everlasting green twig in his mouth.

The old man made the car stop suddenly. He got out, exclaiming happily:

49

“Brother!... Ambrosio!... Are you going to ask me why I’m leaving like everyone else?”

“When have I ever been a fool?” Ambrosio answered back with feigned indignation. “It’s clear! You don’t want Cantanotte to go to your funeral and risk bad luck,” he added, making the sign against the evil eye with his left hand.

They burst into a deep laughter.

“Now,” Ambrosio added gravely, “you have to live to give yourself the pleasure of attending his funeral. After that, I'll even invite you to mine!”

He composed his customary clownish countenance - his famous twitch, in full force - and stressed:

“Hold on like you did back then, Bruno, you know how.”

“I will do what I can,” the old man promised, “like I did back then.”

In a sudden impulse they embraced each other and hugged. They leaned their chests together so that their hearts kissed. They felt their hearts beat, they let go of one another and, without a word, the old man got back in the car. Their two looks even hugged, through the window, while Renato drove off.

Ambrosio raised his fist and started to sing for the old man the vibrant march of the partisans, while his fleeting figure slowly vanished.

When a turn whisked him away for good, the victorious words of struggle and hope kept ringing in the old man’s chest.

50

SEVEN

It’s snowing!

The old man leaps from his bed like a child: in his land the snow is marvelous and playful, a promise of a rich harvest and plump cows. Upon seeing the falling flakes, he peeks out the window, but fails to see any whiteness at the bottom of the patio. Instead the city spoils it, like everything else, turning it into muddy puddles. He thinks about staying indoors, but then has a change of heart: maybe the snow settles in the gardens.

Additionally, he can escape Anunziata, who is coming early today because of Andrea’s morning classes.

It's not that they don't get along. It’s just that Anunziata is a cleaning maniac, and her successive invasion of each room reminds him of the Germans: She even takes the vacuum cleaner around like a tank! The old man withdraws from room to room, taking his secret provisions out from under his bed when she starts to clean his room. To top it all off, instead of leaving things the way they were, she insists on rearranging them to her liking. At least she doesn't talk much, but that’s because she listens to the transistor radio that echoes throughout the house.

How much nonsense can that device emit! Thinks the old man, while watching the snow fall through the child’s bedroom window. Fortunately he hardly understands what's being talked about, something about the Italian government. Sure, it’s the same with the television, there in the cafe of Beppo, but with the screen it does not matter, because one understands things by looking at the people.

51

The worst thing about Anunziata, however, is her underhanded vigilance of separating grandfather from Grandson. The old man suspects Andrea is behind this, warning against possible contagions of a sick man who happens to be a smoker as well.

But every day I smoke less! The old man thinks angrily. It's good that the child is still asleep, but now he is starting to wiggle around and paw, opening those little skunk eyes…

“Don’t pick him up, Mister Roncone!” Warns Anunziata, appearing suddenly at the door. He does not like this woman.

“Why? Old age is not contagious!”

“Mister, what things you say! It’s because kids should not be held, they get too attached - too used to it; it’s what the book says.”

“Then what will they be used to? Nobody touching them? Not an ounce of affection?... Books! Even baby goats, who go alone to the teat as soon as they are born, are licked all day by their mothers, and they are animals!”

“I’m only repeating orders,” the woman says, retiring triumphantly.

The child cuddles in those arms and laughs, trying to grab those frizzy gray hairs of his. The old man embraces and savors every beat coming up through his skin.

The first few days he was afraid of deforming this little cherub, but now he knows that the boy is not that soft. Tiny, yes; in need of help, sure; but demanding? Absolutely.

Suddenly, he energetically bursts into needle-sharp screams, kicking his legs and swinging his arms violently! The old man is amazed at this sheer willpower, this dark determination, this condensation of life.

52

So the old man, like a shepherd, picks up in his arms the Lambrino; but the behavior of his favorite lambkin never offered anything unexpected. The child, however, surprises him at every instant; he’s a perpetual mystery. Why reject today what you accepted yesterday? Why take interest in what bored you earlier? The baby’s curiosity makes him investigate everything. He feels every little object, turning them around in his tiny hands, taking them up into his mouth, testing their durability, smelling them… He sniffs like a puppy, and with what intense delight!

The child is always looking around. If he does not feel wanted, inevitably he will think that the world has failed and rejected him. Because of this, the old man hugs him tenderly, kisses him, and smells him with as much animal avidity as the child sniffs objects - thus the two become one. Imagine needing books to care for him!... that's not how you teach one to live. You teach with hands and with kisses, with flesh and cries…!

And touching, caressing!... Look, my child, I hugged Lambrino as much as my mother hugged me; I learned to fight when I was beat, and they beat me well!... He smiles, invoking another way of learning: and then I caressed as I was caressed... What wonderful teachers! And you too will end up caressing, I’ll make sure of that.

The little hand that digs into his hair makes a slight voluntary pull and the old man, caught off guard, laughs joyfully:

Just like that. See how you learn? Like that, hitting and caressing… that's how men are: tough and loving. You know what Torlino repeated? This: The best life, Bruno, is to be at daggers drawn because of the woman you love.

He perceives his little body shiver - this kid understands! - and that makes the old man shiver too. He is not capable of thinking it, let alone expressing it, but he is able to

53 fully live that moment without a border between both bodies, this mysterious exchange in which he receives a reborn beat from the green twig in his arms, while he infuses it with the security of the well-rooted and old trunk in the eternal land.

54

EIGHT

The old man proceeds to forget Rusca, in his obsession of making a man out of this boy who is not taken care of as he should. He will not end up like those Milanese, so insecure under their ostentation, forever fearful of who knows what, and that is the worst

- having fears so mundane as: arriving late to the office, getting stepped on by the boss, having the neighbor buy a better car, having the wife expect too much in bed, having the husband fail in bed… The old man perceives it in his own way: Never to be in their being; always floating in the air. The whole lot, neither men nor women. Not children anymore, but not adults either. He compares these Milanese with his fellow countrymen:

There are some lazy bastards down south, sure, but the ones that curdle, curdle and I understand them.

Clearly no one can become a man without eating food fit for a man. Those bottles at the pharmacy for the child; pure bitter medicine, regardless of their beef or chicken labels. Also their milk never has any cream! And then… when the old man asked Andrea if the child was ever given cooked chestnuts with blackberry brandy, a dish that cleans the gut and breeds force, she became horrified! For once she tightened her gray eyes and was at a loss for words. However, even the children know that a little boy must have his blackberry brandy to stay healthy. Now that is authentic; nothing pharmaceutical about it.

No, Andrea could not find the words, and that's something you don’t often see.

Usually she stuffs the kid full of words, always in Italian from the radio, and never from men either. The old man remembers that young teacher bound to Roccasera when good

55 old Don Pedro died. The children didn’t understand him, of course; they didn’t care either for the stories about old kings or countries they would never visit; but the arithmetic he taught was worth knowing well, in order to not be swindled by the masters or at the fairs.

It’s lucky that when the kids did something atrocious - and the old man stood out in this category when he was allowed to go to school in the winter - the new teacher insulted them in their dialect, allowing them to understand him. Because he was from Trizzino, next to Regio, although the cretin concealed that fact.

The child, like always, falls asleep upon hearing such idle talk in mediocre Italian.

Meanwhile Andrea, very satisfied, settles at her table, shelters herself behind her books, and turns on her lamp to write, write, write. Without glasses because, as the old man has already found out, she now wears contacts.

The old man takes advantage of this by sitting next to the little crib, pondering.

After a while his Son enters the apartment and appears in the little bedroom to kiss his

Son before retiring to his own room to undress. The old man follows, driven by his obsession, even though he avoids entering this marital bedroom. He has to insist and somehow convince them. His son will end up understanding.

Renato, who is putting on his robe, is surprised by his entry:

“Do you need something, Father?”

“Nothing… but listen to me, right there you have plenty of room for the tiny crib.”

Renato smiled, somewhere between impatience and kindness.

“It’s not a question of space, Father. It’s a question of his well-being.”

“Whose?”

56

“Bruno’s, naturally… I already explained it to you the other day: this way we avoid any complications. It’s psychological, something of the head. They shouldn’t become too affectionate, understand? They should be able to let go and be free… It's complicated Father but believe me: doctors know best.”

Every word provokes rejection in the old man. Complicated? It’s a perfectly simple thing: Just love!... Free? But the poor Milanese live trapped in their own heads!...

What more proof is needed? Parents withdrawing affection is a harrowing thing! Because who will learn to love then? Do today's parents simply not want to be loved?

In spite of his exasperation, he does not have time to counterattack. The child has woken up, and it’s time for his daily bath… his daily bath, what a joyful festivity!

The first time the old man felt uncomfortable assisting, as if they made him an accomplice on their assault on the child’s privacy. Then he discovered that the child, besides enjoying himself in the water, loved to be the hero of the ceremony. Furthermore, since the old man shaves daily and smokes less, the child welcomes his caresses and even lets him kiss him. When the mother is absent, the old man dares to go for one. Baths also reveal to the old man that Brunettino has promising genitals. Today he touches them and smells his little fingers with a blessed smile. Bravo Brunettino, he thinks to himself after making his huge discovery, just like your old man.

That's why his fear increases that the kid will end up being damaged by those books and those doctors that order him to be banished by nightfall, leaving him to the mercy of nightmares, accidents or enemy powers… If these people keep up with this, eventually they will end up deciding that man and woman ought to sleep separated, so as to not catch affection…

57

Oh, my Brunettino!... You will need a real mother: one with good rigging, aware of men. My own mother, Tortorella, stopped at eleven; or zía Panganata, she had three husbands… but don’t worry: even if you don't have them, you always have me. Allow me to teach you, my Grandson! I will get you on the right path to climb life. It’s as tough as a mountain, but it fills your heart when you reach the top!

58

NINE

“You see, Mr. Roncone? You see?”

The old man leaves the child on the carpet next to the crib and turns toward a triumphant Anunziata blocking the doorway.

“Zío Roncone, remember! What did we learn?”

“That you’re right. I should not have taken him in my arms… He wanted to get down earlier, I know!”

The child, from the arms of the old man, pointed insistently towards the ground with his emperor-like little finger and screamed: ah, ah, ah, while he squirmed to break free.

“Well he’s down now. Right?”

“Without me the child would still be squirming in your arms!... and that means,” she stresses, “that the madam is right!”

“No; that means what don Nicola repeated. He was the only decent priest that passed by Roccasera, you know, and since he was decent, he only lasted a little while!”

“Did he get promoted from the parish? Because that's the usual story.”

The old man despises the jab.

“No. He hung up his cassock. He never saw eye to eye with the pope, so he went to Naples to make a living teaching at college instead.”

The kid, sitting on the carpet, is delighted with the contrast of these voices, and pays attention as if he understands this friendly skirmish that has extended over many mornings.

59

“Get on with it... what atrocity did that model of virtues have to say?”

“A Gospel atrocity. They have eyes and do not see; they have ears and do not hear, or something like that… well that's the case with my daughter-in-law and you… and many others too, doctor or no doctor!”

Anunziata becomes bewildered. Finally, she replies, emphasizing his title ironically:

“I can’t deal with you, zío Roncone.”

She retires with dignity as the winner.

The child, meanwhile, has tipped over a nearby box, and concentrates on the spilled-out toys: educational puzzle pieces molded in colored plastic, stuffed animals, a roly-poly toy with jingle bells, and a small rocking horse. The last item the old man bought for him, and initially it was a great success before it fell into infantile oblivion.

But now, in this moment, the rocking horse becomes the preferred toy again, much to the delight of the old man that sits next to him and murmurs:

“Of course she can’t deal with me. What has gotten into their two heads?...

Anunziata is a good woman, Brunettino, and she loves you in her old maid sort of way, but she is oblivious, just like your parents… They all believe you don't want my arms, but it’s the opposite; thanks to the fact that I have understood you and cuddled you since my arrival, you will grow up confident. You are becoming a man by my side, my cherub, and yes, you are daring to do more; to step on the floor and move.”

The next two weeks pass as Brunettino displays a growing eagerness to expand his field of experimentation. When they give him toys in the crib, he ends up energetically throwing them out before pointing at them: Not so that they could return the

60 toys, as was intended before, but rather so that they could move him to the toys.

Sometimes he even clings onto the railings of the crib and peeks out in a way that forces any bystander to be vigilant so that he doesn’t swing over and fall to the floor.

“Your mother will say,” continues the old man, “that this is you depending less on them… Poor thing! It's not that at all!... She doesn’t know that I have been teaching you to defend yourself. She does not understand that your progress is due to the principal life lesson I taught you, my child: That either you become strong, or they stomp on your neck. That's why I repeat it to you when I hold you in my arms: take advantage of the world, and don’t get bossed around. Clearly, you throw yourself around here to practice… good, learn it well: life gets tough, but enjoy its fruits! Just like my Lambrino: butting and suckling… Only that the poor thing was a lamb and could not grow to be strong, but you, Brunettino, are a man!

The kid practices, in effect, more and more. By past trial and error, he knows how to get on all fours and explore the bedroom or study. Right now he is beginning to move towards the old man when a mechanical sound suddenly rings out persistently. The child lifts his head with an attentive look.

You have hearing as sharp as mine! thinks the old man, recognizing the sound of

Anunziata’s vacuum. What a little face you make, my child. It reminds me of the wrinkled forehead of Terry, the English military advisor that parachuted to us, when he was relaying where to best approach the German position at night. What thick eyebrows the guy had!

Ever stubborn to learn, the child crawls toward the door and peeks out his head.

He looks from one side to the other: the hallway must seem like an infinite tunnel to him.

61

But he is not easily intimidated, and he continues the march toward the fascinating sound.

Followed by the old man, who joyfully shares his sense of adventure, he peeks into the room where, with her back to the door, Anunziata cleans the carpet.

Just like that, my kid, that is how you advance! In silence, like cats, like the partisans! The surprise, always hit them with the surprise! “Surprised enemy, fucked enemy!” as the professor put it… Well, he said, “surprised enemy, lost enemy”, because he was an academic; but it rings truer our way… That, now, attack!

“Ay!”

The old man bursts into laughter at the feminine shriek of panic, caused by an unexpected touch on her ankle: Brunettino. Anunziata springs away, letting go of the vacuum, which lays motionless without ceasing its fuss.

With the human defensive barrier displaced, the imperturbable child advances towards the vibrating machine. Upon reaching his objective, he hugs on tight with a happy smile.

“He’s going to burn himself!” shouts Anunziata, rushing to turn off the motor.

When she does, the sudden silence makes the laughing fit of the old man stand out. Every slap of the knee echoes crystal clear and enlarges the woman’s irritation.

The child contemplates the silent device with a frustrated expression and punches the metal exterior with his small hand. For a moment he seems on the verge of tears, until he decides to climb on top of the polished metal. He mounts it like a horse and hits the metal more to excite it.

The old man grasps the handle and flicks on a switch. The renewed rumbling alarms the child for a moment and almost causes him to dismount, but after the initial

62 shock he squeals happily and even laughs on his shaking mount, especially when the old man holds him up by his shoulders so that he does not fall.

“Stop it, Senor Roncone! You’re crazy!” Yells Anunziata, but she has to resign herself for a while, despite the fact that she requires the vacuum cleaner almost every moment. Finally Brunettino tires from his monotonous toy, allows himself to slide to the floor, and moves toward another objective. The old man joins him on all fours, and they talk face to face:

“How brave you are, my child! You have beaten the tank; you have blockaded it!

Do you realize your victory? Like Torlinio with his Molotov cocktails and his hand grenades! Very brave of you, my grandchild!”

The old man continues his praise, while Anunziata listens astonished. The child stops for a moment before the new quadruped, but soon sneaks between the old man’s arms and places himself under his chest, an action that causes the old man to remember:

“This is just like the tranquil lamb and their mother. Like I said, butting and suckling!”

But the little one keeps on advancing and appears from behind, passing between the knees of the old man, whose memory returns to the war, while the kid finally sits to rest, satisfied by his exploits.

“What a final hit. Sneaking around exactly like we did in the woods! Now that’s what it’s like to destroy and escape a trap! That’s how we men managed to defeat the tanks and the planes!... You are one of us, you’re all partisan, attacking and withdrawing!... You already know it all!”

He concludes in a scream:

63

“Live on Brunettino!”

Then, suddenly, an idea takes ahold of him:

“You deserve to be paraded on horseback!”

The old man takes the child and elevates him above his head, provoking shrieks of fright and joy while he sets the boy on his shoulders. The child grabs onto frizzy hair with his little hands, and the old man holds on to his little knees tightly. They leave the study, passing by the wild gesticulations of Anunziata, bending her knees in fear that

Brunettino will hit the top of the door, like when they removed and placed Santa Chiara in the chapel.

The old man strides back and forth down the hall with the child on top, signing the famous triumphal march:

“Brunettino, ritorna vincitor… Brunettino, ritorna vincitor…!”

64

TEN

The old man sits in his armchair, facing the window opposite of Andrea’s study.

“The ungiving armchair”, as Anunziata calls it. She does not understand that the old man prefers it because it is a piece of Florentine furniture: made out of walnut, without upholstery, with an erect back and arms. But the old man does not like the couch-bed; he sinks into it - something made for the soft Milanese.

“You like the skyscrapers, right?” asked Andrea when she saw him sit there the first time. “They are splendid.”

The windows start to illuminate skyscrapers such as the Piazza della República and in the famous Pirelli, with its prow-like profile. But he does not like them at all, not a chance! How can one compare this to his mountain view from his sun lounge in

Roccasera? Majestic, maternal, and austere, his Femminamorta, with its changing colors of the seasons and clouds.

He hears the apartment door. Renato enters quietly so as to not wake up the kid.

He greets his Father and goes toward Andrea, kissing her on the nape of her neck.

Between the whispering of the married couple, the old man hears the rustling of an envelope being open. His medical analysis no doubt; Renato had passed by the Hospital to pick it up. The old man knows, without turning around, that there are pitying looks coming his way. He smiles: these two young people amuse him.

Renato comes up to his Father, hints at the results in passing and begins to complain excessively about the traffic, while Andrea goes to the hallway, instead of the table, to make a call. They are scared, the old man thinks; just look at how they try to

65 conceal it… What did they hope out of the analysis, anyways? A pair of fools, those two!

Andrea returns, announcing that she just scheduled a doctor's appointment for

Thursday, and she will take him there. The old man’s serene smile openly mocks the couple’s act. The sudden crying of the child salvages the situation: Andrea leaves in a hurry to prepare a bath for him, and Renato decides to accompany her. The old man follows them too, relishing this great daily ceremony. Today it is exceptional.

The old man understands this when they are about to dry the child who, as usual, touches his little member, pink turgor similar to chestnut buds in spring. And then, to the old man’s surprise, Brunettino puts his fingers up his nose, and offers the first fruits to the old man, smiling invitingly, while penetrating him with his unfathomable gaze.

“Child!”, exclaimed Renato, feigning disturbance.

“Let him”, the mother commented sensibly. “He is overcoming the anal phase”

The old man could not care less about this idle talk. Instead, the infantile gesture brings to mind legends of bandits mixing their blood in rites of fraternity and this is what he interprets the gesture as.

He bends down to the little hand and inhales, moved by the offering. A light sparks in the eyes of the child who, in turn, smells his anointed little fingers. Just like that, in the eyes of the old man, the magic pact becomes sealed.

An immense serenity envelops the old man, now lying in his bed, until sleep catches up to him. The child has decided to trust himself in the hands of the old man, and there is nothing more to say: everything is falling into place.

That's why the old man opens his eyes much earlier this dawn. He always knows how to wake up at the desired hour: in war as in hunt, in contraband and in love.

66

The bells of Duomo confirm that it is three in the morning. Since the last snowfall cleared the atmosphere, the tintinnabulation flows crisply through the air. The old man looks out the window: The wall on the other side of the street shines a lunar silver.

This type of clarity is bad for an ambush, but good for this war… How quickly you understood that I am your comrade, my child. You amaze me!

He slowly puts on his wooly socks and picks up his blanket. He is not cold in the warm apartment, it’s just that without it he feels vulnerable. The blanket has always accompanied him in his grand undertakings, and saving the kid from loneliness is no exception.

He advances through the hallway with feline steps and stops before the child's ajar door. Through the crack, reddish light from his electric night-light escapes. With his hand on the latch he wonders if the hinges will creak. When they turn silently, it is as if the old man has received Brunettino’s approval. He enters and closes the door in silence.

The window is all moon; the floor a silver-plated lake; the crib and its shadow an island of stone. Serenely floating on the pillow is a copy of the moon, that warm and resting little face whose breath strokes the old man's face, who has bowed down to smell it, to feel it, to warm his cheekbones next to it. You see? Here you have Bruno, your old man. No more will you progress lost and alone. Forward, my comrade, I know the way of the land!

From the crib, the child fills the night with his breath and the beat of his little heart. On the floor, back against the wall, the old man lets in its presence like a tree soaking in the first rain: with them his long memory of being a man germinates, his past

67 spreads like a vertiginous seed and a foliage of memories and experiences extends upwards as an invisible protective canopy for the crib.

The minutes, like the toc-toc of knitting needles, interweave the old man with the child in the loom of life. The place becomes a planet of moonlight and shadow for them alone: The child chose him in the bath, with his anointed fingers, just as wild boars mark their territory - the old man has seen them doing this in spring - sowing their effluvia on stones and thickets.

What happens, what forges, what crystallizes in these minutes? The old man does not know or think about it but lives it, in his heart. He hears the two breaths, the old and the new: They converge like rivers, tying together like serpents in love, whispering like two twin leaves in the breeze. He felt it days before, but now an instinctive ritual makes it sacred. He strokes the amulets resting on the hair of his chest and remembers, to process his emotion, the dried-up elm next to the chapel; it owes its only greenness to the ivy that embraces it, but the ivy, in turn, thanks the old trunk for making it grow towards the sun.

The wood and the greenery, the root and the blood, the old man and the child advance together, as if on a road, shoulder to shoulder, in extreme opposites of life, while the moon caresses them, among the remote turning of the stars.

68

ELEVEN

“Roncone, Salvatore?... Right this way please.” a charming nurse says.

In the elegant waiting room the old man gets up from the sofa. Andrea touches his hand lightly and gives him an encouraging smile. What womanish nonsense! He thinks.

He goes through the door, and another, much older nurse leads him to a small room where he is meant to undress - “Yes, yes, the little bag on your neck too” - and slip into a green gown with adhesive edges. The old man discovers the edges only after looking fruitlessly for buttons: That's how they should dress the child!

From there, he passes into a place filled with various devices, and a young doctor tells him to lie down on an examination table. At first, the old man is curious when it comes to his check-up, but soon he starts to tire and answer mechanically - “Yes, it hurts here”, “no lower”, “It’s like a snake that slithers and bites occasionally”. The doctor smiles at his expressions - “bravo, friend” - while he gives a knowing glance at the nurse.

They pass through room after room: one housing a doctor and his colleague, another with clear frosted windows, and another plunged in low light, where they take X- rays of him.

“Goodness me! You have a bullet inside you! Doesn’t that hurt?”

“No. It’s a souvenir from the battle of Cosenza.”

Unable to move for half an hour while being radiographed, he begins to doze off, even forgetting the urge to smoke, feeling empty inside. Although something is there: the baby food ingested at breakfast. Tasting it made him hate even more that pharmaceutical slop administered to poor Brunettino. Just that morning the boy had flatly refused to

69 swallow those damn spoonfuls, giving Anunziata no choice but to give up and go back to her cleaning. The old man seized the moment, and secretly gave him a piece of panetto soaked in wine. He devoured it gluttonously to the joy of his Grandfather.

Andrea had been cheerful while taking him to professor Dallanotte’s clinic. In homage to the medial eminence, surely, she decided to dress up. Sitting in the car her bony knees stuck out of her skirt, and the tendons on the tops of her feet bulged when she pressed the pedals. She is better off with pants, thought the old man. She interpreted the disgust in his look and modestly stretched out her skirt.

“Renato told me that you took an interest in The Spouses while you were stuck in

Rome. A magnificent piece.”

“Yes, they were so alive!”

The comment caught Andrea off guard, but she calmly began a dumbed-down dissertation of the piece. The old man started to listen to her Italian but ended up not paying attention. Still, he was thankful that she did not cease, as he was not obliged to contribute to the conversation.

“Look,” Andrea said, interrupting herself, pointing to the Catholic University buildings. “That's where I give my classes. And also professor Dallanotte. Usually he’s all booked up, but since we’re colleagues…”

Yes, she was cheerful, the old man acknowledges, while they help him up from his uncomfortable position after the X-rays are finished. He then undergoes another exploratory round, which entails white tiled rooms, chrome devices, electrodes on his body, lights in his pupil, and more questions and palpitations. Afterwards, the old man

70 ends up floating like a cork adrift and loses interest in his surroundings and almost himself.

That is why when they undress him again, and he sees himself in a large mirror, he seems to be gazing at a foreign body. This is not his bony skin, rough on his hairy chest and whitish around his hips. It is offensive that they show off that senile picture to the veteran life-enjoyer, desired and caressed by many women. Although… Offensive?

No, not really. Only humans can feel offended, and in this hospital chain, so dismembered like a slaughterhouse, people end up becoming mere tissue, guts, ears, and limbs. And on top of that, the hypocrisy: everyone there is so unctuous and falsely optimistic.

How different it all is from the way Don Gaetano runs things! The old man, while dressing himself, remembers the undisputed Catanzaro medical authority, in his consultation of the Corso. There one enters as themselves and leaves feeling more so. His irascible reaction against the Milanese clinic allows him to rebuild himself before leaving the changing room.

Finally, after one last door, the eminence deigns to welcome him from behind an altar-like desk. Andrea is there, sitting opposite of him, and adopts an instantaneous smile upon seeing the old man. The doctor offers him a seat while standing up.

“It’s a real pleasure, professor” greets the old man. And adding deliberately: “I thought I was never going to see you.”

“We have already met, my friend Roncone, but the radiography room would have been too dark for you to see me. But I saw you - yes very thoroughly.”

71

Good, I thought you were going to meet me through paperwork alone. The professor has reports and sheets cluttered on his desk. An assistant enters and both doctors exchange some words, cryptic phrases, and gestures of denial or approval, between dubitative monosyllables. Finally, the eminent figure writes something, gives some instructions to the assistant, who retires to fulfill them, and crossing his hands, smiles at the old man and Andrea.

“Well well, dear Roncone; you have a splendid physique and an envious condition for your age, except, of course, the problem that brings you to my office… but on that subject, honestly, there are no surprises; I can guarantee that. In layman's terms, the situation is that, Mr. Roncone, you have a symptom…”

As the layman’s terms of the professor mirrors that of the radio when they vulgarize, the old man gathers up his patience, capturing only a few expressions: pathologic processes, scientific resources, modern advancements, therapeutic alternatives. Andrea eagerly extends her neck upon hearing the magisterial words, and is even pleased at the eminent figure’s interspersing questions that inspire complementary disquisitions.

Does all this have something to do with me? the old man wonders in the meantime, because at Don Gaetano’s, all one needs to know is whether it’s heads or tails for them. Finally, the professor casts a captivating final smile:

“Did you get all that, Roncone?”

Are you mocking me? the old man thinks. He impassively counterattacks as in war:

“I got that you were beating around the bush.”

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The old man pauses, savoring the bewilderment in the doctoral face, and then continues:

“The only thing I need to know, professor, is when I am going to die.”

The refined atmosphere that impregnates the air of the office, full of tact, understanding, and efficiency, deflates like a balloon. The eminent figure and Andrea exchange a glance. She flusters:

“What a thing to say, papà!”

Loving the effect produced, the old man observes them. The professor strings together some sentences about unpredictability, atypicality, and hope, but his assuredness has vanished. The old man stops him short:

“Weeks?... Months?... If I’m lucky, a year?... No, I understand that a year is much too long.”

“I cannot affirm anything of that sort, Dear Roncone!” the doctor bursts out. “Any prediction would be unreliable, and given your solid physique, it could be possible that…”

“Don’t exert yourself, professor; I already know my fate. Not another word about it, eh? After all, I prefer my Rusca to the paralysis that pins down my acquaintance to a chair. It reaches to his waist, you know. God willing, soon it will latch on to his heart and shatter it... tell me, professor, does paralysis rise quickly?... All that effort just to live in a chair… would you say it’s better to let the poor man stop suffering?”

“How do you want me to answer that without seeing this acquaintance of yours first? You ask some impossible questions!” eluded the medic, already completely on the defensive. The old man has dismounted from his cushy chair.

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“Death matters to me, professor. My death is mine… And the paralytic’s too! But you're the only one who can tell me if he will leave here sooner!... Look, I’ll explain his sickness and it will be as if you’re looking at him yourself. In June he walked, but in

August…”

The old man relates Cantanotte’s symptoms, but the professor, after listening impatiently to him for a while, refuses to give a diagnosis and ends up rising courteously, announcing that his report will be mailed home, with the prescriptions and treatment. The eminent figure chooses to do without his habitual and encouraging parting speech, thus limiting his exit to a warm farewell to his colleague Andrea, and a frank one with his patient, both given under his office door.

At the exit, Andrea does not know where to start, but the old man anticipates what’s coming:

“This one knows nothing about paralysis” he affirmed. And he sighs, “my bad luck was that Marletta died last January. She was a good friend of mine… I was very well taken up with the matter of Cantanotte. I was already getting to it, but…”

“Who are you talking about, papà?”

“Marletta, the sorceress of Campodone. The best magara in all of Calabria… in all of Italy! She didn't fail anyone, and now Madonna has her in her holy glory!”

74

TWELVE

Finally he got it: his bedpan, or chamber pot as the refined population of Milan call it.

Andrea resisted at first, of course:

“They are no longer used, papà.”

“So people don’t have to piss at night here?”

“Of course they do, but they use the bathroom. It’s not like in your village, where one has to go down to some corral.”

Andrea's mind resurfaces a terrible memory from Roccasera. Whenever she crossed the courtyard to head to the only bathroom, there was always some klutz there waiting to time her and guess her operation.

“The bathroom is too far away. Going there wakes me up, and I take a while to fall back asleep. However, with a chamber pot, I lie sideways, piss half asleep and roll back over quite happily.”

Andrea did not give in then, but on one fruitful day she permitted the purchase of one. I see, the old man contemplates, the doctor has told them that I have little time left, and now they are willing to give into anything. Thankfully, the consultation with that professor was useful after all. But they are all mistaken: I will live longer than

Cantanotte. I will not give that bastard the satisfaction of attending my funeral!

That’s how the old man came to own his chamber pot. But why did it disappear every now and then?

“Mrs. Anunziata!” he screams furiously “Mrs. Anunziata!”

75

“Don't scream,” says the housemaid. “The child is sleeping”

“Where have you hidden my bed pan?” interrogates the old man quietly, fearful of having woken up Brunettino.

“Where have I put your treasured bed pan? Under your bed of course!”

“What? Look: it’s not there.”

“The other side, mister. Jesus, what a man!”

She is right.

“The other side, the other side…!” grumbled the old man “and don’t call me mister; I’ve already told you that I am to be called zío Roncone!... Why the other side? I want it here; I always use my left hand. With the right I… Well, you know.”

“Mrs. Andrea says that on this side you don’t see it from the door.”

“And who in the devil is going to look through my door. Only you, and you already know it's there!... Damn women!”

Before she angrily retires, Anunziata promises to comply, but the old man knows this is a lie. She will put it where she wants, like everything else she cleans.

Living among her and Andrea is proving to be a headache… the blanket he has had his whole life, which has saved his life before, now hides by day at the back of the closet. From the beginning Andrea wanted to throw it out and give him a new one. She ceded before the anger of the old man, but he heard her say to her husband that the rag smelled like a goat. I long for that disgraced smell of life, as strong as goats!

With his bedpan found, the old man sits on the bed and suffers the temptation of lighting a cigarette. He wants to calm down Rusca, who is worked up this morning, and

76 seems to complain about the old man’s lack of smoking. But luck for him, he is saved by the cry of the child. Forgetting the snake, he runs to the child’s room.

Anunziata is already there whispering consolations, but the child still cries out.

The woman asks the old man to assist; she has observed how his deep voice comforts the boy. Perhaps she also desires to return right away to her beloved vacuum cleaner. In any case, the grandpa hums a tranquil country tune. But, for whatever reason, Brunettino keeps screaming, shaking his fists, getting congested as if the tune was an attack… he even removes his shoes by successively tapping the toe of his heel: a trick recently learned to exercise his infantile power, obligating someone to put them back on him.

According to Andrea, the child wants to tyranzie them. But here it’s an aggressive gesture, throwing them up into the air as one would throw down the gauntlet.

“You will need to change him,” says Anunziata, leaving.

She soon returns with warm water in a wash bin, a sponge, plastic sheets, cotton, and even gauze, just in case. In Milan they give everything to their children, all sealed up tight. Surely a man won’t be made with all this junk!

It’s necessary to change him, sure, but isn’t it possible that he is mad at something else? The old man poses the question:

“Hey, where are all the candles? It’s All Souls Day after all.”

“Those customs have had their time.”

“Sure... and giving presents to kids has had its time too?”

“On All Souls? Who comes up with such a thing?”

“Us from Mezzogiorno, as you say. The departed bring presents to their kin.”

“How strange! Well, here it’s either the three wise men or Father Christmas.”

77

“Strange? What's strange is your wise men and that Father Christmas; what do they have to do with kids? Also, they're completely made up, unlike the deceased which are real, which are us… don’t you understand? They are the Grandfathers of the

Grandfathers of the children, and they cherish them because they are blood.”

They are real, the old man thinks to himself, content on having defended the deceased, paying tribute to them on their day. Look, they will say among themselves, someone from Milan has recognized us this year… Ah, of course, Bruno from Roccasera!

Apart from that he will light a candle in his room for them; he has one in his case because the electric lights have a tendency to fail. And there must be light, so that the deceased can be guided back.

Anunziata already has the child half undressed on the molleton covered table. She doesn't know how to do it on a skirt, sitting on a low chair, the way he has seen it done his whole life the old man thinks reproachfully.

Yes, the child needed to be changed. Now he smiles, all washed up and fresh, while Anunziata smears a cream against his irritations. Anyone would think his ass was a girl’s face! thinks the old man, outraged because the woman passes her greasy finger between his but and stops in the middle. You don’t touch a man there! Good thing the child, to demonstrate without a doubt that such caresses do not diminish his virility, makes it tough on her. I cannot deny that he is my Grandson!... It’s well known that kids act more like their grandparents than their parents.... But the gallant spectacle is shattered once more by Anunziata’s relentlessness. Unbelievable!

Anunziata guides the little legs into the romper suit and turns his body to do up the back. The old man works assiduously on the top button, but he still has not finished

78 by the time Anunziata buttons up all the others. She insists he gives it to her, but the old man makes his task a question of honor. However, the little circle always slips away between his tough fingers and, as the old man persists, Brunettino starts to growl, and the old man gives in, stifling a groaning curse in his chest.

Anunziata does up the last button in no time and the child is moved into his crib.

The old man sits at his feet and resumes his humming, the same way he would hum to his lambs half a century before. It’s a melancholy tune, because his failure with the little button continues to weigh on him. What if the two of us were alone? he ponders. Would it be impossible for me to dress him, to stop him from catching a cold? No. I wasn’t going to wrap him in the blanket; that’s no way to treat a child.

The old man, absorbed in his thoughts, does not notice the arrival of Andrea, whom Anunziata receives in the entryway.

“Grandpa is sleeping with the baby, madam. That man is full of rarities, but you can leave him there. He sits next to the crib like a mastiff.

Andrea, wanting to see for herself, approaches the ajar door and sniffs, because this fool of a Father-in-law is prone to start smoking. Not because of any bad intention, simply because he hasn’t the slightest idea of hygiene or how to take care of children… she does not smell anything. Thank goodness, but still, it takes patience with this man!

Within the room, the old man falls silent as the child sleeps. The soft light marked out between the curtains falls directly on his hands. The old man contemplates them, completely fixated. Strong, thick, and wide with bluish veins. The fingers are solid vine shoots, the nails tough and short, brown specks visible beneath the hair…

79

He is engrossed by these two talons that know how to slaughter and to caress.

They brought lambs into this world, reined horses, set off dynamite, planted trees, rescued the wounded, and subdued the opposite sex… Hands of a man, Hands that can do it all: they can save, and they can kill.

But can they do it all? Now he is not so sure. What about that incident with the little button? And how about holding his Grandson correctly? Can his hands do that?

These failures distress him. Those fingers that move before his eyes… gnarled, rugged… they are not good enough for his child’s silky skin.

How is it possible? For the first time in his life he is not proud of his hands!

Brunettino needs another pair; Anunziata’s serve him better… but, what has gotten into me? Now I’m envious of a woman, just like the Milan man! No, no; my hands are as they are: They are mine!

He needs some time to calm down, to forgive himself for thinking such an atrocity; but he keeps on pondering. Is some hindering force affecting me? That must be it! Also for little buttons, for changing him, for whatever!... Out women! Only my

Brunettino and I; no one else is needed to make him a man!

Just the two of them: He is enchanted by the idea. That way the others won’t spoil him. But then… Is he the nanny? The sudden flushing forces him to run his index finger between his shirt and his neck. He stiffens, rebelling against such imaginations, feeling the blood crowding around his cheeks. No, my title is something else! Mentor, that's it, his mentor. But the fear of making mistakes does not evaporate. How embarrassing! This snake is eating away at my courage!

80

He contemplates this round whiteness laying the pillow: the soft color of the tiny lips and the dark tuft on the forehead. A very violent outburst of tenderness draws out a silent sigh and steers his hand towards the little face. His finger brushes against that little face and he jerks back, as if burned, because, in the carnal memory of the finger, this little cheek had woken up to the touch of Dunka. The hand remembers, and it unleashes an explosion of memories within the man: Dunka! Those days, Those nights!... Dunka sleeping by his side; the cheek of Dunka just like this… Or had it been the other way around: the hand of Dunka on the face of the kid, or on the face of the old man?... Cloudy senses, confusions of touch, ambiguity.

Again the declining light over a pair of hands and the old man fixes his eyes on them. But whose hands? Astonished, he discovers the hands inserted onto his wrists are different: white, delicate, feminine… feminine? Yet full of force!... and what? Dunka also firmly grasped the lethal submachine gun!

The amazement of the old man becomes anguish. Have they cast the evil eye on me? Please, deceased saints: I want my hands back!... He squeezed his little bag of amulets…

The internal earthquake ceases, and the world becomes stable again. The old man rebuilds himself, reaffirms himself, and takes notice of his surroundings, the hour… Has he slept? Perhaps it was all a dream. Panting and shaking his head, shaking out his ghosts like a wet dog shakes out water. He checks his hands: his old ones are back.

If only Dunka’s were here as well!

They would caress him and perch on his forehead and free him from his hexes…

They would resurrect a sentimental song inside, in the style present forty years ago, that

81 in the middle of war permitted him to forget the shots… an evening in Rímini, humming it together downhill towards the sea, from the Malatestiano Temple that amazed her so much… The house on the coast, with the old vines growing in the courtyard, over their heads, ripe grapes within an arm’s reach… lying down Dunka, resting on her elbow, and picking a cluster and… Yes, exactly like the Etruscan lady!

Deep sobs bubble up in the old chest; his scandalized manhood represses them… but the tenderness can’t be held under a calm sea, and like an unexpected dolphin, the words jump out:

“Brunettino, what are you doing to me?”

He had whispered them in dialect. In the same dialect he had used forty years early to ask Dunka the same question… revived on his lips comes the flavor of the kiss that answered it every time.

Two desires, two ages, two essential moments weld in his chest, pushing up to the surface this spell, howl, confession, surrender…

“My Brunettino!”

82

THIRTEEN

Wednesdays Andrea does not have class and devotes herself to home review. The old man already knows what this entails: Anunziata cleaning long before Andrea finally leaves the bedroom squeezed in her green corduroy trousers. Andrea cradles the child if he is awake, but usually she goes around the house caviling before she ends up behind her books in a corner of the study, as she likes to call the living room. Once in a while, like a falcon plummeting, she races quickly towards either the housemaid or the old man, who tends to take refuge in his kitchen chair. She looks at him with saintly patience and sometimes says:

“Papà, what are you doing there? Are you sure you don’t want to be sitting in your Florentine chair?”

The old man prefers her with her glasses; they give her the simple air of a teacher.

With contacts she looks different and strange… If it weren’t for Cantanotte having the pleasure of visiting my burial…! My god, give me only a month more than that bastard; just enough to return there! It's his daily prayer.

For the third time this morning Andrea peeks into the kitchen. Today is not a study day, I see, thinks the old man. Because of this, when he hears Andrea order

Anunziata to buy fruit and bread, he offers to do it instead, in order to make a quick escape.

“Of course I know my pears! I am a country man after all!”

Andrea gives in, and, after a good while, the old man returns triumphantly with his purchase. He struts in, laughing:

83

“Ha! She tried to trick me by wrapping my pears in plastic so that I couldn’t feel them!... Can you believe it! I gave her a piece of my mind!”

“Who, papà?” Andrea says alarmed.

“That tart who runs the shop you like. I say let her eat that garbage! The thief!...

Now look at these pears I brought, for half the price too.”

Anunziata unwraps the package and asks:

“And the bread?”

“Ah, the bread! Don’t get me started! That's what they call bread here? I know bread, and that back there wasn’t it. And since I forgot the brand you wanted… Why are there so many bread brands in Milan anyways? They are all the same: artificial.”

Andrea looked at him with the desperation of a person wronged.

“But... look woman, look at these pears! They are natural, not like those others that all seem like they’re made of wax. There were no tricks designed to take away their smell or make them more expensive; no plastic bags or cartons!... Well, if you remind me of the brand you wanted, I'll go down again for it.”

“No papà, don’t worry about it. I have to go down anyways soon to buy some of my own things. Like… like perfume, and such.”

Andrea’s tone and look give away her bad mood, and the old man decides to depart as soon as she marches off. He does not want to be back for her return, because any one of these days she might get fed up with him and kick him out...

When he leaves, Andrea has already arrived at her usual fruitery and is apologizing to the owner, offended by the conduct of the old man. Andrea tries hard to calm her down.

84

“He had the nerve to call me a thief, Mrs. Roncone, in front of all my clients! The whole neighborhood knows I double check all my prices!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Morante; He is old and sick. Also, he is from the south, a country man, you understand… If only he knew how his actions affected me! Forgive him for me.”

“For you I will forgive him, since you're a real lady… But he cannot come back, you hear me… do you want someone to come in and break all the plastic packages and handle every piece of fruit?... What a rustic, uncouth, and, sorry, but completely filthy old man!... He even seized my automatic balance, the newest model I might add, and said he was determined to check my fruit with real weights… all the while suspecting me, Mrs.

Roncone, me! A Veritas scale approved by the Prefecture! He came to argue and haggle in a store full of waiting customers… but what I forgive the least is his distrust. Thirty years I’ve been set up here without a single complaint from anyone, anyone at all!”

Andrea, embarrassed, put up with the downpour of criticism so as to not fall out of her good graces, since the other fruit shops in the neighborhood are inferior. Of course, it never has occurred to her to enter in a Tarentos, precisely where the old man had made his purchase. Finally the woman running the shop relented:

“It’s hard to believe that he is the father of your distinguished husband. Mind you, you’re quite well off yourself, doña Andrea, being the daughter of a senator, and a professor at the university and all…”

While the shopkeeper shows off her client before her other customers, Andrea prolongs her role as the victim:

85

“I don’t know how I put up with him. With the child I am in suspense; no one knows what this man might do. Sometimes it even seems like he’s not right in the head!”

“Well he should put more of an effort into restraining himself, living in your house and all… I don’t know how you do it either.”

“We try our best… he is dying you see.”

“Your Father-in-law? With that temper and manner of his?” The fruiterer asked, amazed.

“Yes, cancer.”

The fateful word left the crowd cold. Even she, the offended, was moved to pity.

In the face of cancer no good Christian ought to be persnickety.

“That poor thing!”

“And it’s spreading quickly. Professor Dallanotte treats him, since he is a college of mine at the university…”

“Dallanotte, such an eminent doctor!”

Andrea explained how she and Renato do the impossible to spare the Father-in- law from suffering, and how he makes everything more difficult with his episodes. She then ends up asking for another couple of kilos of fruit as it should be: preserved, disinfected, and plastic-wrapped.

“Those over there look great… are they good?”

“They're the best. Like the Yugoslavian ones you run me out of. Those are from

Greece.”

“Yes, yes, from Greece!”

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They say goodbye, both satisfied; the shopkeeper for having received a public apology and Andrea for having resolved the incident. She does not want to be enemies with this woman; while she sells her fruit expensively, she also attracts the most distinguished Milanese. So Andrea returns to her house with her chin held a little higher, acquiring panetto on the way.

Meanwhile, on a bench in the gardens, defending himself from the cold with his fur-lined jacket, the old man smokes the only cigarette he is permitted for the day (apart from the one after dinner in his bedroom). His mind ruminates on the amazement experienced by meeting the husband of Mrs. Maddalena when he had gone to buy the pears. A tall man, yes, but flabby, with a sanctimonious face below flattened and parted hair and a high-pitched voice.

“And the lady?” the old man asked courteously.

“She has gone to the Prefecture… something about licenses. Those things are arranged by her… And she should be here by now!” he concluded glancing at the clock hanging behind the counter.

“Tell her Roncone from Catanzaro stopped by.”

Why then did the guy give me a sideways look the old man recalls… no, this type does not belong with Mrs. Maddalena; a lady like her deserves much better. What a stacca!

From where he looks, Milan once again opens up its box of surprises, because when the old man reaches Corso Venezia, going around the Museum, he sees right in front, on the corner of via Salvini, a car stopping next to the sidewalk. First, he pays attention to the metallic green color, and then, upon closer inspection, he spots the

87 mustache, the dark complexion, and the aquiline nose of the driver who says goodbye with a kiss to someone about to get out.

The color of the stoplight changes and the old man starts to cross the Corso, while the car speeds off and the passenger stays on the sidewalk. The passenger turns out to be a woman, of course, and none other than Mrs. Maddalena, planted on the sidewalk with her good looks and beautiful attire. She is saying goodbye with her hand up high to the car that quickly disappears. Without seeing the old man behind her, she enters via Salvini towards her shop.

The old man smiles wide. Well, well, well, Mrs. Maddalena…! One can understand this quite clearly!

88

FOURTEEN

The old man, strolling past the gardens, arrives at a large plaza with a monument in the center: An equestrian figure upon an imposing pedestal with bronze symbols on the side. That cap and beard… Garibaldi! And what a horse!... Well, the Milanese have actually made something. At least they have remembered Garibaldi, those in the north that left him stranded as soon as he put an end to the kings of Naples... the professor in the party explained it so well! It was just like when they left us partisans stranded as soon as we finished off the Germans. The barons and chiefs returned to abusing their power, ordering from Rome once again…!

He continues walking under the trees of another avenue and stops again when he makes out the towering reddish walls that conclude it.

What a tower! A terrific fortress complete with arrow-slits! Holding out like our castles; they couldn’t capture it, even with Hitler’s planes!... even its campanile remains flawless all the way to the top!

He stops before a kiosk. He is fascinated by some magazine covers; like children are to illustrations.

What an ass, what tits! Now they show everything. To his liking, his eyes don't age… but this is also an annoyance. It’s a pure lie, on nothing more than paper! For arousal only, not to touch; one has to be as cold as the Milanese to bear it.

The pictures make him look differently at passerby. How women dress today, mamma mía! Skirts so short they make him feel cold, in spite of his fur-lined coat, and he accelerates his gait after lighting his cigarette for the day. Now near the red walls he sees

89 a tourist notice that proclaims, in various languages: Castello Sforzesco. Museos. Hey! A museum popping up is perfect because he doesn’t have anywhere to go until lunchtime.

He decides to enter, with a sudden desire to see those Etruscans once more.

Because he has not forgotten them. He even brought it up to Andrea, who lent him a thick book, recommending that he take very good care of it.

“It's an art book, papà, so don’t open it up more than ninety degrees. Here, take a look.”

The book was full of Etruscans, certainly, but none of them made an impression on the old man. They were like the asses and tits at the kiosk: paper lies. These people, filled to the brim with books, forget the difference between pictures and reality.

That's why he gets his hopes up for the museum. But the first security guard he talks to advises him there are no Etruscans.

“What do you mean there are none?” the old man asks angrily, “Is this or is this not a museum?”

“It is, sir: but we do not house Etruscan antiquities. You’ll have to go to either

Rome or further south to see them.”

Of course the Etruscans are further south, you wretch! Here they would not have laughed as they do!... But then, what in the devil type of museum is this?... When I say that Rome upwards is no longer Italy... and not even Rome itself, I mean it.

The guard, meanwhile, justifies the collections he watches over:

“We have splendid pieces, some of the Renaissance’s best: paintings, sculptures, tapestries, weapons…

Weapons! Thank goodness; that's how I’ll get my money's worth…

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The weapons are worthwhile, of course; they impress him.

Those guys were real men! Loaded with iron and, on top of that, taking up two handed swords like lances. And the maces! What a marvelous sound they would produce in the helmet upon crushing a head. If they gave one to Cantanotte and another to me, that would be the end of my sorrows. I would be bound to a chair of course: fair play…

Like those guys, what warriors! A good squad of woodsmen was made up of people like that! Conversely, the Milanese of today… Degenerates, the lot of them!

The weapons are worthwhile, yes; but the rest of the collection is nothing to write home about. Paintings of saints, small flowers, the Virgin, portraits of marquesses and bishops… Sometimes a curvy woman, but nothing more… and the children, not one is worthwhile! Big cheeked with little lard arms, like baby Jesus. Of course baby Jesus is soft like that. He let himself be crucified after all. If I were him and able to do miracles, well… but those kids are nothing; that's what these Milanese grow up to be. Thank goodness my Brunettino has me. We have to last until he speaks Rusca. Have patience, and give me a bit more time to teach him how to not end up like them… He’s already learning… Did you notice last night, when I snuck into his room while everyone was asleep? He was in a deep sleep, remember? Until suddenly he opened his eyes and began to stick out his little hand, to cry, or whatever! But then he saw me at his side and smiled calmly. Because the night is ours, like in the war. Did you notice how that smile seemed like a little kiss?... Even after closing his eyes, he listened to all my words, including the ones I did nothing more than think about. That kid is a little wizard, Rusca. He picks up on everything, like those words of mine absent in Milan. Those of men who talk their mind.

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No, he did not find in the whole museum one worthwhile child. Other paintings even made the old man laugh, like one with a group of sheep. Where have those daubers seen sheep like that? With the face of a rabbit, and the body of a dog! But he's not laughing when he sees the men. You call these shepherds? He lets out a forceful exhale, looking at a visitor that scurries off before him. If I saw Morrodentro, who is a real shepherd…! Nor in Arcadia, where demons reside, can that be considered a shepherd.

Those white stockings, those ribbon breeches, and those hats… and that colorful bow on the crook? And those shepherdesses with skirts like balloons?... A shameless lot! Or better yet, A carnival!... They make me want to take out my knife and slash their painted faces for queers!... shepherds, bah!

His irritation prompts him to leave, and he accelerates his gait toward the exit. But suddenly, a sculpture stops him in his tracks.

No white gleam about it: on the contrary. It seems to be still half done, but already so full of expression that its own roughness, more vigorous than perfect, is a rallying cry for the old man, a clarion call.

Those two beaten up figures, so bound together they seem one, remind him of his own rustic carvings made in sticks and roots. When he was a shepherd, high up in the mountain and under the shade of a chestnut, he would cut and slash and carve out with his knife many things: a head with horns, a whistle, a dog, a curvy woman with a marked incision between the legs… He even carved out the Father of Cantanotte; they recognized that one by the hunched back and it cost him a drubbing by the head shepherd, although it was given extra lightly that day. How could he even suspect quarrels years down the

92 road? The root just happened to have a jutted stump in just the right place. Maybe because the evil eye was cast on old Cantanotte.

But before him now is not a crude, badly carved stick, but rather a considerable marble. He is amazed: a sculptor worthy of the warriors with their maces; nothing small here.

The impression grows in the old man: that artist was of the same temper. Because of this he longs to understand him better: what did he carve out of that rock, what did he want to tell us?... The character, standing, with a round helmet and cloak, holding a naked man whose knees buckle out of dejection or agony… What mystery is there?

In order to disclose it the old man reads its accompanying plaque, but all that does is make the old man shake his head, incredulous: Michelangelo. Pieta Rondanini, reads the plaque.

Impossible!... A woman under the helmet?... And even if there’s a cloak covering the head like the virgin Mary, she was always portrayed like a small girl. A virgin with this boldness, planted so firm, holding up, lifting Christ?.. Unless Michelangelo was from

Calabria, where there are still women with this vigor… No; it must be an error on the

Milanese’s part; they have written down Pietà because they don't know what they keep here… Yes, If they knew anything about good art they would have Etruscan pieces too!

Precisely because in Milan they do not understand this carving, the old man is even more interested in these two enigmatic bodies.

Two warriors; that has to be it; two partisans from back then, without a doubt…

Yes, it's clear: One has been injured and their comrade supports them, taking them somewhere safer!... like Ambrosio and I, they are like brothers… Yes, because the one

93 with the helmet suffers. He has a valiant face, but one full of grief too… Who would they be, and when?

The old man asks the marble statue, to better admire such strong tenderness, such deep virile love, mysteriously incarnate in the rock. He interrogates them as equals because, if he had ever picked a chisel, he would have faced the rock of his mountain like this.

After a while he gives up, although he finds it hard to leave without knowing more, leaving behind that pair of warriors, as he left the Etruscans in the Villa Giulia, although the two pieces are different. Or does it only seem like that? Since the two sculptures captivated him, spoke to him, and talked profoundly to him: this strength within pain and that smile over the tomb. He walks away with a tremendous impression and unease. An unease of not being able to specify an important memory that struggles to resurface.

On the nights where the south winds blow, the old man hears the bells of Duomo through his closed window. Maybe this is what wakes him up, or maybe it was the tenacious memory of the warriors who all day - and apparently all night - have kept knocking on the closed door of his memory. Either way, he suddenly awakes and sits up in his bed, eyes wide open, his whole body alert. Those furtive footsteps… who was on guard tonight for the scouting party? Will they surprise him?... On the point of reaching out for his submachine gun he remembers that this isn't the bush. Those steps would be

Renato going over to the child… The old man smiles and eases up and lies back down.

But he does not go back to sleep because the two warriors have finally knocked down the doors of his memory and the past rises in the darkness, dazzlingly.

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Torlonio, the tallest and strongest of the party, with his ski mask like the helmet- cloak of the statue, holds almost upright, as high as he can, a moribund David, so he can see, down there in the valley, the fascinating spectacle caused by the partisans: The

German ammunition train exploding everywhere like a drawn-out string of firecrackers… flashes of lightning and detonations tear the night apart, boxcar roofs leap through the air, the few surviving soldiers flee in terror and some, with their uniforms in flames, hurl themselves into the waters of Crati below… The exploit is a tough hit to the German troops in the south and their protagonist is David, with his detonators, his formulas, his cables, and his thick nearsighted glasses.

Tiny David, the Florentian Jew, the chemistry student destined for the military squad due to his technical knowledge. David, who made everyone laugh when he confessed his fears before each operation in which, however, he always risked it like the first. David who, when the ignition tests failed, went back down alone to the railroad track, and repaired the links right up to the train's arrival. Discovered, he tried in vain to save himself from the machine guns by retreating uphill, although he still had the strength to reach the squad. David who, losing his glasses in the last operation of his life, revealed a pair of beautiful eyes: dark, expressive, and deep in the red lights of the explosions.

His eyes started to roll back, while his body, with folded knees, gave way to the earth in the pious arms of Torlonio, whose gaze was misty, whose face was torn by tenderness.

95

FIFTEEN

Ris…, ris…, ris…

The blade makes its way through his soapy beard. It’s a faint sound, so the old man actually hears it from within, through his bones. The running water is silent, because it falls on a sponge placed there purposefully. The old man does not turn on the bathroom lights: He receives sufficient light from the city night, never black, always tainted by a murky clarity.

Unlike walking up, when it comes to shaving hot water beats cold. Nonetheless, the blade over the old man’s thick beard produces the slight noise of a handsaw. Every two strokes he has to replace the blade, although he did buy the rough and cheap type.

That reassures him, making up for having a woman’s clean-shaven face every day as opposed to only twice a week in Roccasera. A beard fit for a man, like his hands. They seemed feminine only in that one daydream, he thinks, although he worries about them still. Anyways, thanks to his daily shave, Brunettino no longer withdraws his smooth silk and jasmine cheeks.

The old man picks him up and cuddles him when no one is around. Andrea doesn’t like this, and yesterday, thinking herself out of earshot, complained to Anunziata:

“This kid seems to smell of... tobacco” she said. “My God, what a cross to bear!” The old man was outraged at this lie; first, because her sense of smell is horrible, and second, because he has quit his mid-morning cigarettes even though they calm down the snake.

Understand, Rusca, you will have to put up with it like me.

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He has cut himself slightly. He rejoices; the alum block fixes that, and, furthermore, a drop of blood makes a man out of a smooth face. His wandering clings to that one word:

Smooth. Like Andrea’s. Without a chest, butt, or hips, like the Reggio saints…

What do you see in that woman, my Son? That's why you're always so serious. I bet in bed you only do what she lets you, and that's only when she says she doesn’t have a headache… Was it her senator father that drew you in?... Some senator he is, without one

Lira!... I never trusted the senators: All of them crap themselves, pants down, in front of

Mussolini.

A quick bite from Rusca while his face is drying makes him bend over. He is not surprised; last night Rusca was very restless, roaming around like a dog before sleeping.

And when Rusca finally did settle down, the old man took a while to settle down himself; life felt abnormal without the pain.

He sits on the toilet and finishes quickly. He gets up and looks. Blood again.

Rusca’s stirring last night. In the village latrine I didn’t notice, but these refined bowls present everything like a shopping window. My blood, my life, spilling out day after day… How much will I have left? Well, my pulse or any of the other signs they talk about don’t shake me up.

He looks at himself in the mirror; his face has not changed. It’s true that his eyes, black like those of Brunettino, show a white mist all around the iris, but that has been there for a long time. Yes, like Brunettino’s eyes, just in an old man; in contrast, the son inherited the hazel color of his mother.

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Let me live a single month longer than Cantanotte, Madonna, I beg you! I will offer you a paschal candle; the thickest I can find!... and if I had more time, it would be better for the kid…

Yes, he is no longer satisfied with just outliving his enemy; now all he can think about is living for Bunettino, and how the child needs him to get out of the Milanese pit… he touches his little bag of amulets and returns to looking at himself in the mirror:

He doesn’t see any change.

Would Rosetta find me the same, if she saw me now after being gone a month? It was only a month ago, on such a day as today, when I found the Etruscans in passing.

The Etruscans!... They wouldn’t laugh anymore if they had to live in Milan. They would feel like prisoners.

Suddenly, he sharpens his hearing. The city walls allow him to hear everything.

Renato and his wife in their bedroom.

“Can’t sleep, Andrea?”

“What do you care…”

“Honey, I’m tired… Are you feeling well?”

“I’m fed up!... The other day was the last straw. We are going to become enemies with the whole neighborhood. When I was busy getting the shop owner to forgive me, all her distinguished clients were eavesdropping!

He hears the sigh of Renato. How many times has she repeated the story of the pear thief! thought the old man, amused… How he wanted to give that wench a piece of his mind! Naturally, he does not pay attention to the rest of the conjugal conversation,

98 because he wants to finish getting ready and collecting everything so that their early forays are not noticed. But suddenly he is all ears again; now it sounds like arguing.

“... you’re to blame! Why did I trust you with the Villa Giulia business? I should have guessed that you would ruin everything!”

The old man didn’t manage to hear the response; Renato talks too quietly.

Andrea, on the other hand, screams.

“Excuses! The matter went very well with my contacts in Rome. All friends of my Father, even the undersecretary of Bellas Artes, reminding me that Uncle Daniel was his predecessor!... Why couldn’t you have done a good job… What did you say to the museum director? How did you manage to screw it up?”

“...”

“You're useless, Renato!... You never have anything to say; it’s the same at the factory! They exploit you, they all rise ahead of you,and you don’t say a damn thing! It was your turn to be head of the laboratory. You even expected it yourself!

“...”

“To deny me that job of mine, with my extraordinary award. And the daughter of

Senator Colomini, furthermore! If poor daddy were alive, the position would cost more than four. But, of course, they see me alone… because you, nothing, and your Father…!

He hears a chuckle. After, a single word, spit out like venom

“A disgrace!”

That last blow turns the old man blind with rage. The belt is still in his hand, unfastened. He grabs it by the buckle and violently opens the bathroom door. If his Son does not know how to tame this woman, he will teach him.

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But Brunettino’s door, with its reddish light seeping through the open crack, stops him for a moment. Just in time to hear the scream burst throughout the house.

A scream, yes; violent, even if the voice is stifled:

“Shut up! Shut up or I'll hit you!

That can’t be him thinks the old man, but the cry of Rento is enough for him to exult with joy, because the sudden silence of the woman and the crash of her body falling off the bed declare her subdued. So disconcerting that she doesn't even cry. And the silence imposed by Renato deepens, taking over the house.

The old man turns back to the bathroom, stealthily closing the door behind him.

He takes a deep breath. Finally! Just as he was starting to doubt whether or not he was his

Son, or whether he was of the same blood.

This is a strange night… who knows if it was witchcraft, or if Cantanotte is paying some magára against me… when they fall asleep in their bed, I will go to

Brunettino and be his lookout; I will stand guard by your side… by my blood!

Blood… it is still there, staining the water and white porcelain. He has forgotten to push the handle; he is not used to this custom.

He pushes down on the handle, and makes the water spin with noise, taking away the silence, a waterfall taking away his blood.

100

SIXTEEN

Andrea moves frantically this morning because she hates being late for class, and

Anunziata has not shown up yet. The old man, prudent, has withdrawn to his room to get out of the way. Suddenly, she appears:

“Are you sure you're alright alone with the child, papà? He’s sleeping right now, and Anunziata will be here any minute - she has to! If something happens before then call me!”

Look at her asking if I’m alright…! She’s the one not alright with this arrangement! The old man, smiling internally, masks his happiness by keeping a straight face. Andrea leaves in a hurry and the old man stays behind begging Madonna to wake up Brunettino, so he can take him in his arms. In the meantime, he passes the little bedroom, contemplates the child, and sits down on the carpet. But he does not have much time alone with him because the elevator Andrea went down on sounds up again immediately. The creaking of the elevator pulleys makes the old man think… Here to annoy me already, are you? He reluctantly walks out into the hallway.

Amazement stops him: In front of the coat rack, a young woman hangs a long yellow scarf and takes off a knitted jacket. She wears a violet gypsy skirt, with printed oriental motifs, and she wears tall hazel boots. She hangs her leather bag and then takes off her beret, freeing her long black hair. When she turns around, the colorful embroidery on the vest over her blouse becomes visible. She smiles wide, showing off her pearly- white teeth. She comes close to him:

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“Zío Roncone, right? I’m Simonetta, the niece of Anunziata. My aunt had to call in sick today.”

She holds out her hand like a boy, and the old man shakes it. He can only manage a quick “Welcome”. She continues:

“I’m late, right? Damn traffic! From Martiri Oscuri up to the plaza, the twenty stopping every moment! Ugh, Milan is horrible!”

As she talks, she walks towards the bathroom with hardly any noise, despite her boots. The old man follows her with his eyes until the wavy skirt disappears just before getting caught by the door.

The woman of Roccasera dressed in similar wide skirts when he was young. Red for the married, black for the widows, brown for the bachelorettes. All of them had a different colored border. And they too embroidered colorful folk motifs on their black bodices. But they also wore triangular shawls tied to their back around their shoulders.

Some covered their heads with the vancala, Tiriolo’s regional headdress. None of them wore boots, but rather sandals or loafers, and they never, ever, left the bedroom with their hair down. Nevertheless, she is like them: she laughs with the same white teeth and black eyes… yes, especially these eyes: Those Roccasera girls!

The girl reappears, her aunt's smock fit tightly around her body. She only has thick wool socks on her feet.

“Your aunts slippers are in…” explains the old man, but the young woman stops him short:

“I don’t need them. Around the house I’m always barefoot.”

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Those Roccasera girls also went barefoot in good weather, even outside the house.

They saved stockings, and…

The old man suspends his homesickness and runs toward his room, in which the girl has gone in with the cleaning things. Damn, she will discover the chamber pot!

In effect, the two of them almost stumble at the door. She has already found the bedpan and is taking it out to empty it, much to the old man’s embarrassment. Why? he reproaches himself. It's her job after all, a women’s chore.

“Allow me, really” says the young woman smiling, holding the chamber pot in her hand. “At home I emptied my Father’s… he was from the south too. Syracusan.”

“Then he would like strong cheeses…” The old man predicts, preparing an explanation of his private and secret pantry, in case the girl discovers it. But Simonetta has already been warned by her aunt not to discover the hiding place in the recesses of the couch bed.

“Yes, he liked them a lot, like me… he’s dead now. An accident while bricklaying... My mother died shortly after. Anunziata’s sister.”

The young woman, while talking, has indicated effectively her living arrangements. The old man, instead of retreating, like the other days, willingly continues to talk. A young woman who hates Milan… Come on, no way!

“Anyways, I moved up here for university, but I miss the countryside and the animals. I love them all… every last one!” she insists laughing “even the flies!... that's why I’m studying to become a vet.”

The old man remembers the local vet when he was young - thick and ruddy, with a stiff neck and tie, always dropping cigar ash, even when he was curing beasts.

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“You have to get them down to Sersale,” he tells Simonetta. “He only bothered to climb rocks to order the slaughter of sheeps and goats, when their gut swelled with the epidemic… we hid them from him even if he came with the riflemen, because some were saved. And a goat is a goat!... surely you would climb a mountain better than that government swine, friend of the marquesses… because you will be, as a student, everything you want, but it looks like you don't mind cleaning, nor working with your hands… You're not hot with the heating on and those stockings of yours?

“Get out! These aren’t stockings. They’re socks, so that my boots don’t rub against my skin.” She says before raising her smock until she finds her knee.

“That’s how those Roccasera girls went about in my time” He explains to

Simonetta “They called them stockings, because there were no long socks back then.”

The old man refrains from adding that none would have shown off their knee that willingly. The young boy who succeeded in that could already expect everything… and get everything too.

The old man helps her set the bed, and she accepts the help naturally, as she does in other rooms. But then Simonetta looks up at once, just remembering a thought:

“I thought in the south men didn’t do these types of chores.”

“And we do not. But this is not the south.”

The old man understands that this explanation is not sufficient enough and feels surprised by something ugly. But an exculpatory memory comes to him:

“Neither do we care for the children, yet I take care of mine... also, during the war in my squad, we did everything: wash, stitch, and cook… everything.

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The young woman catches her breath, and in the sudden silence looks at him with shining eyes:

“You were a partisan! How fantastic!”

Now it's the old man’s eyes turn to illuminate: It’s so rare to find young people who are intrigued by the war! They don’t want to hear any talk of it, but what would those good-for-nothings do if us old men hadn't fought? They would be German slaves, of course!

“Where did you fight, where!” asks Simonetta.

“But Where else? In Sila, in my mountains! No one could hunt us there in that region. Sometimes we traveled up to Sila Greca, to connect with the group there. But they didn’t need us, small fighters they are! They are Albanian descendants, you know?

Arrived when the Turks did. They still retain their popes, because they also suffer from priests, but popes marry and are very corrupt. One time…”

They work and talk, toil and remember. For the old man it is like having been reunited with a comrade, reviving those times… But suddenly the cry of a child rings out.

Both run towards his little bedroom. The old man looks at the time on his watch.

Incredible, where did the morning go?

Simonetta entertains the child, who claps and laughs in his crib, letting a trickle of drool fall out of his mouth.

“I like him! I like him! Look how he laughs!” The woman vaunts. “Can I hold him?”

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The old man laughs, and the girl picks up the boy, holding him in a lively gesture so instinctively maternal that the old man is moved. La zía Panganata, Tortorella, those mothers of Roccasera…!

The child also perceives the gesture’s warmth and is held like a kitten in between the chest and arms that hold him. The child has one little hand reaching out to the young woman's face, while the other reaches out for the old man, who approaches him until he feels the little hand on his face.

What’s this other smell next to Brunettino? The caress of black hair on skin!

Revelation for the old man from which his work and war companion is a woman. Her breath, her face so close, so close to his…

The discovery perturbs him, but in a new way, because with this child in her arms she becomes a mother. Brunettino’s mother?

The old man sighs in this confusion. The child bores quickly. He kicks and reaches out for his empty plate, a yellow plastic disk on the dresser.

“Looks like it’s lunch time, right?” Simonetta says.

“Yes, he should be hungry”

“You stay put; I'll make the baby food.”

“You know how to prepare it?” the old man asks, surprised. Young women today ignore such things.

“My aunt explained it to me. Also, I have taken care of kids before. I was an au pair in Switzerland last year, can you believe it?” She says already in the hallway, with a playful and defiant tone.

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The old man remains in the bedroom. How many things a child needs! You have to feed him, change him at every step, bathe him, put him to bed, cure him… and other, more difficult, tasks: Putting on his little shoes, that Brunettino removes so easily, fastening those damn buttons, making him breathe the air that he swallows… you have to be a woman to endure months and months of this… well, you have to be a proper woman!

The old man is amazed at how a student has already conquered the child, who has never taken his baby food more meekly. Then they take him into the kitchen, where the boy’s need to touch everything, so infuriating for Andrea, makes Simonetta laugh. While she plays with Brunettino, he prepares some food. The old man reveals the secret of his private pantry and brings some Mediterranian delicacies to brighten up Andrea’s chilly world of gastronomy.

“What rich cheese!” Simonetta exclaims devouring it. And, naturally, Brunettino also demands to try it.

“You need to taste the homemade ones…! Smoked Rascu, or butirri, which has butter inside…! But you have to try them there, because that's where they taste the best; especially with the sunshine behind you and the mountains in the distance. Or on a picnic, in the shade of the chestnut grove... There under the trees, on clear days you can see almost the whole country, even our sea, in the distance!”

“I just love the sea!” Simonetta exclaims with her mouth full.

“Nonsense! Wherever the mountain is, there is also everything one needs. The sea is not a place for men; if it were, we would be born with fins, you know?... although”, he adds thoughtfully, “I lived for a few days in Rímini by the seaside, so blue in the middle of the day, and so violaceous in the evenings.”

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The woman gets up to reach the wine and stops around the old man's chair. From behind she caresses his head cutting off his nostalgia, and declares with disarming naturalness:

“I like your hair, zío. A grey so consistent, so curly, so tough… I hope my

Romano will become like you when he is old!”

“And I like that you call me zío.” The old man replies, hiding his bewilderment, increased when he sees her drink with such vividness that a red trickle runs down her feminine chin suggesting blood. Blood, as if she had bitten her lip, blood from that rotund and young body… but she is already wiping it off with the back of her hand and her face regains her lost innocence.

She explains then, laughing, that Romano is her friend.

“Medical student, zío. There we heal all the town between the two of us, from animals to people. It’s communist, like me. My aunt Anunziata can’t see me!” she concludes, laughing even more.

“Communism is a fantasy, young woman. My lands are my lands; how could it be any other way?... But i will say, your communists fought in the war with guts, and they were good companions. Until we reached the end when, like every other group, they took to politics and speeches.

“Not all!” she exalts. “Plus we must have politics to have freedom… Or do you think that nothing can be done for towns, without taking up more of your lands?”

In her passion, he has started to befriend her, like a comrade. And when the house is all clean, they watch TV… in the living room the discussion becomes embroiled, interrupted from time to time in order to lower Brunettino from the armchair he has

108 climbed or to take the fragile ashtray of Murano away from him. She speaks as if in the rallies, thinks the old man listening to her. Those communists are not short of words.

Simonetta puts forward ideas and admits that she owes them to her boyfriend.

Before meeting him, she only thought about passing exams and earning money, but

Romano made her think… Oh, Romano!

“Of course he wants to sleep with me” She responds frankly to an allusion put forth by the old man. “And I with him... What is this about being fifteen years old, zío?

Can’t you see? I’m a good nineteen years old!”

At thirteen, Roccasera girls were already so cautious and reserved like the women. However, this Simonetta… free as a young man!... The fact is that it is pulled off successfully, even beautifully and purely. Thinks the old man, surprised at himself for thinking such things.

“No we have not made love yet. I don’t know why…” and suddenly serious, she continues, “It won’t be soon… because we don’t want to start yet. Romano says that the principle should not be spoiled. Us two plan to take a good trip when we have enough money… We will take it out now, now!” she continues, happy again. “What's this you say?” She grimaces “Well of course he is handsome, more than I!”

More than her? doubts the old man, certainly, beautiful, beautiful, there is no word for it.... None come as close to describing her beauty! As the house is full, even the

TV is interested in your comments.

The hours fly by. When Andrea arrives, she pays the young woman and hides behind her papers. It seems that Simonetta, once again in the doorway, has just entered.

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But it is the opposite: It has concluded, and she is preparing to go. The child wants to prevent her, by holding onto her skirt and weeping, but Andrea comes and takes him.

The old man helps Simonetta put on her jacket and she puts on her beret and arranges her hair femininely. She slings her bag over her shoulder, wraps her yellow scarf around her neck and turns around, letting her smile shine:

“It’s been such a pleasure” She exclaims simply.

They shake hands the same way they did in the morning, like comrades. But that idea changes when the old man nears her and puts his hands on her shoulders, kissing her gently on the cheek.

“Arrivederci, zío Bruno.”

“See you later, sciuscella” the old man replies seriously, blessed by the brush of those lips.

Simonetta opens the door halfway, slides through its opening and closes it back slowly, leaving him one last smiling look, candidly complicit.

The old man hears the elevator door. Slowly he walks to the child's room, and sits himself next to the child, at last asleep. In dusk’s twilight the embers of the butterfly nightlight purchased by Andrea stand out. The air becomes a chalice filled with

Brunettino’s milky and carnal odor; the silence frames his tranquil breaths.

The bells of Duomo sing out, on the south wind’s wings. Six already! The old man realizes that the snake has been calm all day… Of course, it was conquered by that young woman, so similar to the girls of Roccasera.

For Santa Chiara the people went up to the communal chestnut groves along the hermitage’s path, along the stream, carrying the Saint’s bread which would be auctioned

110 off at noon. In the grove, the last vines persisted, the spring gushed out of a clear hole, where the overflowing water was only noticeable by the undulations of the outcrop. The grapes could now be eaten and although the slow and golden afternoons were still summer one’s, the evenings were already shedding an autumn melancholy. The town had rested from the harvest and was getting ready for the other great task in the wheel of the year: the grape harvest

Why do I remember that Brunettino, as if I were there again, still young?... Could it be that now another task awaits me like those people, my child? After my grape harvest, my vintage? And this young woman, will she know what sciuscella means: more than pretty and good, are there not words in Milan?... But who cares if she doesn't know?

What does it matter? I don’t know why I haven’t felt attracted to her a moment either; not even when the wine overflowed from her mouth… You see, it didn’t bother me after to think about her in bed with her Romano! Before that would piss me off, so what changed my thoughts? It’s not that I'm on my last legs, although Rusca certainly is wearing me down… it’s because of today…

He ponders for a while more, and then directs his thoughts toward the kid:

Remember what I am about to tell you, my little one, and never forget it: Women will always surprise you. You think you know the whole deck, from the queen to the knave, and then you end up with a new card… what has happened today? She was hugging you like a mother already made, when she hasn’t even had a man yet! And I, seeing those hips, and feeling her hand glide through my hair, feeling nothing? Do you understand this at all?

His brow unwrinkles and his mouth lets out a smile.

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Well, what a companion we met today! Right? The better for you, and the better for me too… If you were a girl you would have to be like Simonetta, to entertain your

Grandfather… But what foolishness! My Child, my child I want you to be a man!... I am becoming senile, is that it? Am I getting old?... those thoughts, maybe a sign? Are you sending it to me, Salvinia? Are you coming to put me back in my way again, like when you lead me across the plaza against everyone, or like when you put me in Rosa’s bed?... and if not, why do such things occur to me. Why are the girls from Roccasera so alive now? Why has another girl like them appeared now, here in this Milan?

An idea suddenly becomes possible:

For you, my child? To help me make you a man? For your little arms, that body, for you those breasts, for your little mouth?

He looks at the sleeping child and laughs silently to himself.

But she's not your mother, my child, she’s not your mother! You have no more of a chest than I do. We are alone, I have to do the teaching myself… ah, Madonna, now I see it clear.

Suddenly, without prior conscious decision, he gets up, cautiously opens up the boy’s closet and takes out a romper that he hides under his jacket. Andrea will not notice the slight bulge if he passes her in the hall; that body is so small!

He goes to his room and hides the child’s romper in another gap in his headboard.

In the nighttime he will train himself in fastening and unfastening those buttons that days ago defeated his hands. Because although they are men’s, Damn those who doubt it! The old man will make them women’s too for Burnettino!

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SEVENTEEN

The gusts of alpine wind shake the poor city trees cold, and the tree pits, all the way up to the foot of the trunks, are girded with ice. The old man imagines the blood in his veins is like the sap struggling to climb up the tree. But the blows that shake the city garden like a gravedigger’s shovelfuls hurt him more; they are swings clumsy enough to rouse the old pastor’s anger. What a disastrous way to prune! He turns his back to quit watching.

The axe falls silent, and the old man tries to think of something else, but what comes to his mind does not calm his irritation; it expands it. His Son, Renato is a hopeless case because of how submissive he is. After his cry the other night he is back to being harnessed on Andrea’s yoke. He even seems regretful about his outburst; yesterday she called him to tell him she would be late for dinner because of a prolonged meeting, and Renato took the news tamely:

“Yes, I'll bathe him and feed him dinner… Yes, I'll put him to bed too; no worries, darling…”

She continued, long-winded as always, and the old man heard his Son excuse himself like this:

“Pardon my discourtesy, dear, but I have to go check on the boy.”

Why is he apologizing for that! the old man continues to reproach him, each time, like now, he remembers it. That woman is discourteousness in the flesh!

The ax swings return, and he is back in the present moment. Suddenly a crack, and after a very brief pause, a long groan of broken wood, a collapse of tree branches,

113 loud crashes against the pavement. The old man can not help but turn around and shoot an angry gaze at the top of the tree.

At the top of the ladder leaning against the trunk, a man in the yellow vest of municipal gardeners. His raised ax returns to threatening another branch. The old man explodes, his cry petrifying.

“Hey, you! Respect that branch, animal!”

Come down here and we can settle this, he thinks.

The pruner, now paralyzed for a moment, begins, in effect, his descent. Now, repeats the old man, clenching his fist and thinking about how to compensate for his combative inferiority to the ax. But his attitude changes when the pruner, a young man with a restrained smile and a friendly gesture, approaches him.

“I’ve done something wrong, haven’t I?”

“Worse than that! You've cut just the branch that ought to remain. Don’t you see that you just cut another one underneath, in the same line?... Where did you learn how to cut?”

“Nowhere.”

“Damn you! And they still let you kill trees, huh?”

“I need to pay the bills somehow, yes.”

“Yes, with some other job fool!”

“Well the unemployment office didn’t give me a lot of options; Either I become a pruner for the city or nothing, they told me. What would you have picked?... Sorry…”

After a pause he adds, “Hey I get it, I love these trees too. That's why I cut only a little bit, and only the tiniest branches.”

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“Right, the new ones… And you leave the old ones! Don’t you realize you should do the opposite, man!”

“Sorry” the young man repeated.

The old man looks at the worker’s hands (Those of a writer, spiker-like) before looking at his sympathetic and honest face.

“What did you do before?”

“I am a student”

“You're not unemployed if you're a student! The old man becomes annoyed again, suspicious that he might be dealing with a phony.”

“My Father only gives me enough money to study law, and, frankly, I don't want to be a lawyer. So I study something else.”

The old man smiles: Bravo, boy! Misguided, because being a lawyer definitely pays the bills, but still, good boy! Becoming a pruner before you get caught up in law,

Bravo. Lawyers… the plague of the poor, I tell you... He opens his hand for the ax:

“Hand it over.”

Overwhelmed by the confidence, the young man hands over the tool, and the old man travels towards the tree. The young man is afraid that the old man will fall, but he sees him climb the steps of the ladder without hesitation. When the old man begins chopping, he does it with copious confidence! First, he briefly considers the leaf, reflects a moment more, and then decides on a branch. With two swings he knocks it down cleanly. When he is done, he leaves the ladder in order to settle in the fork in the tree trunk, which he prunes around. He gets back on the ladder, goes down, places it

115 somewhere new, and goes back up again… after a while he comes down for good. The young man can’t believe it:

“How embarrassing” He mutters.

“Come on man, nobody is born all-knowing… but thank goodness they didn’t give you a chainsaw because then you would have damaged every branch you touched.”

“They gave me one on the first day and I messed up bad.” the young man confesses with a hint of a smile - “Since then I have been working with that ax… I bet you know how to use one though… are you a pruner yourself?”

“Not by trade, but I know how. I’m a country man, can’t you tell?”

“Oh, Where from?”

“Roccasera, por Catanzaro” proclaims the old man, boldly.

“Calabria!” The young man rejoices. “I will be there this summer!”

“No kidding!” The old man says, matching the young man's joy. “How’s that?”

How does he explain to this “country man” that he is going there to undergo a field investigation to catalog the surviving ancient myths in popular folklore?

“I will be collecting traditions, stories, verses, songs… recording and analyzing them all. Does that make any sense?”

“No”

What strange tasks these writers invent so as not to work! Stories are told to make people laugh, and songs are sung to make people happy. End of story. What in the devil is there to study?

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“Well, afterwards, I publish my findings… it’s beautiful work.” The young man adds, unaware of how to simplify his explanation more. Then he adds, to break the silence, “I am Florentine, can’t you tell?”

The old man returns to smiling. Thank goodness he is not Milanese

“Want a cigarette?” the young man adds, for fear of having offended the old man with his talk of studying traditions. In class they have been warned about the potential susceptibility of study subjects when doing field work.

“No thanks. I’ve already had one today. Although Rusca is being annoying.”

“Rusca?”

“A friend of mine. She likes my cigarettes but annoys the hell out of me.”

Now it's the young man's turn to not understand, the old man thinks cheerfully.

He continues:

Look, I’m in no rush. Go up to that other tree and I will indicate what cuts to make… but hit the branches right this time. Hold the ax here, like this, with a steady hand. See how it balances? Come on now, it’s not that hard.”

They work until afternoon, observed by mothers and their children. The old man is comforted by being useful, saving poor trees that suffer in the cold of Milan and, on top of that are murdered by the clumsy stampede of clerks and writers. The worker, on the other hand, is docile and sharp.

My Brunettino will grow up to be like him, only he will know much more; yes, I will teach him well… and this one can be helped to. Although no one has the right to hold a job they are unqualified in. But it’s not his fault, and furthermore, he is not Milanese.

117

He finishes his work, giving the old man his thanks and proposing they keep in touch:

“Can I buy you a coffee, mister?”

The old man hesitates.

“A cup of coffee and a doctor's degree are not denied to anyone, as we say back at the university.” the young man jokes.

The old man can’t help but laugh:

“Accept coffee from an unemployed person without money?”

The laughter is good-natured.

“I have money… Yesterday I burned my bridges: I sold my copy of the Código

Civil! The best commented edition, the Roatta-Brusciani, hot off the press!

They both laugh.

The young man fastens the ladder to the trunk of a tree by means of a padlocked chain, hangs the sheathed ax in the rear of his municipal belt, and points to a bar across the street. But at that moment a city van rolls up next to them and a foreman appears through the window.

“Hey, you…! Get over here, we are taking you to the center.”

The young man looked at the old man with an apologetic expression.

“Forgive me”

“Another day. Let's promise to meet another time for coffee… Código!”

“You have my word… look for me, I’ll be around the neighborhood for a few days, Isn’t that right boss?”

The foreman nods. He has been looking at the trees and is surprised.

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“Hey, not bad this time! Looks like you’re finally learning how to prune.”

The young man and the old man give each other a knowing smile and shake hands.

“Ferlini, Valerio” the young man presents himself formally.

“Roncone, Salvatore” the old man states cordially.

The van pulls out and the young man young hand waves from the rear window. Their goodbye handshake was wholesome and firm. Between two men.

Yes, but my Brunettino will be more of a man still.

119

EIGHTEEN

No, he does not want to see what is happening.

The old man closes his eyes, but then Lambrino appears, his first friend he has ever made, his first love.

Excluding his mother… of course, but he was accustomed to her and, besides, she only went up the mountain once a week… Lambrino, however, was his at all times. That white lamb was a slice of heaven on earth, frisking among the rockrose and scented bushes. What sweet and adoring eyes. What warm softness the shepherd boy held between his arms as they fell asleep. The young wool caressed the naked infantile chest and braided the two heartbeats together. Unforgettable Lambrino.

The old man’s first lesson of love in his long history of it is now revived in the dark concavity of his closed eyelids. The old man has to open his eyes in order to not see the vivid end: the pale neck bent by the butcher and his blade, the boy’s burning despair, and the shepherd's bestial laughs like the executioner’s during the crucifixion of Christ.

When he opens his eyes no one laughs anymore, nor does the living light of the mountain envelop them; but otherwise, in this small circle of anguished faces the situation remains the same: a small body immobilized, a delicate neck handed over to an executioner, a little head forced downwards. Before it was Lambrino’s head: two wide open eyes and a mouth full of pitiful bleats; now it’s Brunettino’s, mute, veiled by almost transparent eyelids, like a marble lying down.

The old man had been asked, moments before, to hold the child, but he violently refused such complicity and withdrew towards the door, leaning on it so that no one

120 could leave without being held accountable for whatever happens. From that moment on, his hand grasps the pocketknife concealed in his pants. If that guy lays even a scratch on him, I’ll finish him here and now, he decides, eyes fixed on the executioner who, with his left index finger, feels a vein in Brunettino’s vulnerable throat.

This executioner does not wield a butcher's knife, but a syringe. What if he misses and punctures something? Will Brunettino start to bleed and drown? I’ll kill him, Rusca,

I’ll kill him! The needle penetrates skin, and sinks in… Actually, that coward would be incapable of causing too much damage; all you have to do is look at him.

The transparent cylinder fills up with the precious blood of Burnettino. Like the blood of Saint Januarius, thinks the old man, because in the milky light from the window the content of the syringe does not look red, but strangely dark, sinister almost.

Poisoned? He thinks, remembering that Raffaele, a groom who worked in the stable, died vomiting the same dark blood when he was kicked in the gut. Of course they cast the evil eye upon him for courting Pasqualina. The whole town knew it. Is there someone capable of cursing this angel?

The executioner has finished. He pours the blood into a vial with something inside and puts the top back on before placing it in his bag. The child seems not to have noticed; he only let out one small yelp when the needle made contact. The executioner says goodbye to Andrea and attempts to leave, yet the old man does not move out of the doorway.

“With such young children it’s safest to prod the carotid - please understand sir.

Now If you will excuse me.”

But Andrea is the one who makes the old man move:

121

“Can you hold the child for a moment, papà?”

While she accompanies the practitioner, the old man sits down with Brunettino in his arms. He kisses his burning little forehead and, anguished, makes himself a nest for the child. His finger, holding the blood-stained cotton on his little neck, feels blow after blow the accelerated beat. What a fever!

He contemplates the child. Two nights ago he began to cough repeatedly; a deep, ragged, old cough but higher in pitch. In the morning he refused to eat, and in the afternoon, he closed his little eyes and fell into the drowsiness produced by the fever.

Since then he only opens his eyes sometimes, looking around as if asking why they mistreat him, while he moans, coughs, and breathes noisily. At night it was necessary to give him cold baths, given his high temperature, and it was scary to touch his sweltering little belly.

The old man has not slept since he started wandering in silence from his room to

Brunettino’s, peeking inside from time to time, to help watch over him, distressed. What irked him the most was the pediatrician, which is apparently the word for doctor in

Milanese. How can you trust a guy like that? Thought the old man when he saw him at the door yesterday morning.

The so-called doctor was dressed like you see in the ads, and had his hair styled like the people in that horrible barber shop on via Rossini. He left a trail of cologne down the hall as he advanced with his briefcase, made of some soft leather the old man does not recognize. He flaunted on his little finger a ring with a blue stone, and on his nose, gold rimmed glasses… He was thirty, maybe forty years old? Too much facial surgery to tell.

And his speech, my God, his speech! It is already known that Italian is too beautiful to be

122 a result of us men, but pronouncing it as he did, with every syllable prominent and annunciated, almost chanted, it was hateful. He washed his hands when arriving and washed them when leaving too. Both times Andrea offered him the towel like an altar boy presents the cruets to the priests: as if the guy was a saint.

Of course, Andrea is infatuated with him! the old man suddenly thinks. That’s her type of man surely… but she didn't end up catching one, and my Renato had the bad luck of running into her. Look at how she talks to him: doctor this and doctor that… and he’s as smug as a rooster, not even examining the child properly: he only looked at his ears and his throat with that little bulb of his, asked for his temperature (which Andrea had already taken by putting the thermometer into the child in an indecent way), and took out his microphone-looking tool, the one with the rubber end that looks like a leech sucking on the little breast… To do as he did... Disgraceful. Did you notice, Rusca? He acted as if the poor thing was not sick at all!... Doctor, that one? A bastard, capable of anything...!

Hey, maybe we’ll be lucky Rusca. Will she cheat on Reanto with that cretin? What an opportunity to get rid of her, if they got tangled up, and Renato felt like a man for once!

The old man sighs, skeptical… Damn, this guy doesn’t give a shit. Brunettino’s not his Grandson after all…! If it's just a cold, why is he taking his blood like that… it’s almost as if he's slaughtering him. What’s the point?

He hears whispering in the hallway and wonders if the doctor has returned… No; it’s Renato, talking with his wife.

“The pediatrician didn’t seem worried; he says he’ll be better in two or three days,” explained Andrea, “but this has already ruined my trip.”

“Hey, you can go to Rome later.”

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“It was as good as mine. Now I’ll have to reschedule.... Also, Uncle Daniele has started to move around some of his contacts. My chance is as good as gone!”

They hush when they reach the door of the child’s room. The old man hands over the child to Renato, while thinking: She only cares about her career, and thinks her child is a hindrance. My poor Brunettino!

Already night, while he cares for the kid during the anniversary dinner, the old man has a conversation in his head with his overly pale forehead over his flushed cheeks:

My child, they are eating so calmly while your little body rages like a battleground; your blood against evil, fighting for your life... How could they do such a thing?... But forget them, you are not alone. Your Father does not rule over the house, and your mother is a puppet to that shit doctor, but your Grandfather, on the other hand, will get you through this. Do you understand, my cherub?... First and foremost, against their wishes, tomorrow you will have boiling water with eucalyptus leaves and cremelaria flowers… You know? Trees heal and love children better than any needle. You will smell the mountain in the springtime and you will breath easily… Ah, are you smiling? I already see that you believe me. Bravo, my little one! Onwards against the enemies, you who beat the tank!

The following morning Andrea ends up compromising, after consulting her parenting book, where it says at what exact time they should wake up and be hungry. As if mothers who can’t read didn’t already know that. Also the old man hears her questioning and whispering to the doctor on the telephone, from the corner of her study, for a good while... Finally she appears in the hallways with rosy cheeks and a trembling smile. She’s head over heels for this worthless bastard!

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But she has compromised, and the old man runs down to the pharmacy to find eucalyptus leaves - they don’t know what the cremelaria is, those disgraceful people - only to end up tossing them because in Milan they sell the leaves in factory packets and that's not the same. Instead, in Mrs. Maddalena’s store - and what a juicy time looking at her and remembering that metallic green car! - they have real eucalyptus and recommend it for flowers - Of course they know them! - a nearby herbalist. Mrs. Maddalena solves everything! And more stacca than ever… but it doesn’t surprise me anymore. It’s not the softness of the husband who waters that flower.

Going up the elevator he wraps his purchases in the pharmacy paper, so that the healing herbs get past Andrea’s guard and beat the dottore. In war, deceive the enemy, my

Brunettino.

125

NINETEEN

The old man in the fur-lined coat and old-fashioned hat, who for a few days directed pruning in the garden before disappearing, reappears today pushing the child in a stroller. Mothers with their children receive him like a gentle Grandfather playing babysitter, although a single glance from the man, stopping over their bodies, is enough to make them look at him differently and compose their sitting posture instinctively or raise a hand to check their hair.

But almost always the old man keeps his eye on the boy. Everything about him amazes him: the little tranquil or avid eyes, the tireless grasps, the smoothness of his skin, the sudden squeaks. More marvelous even this afternoon, his first time outside since becoming sick. That was more of a nightmare than a cold. Because for the old man it was a woman with pneumonia, although the doctor did not get in. If he knew that Brunettino had only been saved due to the eucalyptus and cremelaria, added to the water unnoticed by Andrea. The same plant that cured the pneumonia of old man Sareno, who they had deemed a lost cause.

Thanks to your grandpa you are now going for a walk, my little child… knowledge of herbs that combat evil comes in handy, nothing like being a country man!

Well, Mrs. Maddalena also had ideas, but not as good. Only the witches, but that’s a whole other situation. Madonna frees us!

Suddenly it amuses the old man to remember the face that Anunziata put on when they were getting the child ready for a walk: How surprised she was to see the old man button him up without a problem! Nobody suspected how much he had practiced night

126 after night. Yes, those fingers of his are still able to learn; his joints have not yet rusted…

He contemplates his hands grasping at the bar of the push chair like a rudder: tough, bulging veins, but alive and agile as ever. He compares them with Brunettino’s pair of little hands, which melt his heart. Those little fists, those little fingers, how will they be that when he has to take down a rival, when he has to fondle young chests…!

I will not get to see it, my child, nor will you know it, but I am going to be the one who will make you a man. I have saved you from the clutches of that damn doctor, and I will save you from your mother and whomever else. I, your Grandfather, country man

Bruno… You know? I only ask for one thing from Madonna, and I ask it every day: that

Cantanotte dies soon and that I can take you there to explore the house's courtyard, watching you chase chickens. You will get to see how beautiful Roccasera; it’s nothing like this dirty Milan! A real sun shines: you can’t even imagine seeing this one. And not too far off rises the most beautiful mountain in the world, the Femminamorta. It seems that it dresses and undresses like a woman. Sometimes it's blue-colored, other times violet, or brownish-grey, or even pink, or it puts on a veil because of the weather… it has its moods, yes; sometimes she warns, but other nights she throws it on us by surprise… it's tough, but loving too - as one should be. You will fall in love with her, Brunettino, when we go to see her...

After his daydream, he comes back to the present. But who can tell the difference? In reality he is saving the child; his little face is already a little bit older and wiser and that is not a dream, although Andrea denied it yesterday when he made her notice. She ended up noticing, although she attributed the change to the cold, which caused his cheeks to cave in a little.

127

Nonsense! He is becoming a little man the old man thinks remembering it. Each day his crawling gets better, and he even tries to sit up himself holding onto something… but you don’t have to force it: zío Benedetto ended up bowlegged for walking too much too soon. Of course, it doesn’t matter much because he only ended up being a chairmaker; it’s not like he was a shepherd or a partisan. Some played pranks on him -

What hangs on you must be pretty heavy! - but he was delighted to have evaded military service because of his condition. A sad advantage though, as women don’t desire funny looking men, except if you have money of course. I will teach you to walk little by little,

Brunettino; you will be a desirable man... well, you already are one, so small and yet you’re as big as my pinky.

The old man looks at his little finger well, not that big, he corrects himself - as he hears some words passing by an occupied bench. Who talks about the sun? A stupid

Milanese, thinks the old man, looking up contemptuously at the yellowish circle dimmed by the mist. He still changes direction to avoid the light reaching the child's eyes and almost runs into the track that borders the garden along the sidewalk.

Suddenly, a car driving very close to the sidewalk runs over a puddle and splashes the pushchair, the little blanket and a few dirty drops even land on the little cheeks of the boy, who starts to whimper. The old man is paralyzed by indignation, but upon seeing the car stop at some red disk nearby, he starts to run towards them blind with rage and yelling insults. Running around in his head is one lone idea: I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them! his mouth repeats it, his legs think it, his heart echoes it. The blade is already set in his hand when he nears the car, whose driver has the fortune of making a quick escape once the color changes, without realizing how close they were to death.

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The old man exhausts all his insults and gives the driver a bras d'honneur, a real vrazzata, but his courage does not prevent him from seeing his comical situation; there he is: powerless there on the sidewalk, bareheaded, his useless knife provoking funny looks… suddenly a thought takes ahold of him:

I’m a madman, I have left the kid all alone, I’m an old crazy madman!

He runs back, recovering his fallen hat as he passes and imagining thousands of different things that could have happened to the boy. He arrives on time, because there is a woman next to the pushchair. Is she trying to take him? Madonna! All the man can think of in this moment is old stories of gypsies stealing children.

The old man runs up to her. The race, the rage and the fright prevent him from talking, because they all cause his heart to painfully gallop. He can only glace fiercely at the woman, who has turned around upon hearing his footsteps, and revealed Brunettino in her arms. It’s as if she can read the old man's thoughts:

“I’m not going to steal him, mister” she assures him with a smile. “I heard him cry, saw that he was alone, and picked him up.”

The child no longer cries, and the woman wipes his cheek with a white cloth. The old man is still recovering and although still weary of this stranger, his face visibly calms down: fresh lips amid small, graceful wrinkles, a young expression despite undisguised maturity.

“Thanks, madam” he finally says, while his gaze, descending, appreciates her goldilocks breasts, round hips, and good figure.

“What happened?” She asks.

129

“A bastard in his car came up to us and splashed the blanket, the chair, and the child. My grandchild! Only some high and mighty Milanese bastard could do something like that!”

He immediately regrets swearing, but she smiles.

“He also got your pants; have you looked at them? You’ll have to wash them.”

“What does it matter! If I see him again, I’m killing him… Bastard!... Sorry.”

“A bastard, huh?” she repeats serenely, surprising the old man. The child is busy playing with the hair of the woman, who continues: “What part of the south are you from?”

Now the old man understands; she has recognized his accent, meaning she must be from down there too, although she doesn’t really have an accent. He feels comfortable and adjusts his hat.

“From Roccasera, junto a Catanzaro. And yourself?”

“From the other sea. Amalfi.”

“Tarantelona, huh?”

“Born and raised!”

Her feminine voice sounds proud of her land; her stature seems to increase when he puts his head back haughtily.

They both laugh.

“Dammit!” exclaims the old man seeing mud dry up on the pushchair.

“You can’t go back like this. Mama will give you a scolding… is Mama your

Daughter?”

“Absolutely not! My Daughter-in-law... And for the record no one scolds me!”

130

His tone is so violent that the woman stops teasing him and looks at him anew: He certainly isn’t your usual Grandfather. What a character! she thinks.

“Quiet, little guy” she says lovingly, freeing her hair from his infatuated little fist.

“Yes yes, you want to play with me.”

“And who wouldn’t?”

The woman laughs heartily. Absolutely no sign of him being a decrepit grandpa!

“He is a handsome little guy” she exclaims, settling him back in the pushchair.

“What’s his name?”

“Brunettino… And you?”

“Hortensia”

The old man savors this name and responds with his own:

“Salvatore”

He barely hesitates, adding:

“But you can call me Bruno… and tell me, do you come through here on other days as well?”

131

TWENTY

She is leaving, she is going to Rome!

The old man has woken up with this happy chorus in his head. He keeps muttering it while he puts his morning coffee on the stove. How sad, he thinks once more, comparing those reddened wires to the crackling and the dance of the flames in the country home.

She is not going to see the Etruscans, sure. She does not like them. The city belongs to the others. The romans, Mussolini’s. Worse for her! The fact is that she is leaving for a couple days and allows us to live freely… that, free!... It seems a lie, a woman with few words, that does not stay away from her big books, and knowing she is there is like having a rifleman on you at all times. Women! Outside of the bed they are nothing but annoying!

Last night, Andrea left Renato a list of instructions to manage the household in her absence and she commented on them one by one, just to be safe. At noon, Renato will take her by car to the airport. Only a few hours remain; the old man rubs his hands together.

Anunziata arrives and Andrea repeats to her the written code. The old man takes the opportunity to go out for a stroll; this time without the kid: It’s too cold out. Already at the door, he hears his Daughter-in-law authorizing Anunziata to bring her niece over if she needs the help. Simonetta! the old man remembers, pleased, thinking that the day is off to a good start. Even Rusca is tranquil.

132

He continues propitiously. In the Corso Venezia he encounters Valerio. The student explains that they are now working on public roads, and he will continue to have work for a couple weeks putting up street decorations for Christmas. A council member of the opposition has complained that forgotten neighborhoods exist and the podestá has ordered that colored lights be hung up quickly also in some plazas on the periphery.

Valerio will help in hanging the lights from Piazza Carbonari to Piazza Lugano.

“After that, I’m done. On to look for a new job. Unless,” the young man hesitates,

“you would be willing to help me with something. I was actually just going to your house to see if you were in.”

The old man is shocked, and Valero explains. Days ago he talked about to professor Buoncontoni, the famous folklorist, and he immediately became interested in what he had to say:

“I want to meet that man, Ferlini, the professor told me” Valerio says, “I have not returned to Sila since my youth, when I investigated the descendants of Albanians who arrived in the middle ages, who still talk about their Greek customs… Sila remains quite unchanged and this friend of yours could give us a lot of information… bring him to the

Seminary.

The old man listens to the student yet does not understand. Valerio adds that there are funds for testimonial recordings in the department's record library. They pay allowance to study subjects and Valero would thus be appointed to paid assistant.

“What's this about being a subject?” asks the old man, bewildered. Are you painting me? You’re confusing me man. And that talk of money, well...

Valerio cuts him off:

133

“Oh the money is not why I’m telling you this; they pay very little! I’m telling you because I want to preserve your history, a world completely different from mine…

Stories, folk songs, sayings, customs, wedding traditions, funeral traditions… it’s being forgotten, our history, who we are.”

“My history” repeats the old man, thoughtfully. Valero is right though, certainly the past is being forgotten. Young women are throwing away antique and beautiful dresses as if they were nothing but rags.

“He would like to hear all about it, Mr. Roncone; it will be exciting… and you’ll be doing me a huge favor!”

Yes, the old man would like to help Valerio out. And he has a point, this could be fun… a mischievous idea strikes him:

“Who would be listening to me”

“Only those at the Seminary. And one guest humanities professor.”

People like Andrea. The old man smiles: yes, he likes the idea. He will tell those stuck-up academics whatever comes to mind, even the jokes of his old friends… Only with the stories of Morrodentro or those of old Mattei, who rests in peace… yes, he will leave them with their mouths hung open… Those bookworms no nothing of life… What will Andrea say when she finds out that he, Salvatore, is speaking at the University to the academics? You heard right, silly girl. He will say I, Salvatore, the shepherd from

Roccasera, behind the rostrum. You don’t believe it? I’ll try to bring you back a photo of me on stage... Fantastic… And the old man will preserve his history at the same time…

Brunettino will always get to listen to it!

“Do you want me to talk about my life and the war as well?”

134

“Of course! You’re the boss; say whatever you want!”

“I’m in. But wait… If I don't like these people after the first day, forget them. I like you, but I’ll have to see what these others are like. I only speak between friends, you understand.

“You’ll love them, I am sure of it! Professor Buoncontoni is great and so is

Doctor Rossi. She is still not a Professor, even though she is about forty, because there are no professorships for mythology, but she’s already famous.”

“For mytho… Huh?”

“Mythology; antique stories. You’ll see, you’ll see.”

So there will be women there… although they might just turn out to be like

Andrea thinks the old man as they walk into a bar to celebrate the agreement. They will start after the holidays, and that is why when they leave, they wish each other a merry

Christmas.

Yes, the day is absolutely auspicious. At the entrance, the concierge hands the old man a letter that just arrived. From Rosetta. Long and convoluted, as always, filled with nonsense that almost dissuades the old man from finishing it. Fortunately his gaze locks on to sensational news. that fool of a daughter, she could have started with that, in thick letters too! Cantonotte has worsened considerably.

The old man rereads the paragraph. Yes, that's it: his enemy is slipping towards his grave, the hole is going to swallow him soon. They no longer take him out of the house or even his chair, nor do they go down to mass. They say that he does not move his arms or think for himself. Oh, and he pisses himself constantly. What joy!

135

The old man opens the apartment door, and hurries into the kitchen. Anunziata is the only one there, because his Son and Daughter-in-law have left for the airport, and

Brunettino is asleep in his room.

“He is the worst! That bastard is the worst!”

“Jesus! What are you going on about?” Anunziata shouts out.

“Nothing, Nobody. You wouldn’t know him… But he is the worst, and he is dying!”

Anunziata asks God to forgive this celebration of death upon a fellow man. The old man enters his room, removes his bag of food from its hiding place, and takes out some strong cheese and an onion. He returns to the kitchen and starts to nibble on both delicacies, between full sips of wine. Anunziata remembers that he is not supposed to drink.

“How can Rusca bother me? Today is a great day!” replies the old man, further shocking the woman.

He is savoring his small feast when the child breaks into tears. The old man drops everything and runs to his bedroom. Brunettino holds out his arms and grandpa lifts him out of the crib and holds him against his chest.

“He is dying, Brunettino, he is dying! The bastard is dying! Do you understand? I will return to Roccasera and take you with me… You will become strong eating real bread and real lamb… you will taste the wine of men. Well, you're quite the little one.

Just dip your finger in my glass and suck it. He is dying, my child, he is dying first!”

The child claps delighted. The old man fills with excitement.

136

“You’re delighted by this news as well! We are the same!... See what kind of grandpa you have? Even the university needs him! ? We’ll go up to the mountain and meet all the good guys: Sareno, Piccolitti, Zampa… real men! And you will grow up to be just like them!”

They are already all dead, but he now lives outside of time. With his grandson in his arms, he taps old rhythms and starts to dance. His whispering word foretells of

Brunettino’s future triumphs. His voice slowly rises and becomes more prophetic as he dances like the dervishes. The child laughs and squalls jubilantly. The old man spins like the planets, he becomes wind and mountain, offering and spell. He dances in the middle of the forest around the light of a crackling bonfire, he receives the blessings of the stars, he hears the far away howls of the wolves, who are too scared to approach because he and his Brunettino are invincible forces, torches of the earth, lords of life.

137

TWENTY-ONE

Anunziata has left after bathing the boy. In his room, silence and twilight. In the silence, the soft breathing of Brunettino asleep; In the twilight, the nacre of his little face.

And, enjoying this world, the old man sitting on the carpet. Protecting that dream like he protected his flocks: Solitary plenitud, slow succession of infinite moments. I feel my life passing, he would think if he did.

Imperceptibly, twilight has become night. The old man plugs in the rosy nightlight. Sincere took Andrea to the airport, Renato has not returned, and he has never been out so late. Did something happen? He gave the old man enough time to put the child to bed and to prepare the surprise. But Renato…

Finally, the key in the door! Familiar noises coming from the entrance: careful steps, a silent emergence. He enters and softly kisses Brunettino while the old man gets up. The two walked into the hallway.

“Hey, Father. He wasn’t too bad, was he?”

“The kid? He was an angel!”

Renato briefly explains his tardiness, due to the late departure of the plane, and concludes:

“Let's see what Anunziata has left us for dinner.”

Since Andrea left a note saying that she would prepare it, all they have to do is warm it up.

“To hell with Anunziata!” exclaims the old man through the kitchen door. “Today we dine like men!”

138

Renato carefully observes his Father’s face: like a faun with a joyful smile. What has gotten into him? How much life he has in those wrinkles!

A sudden realization pains Renato: the absence of Andrea pleases his Father. But the old man has always been like that: When someone rubs him the wrong way, there is no remedy, and Andrea did just that during the old man's first trip to Milan.

Oh, if it wasn’t for that! The news takes away Renato’s grief. Cantanotte is dying.

The old man comments on it while he puts places and cutlery without allowing his Son to help him. Already reassured, he notices the smell: familiar yet unclassifiable, ancient and endearing. That smell… the old man watches him sniff.

“You don't remember?”

Then it hits Renato:

“Migas!”

“Of course, Migas resobadas. You haven’t lost touch completely. They will not taste like Ambrosio’s, nobody ever made them like him, but they are those of the mountains, the usual ones... even with his vasalicó: I found the herb in a tarentina… That

Maddalena has everything of ours!

“You visit that lady a lot Father.”

“How perceptive of you; yet here I am” replies the old man. But he is pleased with the intentional illusion and that his son jokingly participates in his joy. That is why he adds:

“And also, ‘U Signura manda viscotti a cui ‘on ava denti… Do you remember our dialect?”

139

“You still have teeth to bite into that sponge cake!” replies Renato, doubling the joy of the old man, who meanwhile takes out the pan of migas and the herb in the middle of the table.

A rural gate in the Son’s memory opens up and out enters shepherd and chestnut grooves, embers from vine twigs, songs, childish men and motherly hands. Maternal, yes, although now they turn into the old man’s, rough and twisted trunks. My Father, serving me? Renato thinks, and the unusual fact clouds his eyes for a moment. It's not the steam of the hot delicacy; it’s that all his childhood is condensed in the magic circle of the plate.

The mother was always with him, with her delicate appearance, to free him from the village world so that the Son would not suffer the same servitude. Above them both, the Father, powerful as a god, dispenser of belt blows but also great joys. School, which at first only served to make freedom tasty, became a tunnel to escape. And, above all the house parties: invaded kitchen, bustle, gluttony, waste, and wine stains on the tablecloth - joy, joy! - which demanded to be touched by fingers and traced into crosses on foreheads, tobacco smoke, human breath, pinching and laughing, good people paying their Fathers respect… and after the feast, the musician and the dance, dresses that spin, becoming bells and provoking looks, mugs from hand to hand, disappearing couples, the night with its stars, the fatigue that weighs on them when silence falls…

“What? You don't like them anymore?”

The voice pulls him back into the present. He trys a spoonful and his face lights up like a happy child, enough to please the old man who, with a laugh, grabs the bottle of wine:

“That’s more like it, man!”

140

“Not too much, Father. The doctor…”

“The doctor? Remember... dui jiriti ‘e vinu prima d’a minestra… e jetta ‘u médicu d’ ‘a finestra.”

How could he deny him the glory of defeating Cantanotte today? The Son continues to relish his migas, savoring in them the past. The flocks in the mountains, that world of men, recreated her tonight. One of his first climbs to the summer pastures, the father lifted him from a circle of shepherds and took him with him to a nearby height.

From there he showed him another summit, above the chestnut groves: See Son, from there you can make out the other sea, that of Reggio. Someday I’ll take you up there.

But they never returned and, years after, he did study in Reggio, but in Naples, when it was already clear to him that he was not being held back by the people of Sila.

He would not have survived in there… but that afternoon, on the rock’s top, during the summer’s peak, arm in the distance, his Father’s finger was God’s finger extended to

Adam in the Sistine Chapel.

The Adam's apple rises and falls in the flaccid neck of that God, who throws his head back to drain the glass. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that surprises Renato. But that is what he usually does, so why now? Renato now perceives his Father repressing that gesture. Furthermore, in the last few weeks he has stopped smoking; and has started to not wear his boots in the house. He even shaves daily and one day went to the bathroom without them having to remind him.

“Well, well,” he hears Renato joke to Anunziata, “looks like we're improving, huh?” Yes, the old man thinks to himself, I want to die handsome after all.

141

Andrea commented a few nights before that Milan civilized him. But Renato knows: It’s not the city, but the boy; Brunettino is transforming his Father. And now the son, in a tender wave of affection, gives a piece of his heart to the old man. The old man, yes; in that profile of a happy drinker the nose starts to taper and the chin trembles… an old man on the brink of death.

The telling vision breaks Renato down while he leans over the plate and drinks a tablespoon at a time to hide his humid eyes. The repressed crying rages a war inside him.

How can an oak or an eagle like his Father die? That man was the sky up above: stormy, arbitrary, relentless at times; but also generous, creative, favorable… he clung to life with a bear hug; drank it by mouthfuls… and that bonfire is going out!

The old man enjoys seeing his Son devour his migas. Of course, no country man can resist them, and deep down, Renato is one of them after all. He always was; the old man is pleased to realize, although he rarely shows it. None like me, Damn it!... he always was soft; his Mother raised him like that. She was sure he was the last, and she had little hope of having more kids… and that I couldn't take care of myself. They were the toughest moments, and against Cantanotte, supported by the barons of Rome. I couldn’t deal with that, and instead, Francesco left me to make money… money! What’s the use of it if our people don’t see it? Big house, land, cattle, chestnut trees... That fills my heart and my eyes, I have those! And now that fox of a Son-in-law will take advantage of it.

And Renato, Renato, why did you marry that paper-thin stump!

“Go ahead, drink, Son, drink; we have not finished yet.”

“There’s more, Father? After the migas?”

142

“I have roasted chestnuts and prepared dried figs, boy!... Look for mustaccioli, that you loved so much, but here they are not so sweet; only Milanese junk… They don’t even have mustaccioli from Notala, the Christmas ones! The mention of the holiday makes him realize something:

“Christmas is almost here, after all! Milan makes one forget that; they know nothing of festivities because they don’t exist here… Do you remember the saying about

December? Jornu ottu Maria, u tridici Lucia, u vinticincu ‘u Missia!... do you remember?

We have to have a manager for the child! But you forgot that, didn’t you?”

His eyes shine from the allusion and the nostalgia it brings.

“For yours I brought down cork, liérnago branches, and bushes from the mountain… The figures were your Mother’s contribution. They would go around the house if they were not broken, her grandmother bought them in Naples… Your Mother bathed the murinedhi in honey, while I made the Catanzaro must; it was better than those of the mountain!... but you liked the chestnuts better than anything… The Notala!... Yes,

Brunettino needs a manger, a real one.

“Father…” the son says moved by the memory of those chestnuts that scorched fingers when they were taken out of the ashes with embers still burning. The boy offered them to the girl… when they were not the gugghieteddhi, the ones cooked in water with matalaúva grains… Oh Father, he thinks, what is to blame for me not becoming a God like you!

The younger hand rests on the older one. Motionless, because if he were to caress it it would have been rejected because of its softness. Suddenly, Renato is alarmed by a bereaved expression in the old man's face.

143

“What’s up Father?”

“Aiu ‘u scilu” says the father smiling and confessing his nostalgia, “but enough!

You have to be happy!... try a glass, I mixed it myself.”

The Son recognizes the drink: mbiscu, anise with rum. Those were the days… his

Father loved to have it with a cup of coffee. He also knew of scilu, sometimes the memories move him; but the past is in the past and he always felt like he didn’t belong in that world. An inherited feeling from the mother? Reaction to the father? Why don’t we understand each other, even If I love you Father… but tonight, at least, we live in the same country; we are together.

“This has been a great day Son! The old man exclaims, starting to clean up the table.

“Leave it Father; tomorrow Anunziata will come and take care of it.”

“And she’ll arrive with Simonetta! What a lady! But I will clean up so that the old one doesn’t suspect our revelry tonight. It’s been fun, huh? And Cantanotte’s agony was such a good reason to celebrate!”

“You, on the other hand, seem to be getting stronger by the day.”

The old man takes the dishes to the sink without responding. He prefers not to lie.

The truth is, there is no way he could climb the mountain like before, since he felt out of breath dancing with Brunettino. The boy clapped his hands, delighted, and it was necessary to continue, but the old man was exhausted and sweaty. In the cage of his ribs, his heart was like a mad bird smashing against the bars.

Careful, Bruno, Careful… Yes, tonight I have trusted in myself, but now I’m not so sure. I have to beat that bastard in the race; last longer than him… and I will last, it

144 has already been decided! Because my Brunettino gives me life… because of him I will get to sit under the vines and watch him play… at least one summer… and why not the chestnuts too?

This thought gives him an air of security that Renato thinks is due to the mbiscu and encourages him to hum while washing the dishes. The Son helps him, and when they have finished, they go into Brunettino’s bedroom and lean over their quiet treasure. They go back into the hall, and about to return to their respective rooms, they look back and throw their arms around each other. It’s a strong hug; strong, beautiful, and melancholy all at the same time. Like between war comrades, the old man thinks darkly.

Renato, already in bed, misses another different hug. Loving me so much, dad, why do you reject my Andrea?... right, she took me away from there, but only to make me more like you, more like a man!... yes, with her body, can you not understand that? Her body! Her firm flesh burns, her nerves run wild, her legs link with mine, demanding, demanding, demanding until she gives me everything, exasperatingly, on the verge of fainting, of collapse!... Next to you I would not have grown up. Next to her on the other hand… tonight I miss her; with those memories I feel like a thrown-out child… Her absence is so distressing, I didn't know emptiness could do that to a person…!

The old man is tucking himself in. The smell of his old blanket reinforces his vision of Bruenttino scampering in the yard after the chickens or the cats, while his own face receives the warmth of the sun filtered through the vines.

Looking at this horizon, as luminous as the mountain itself, in vain Rusca - calmed by the mbiscu - stirs and changes positions in old man’s insides.

145

What does the snake matter? Nothing, especially after tonight when Renato recovered and became sensitive to his blood, worthy of the magical territory limited by the child's little fingers. This southern night lit up Milan for them alone. The three of them: root, trunk, and flower of the Roncone tree. A smile has settled on the sleeping lips of the old man, like a butterfly. The idea that fluttered in his heart when sleep enveloped him:

How great is life!

146

TWENTY-TWO

Anunziata grunts down the hall.

Men! You can’t leave them alone for a second! How did they make a mess of the whole house in just a day? And the waste! My pescadito en salsa thrown into the trash!...

They must have eaten out, because they didn’t leave any dirty dishes… at least they have the casserole of old Anunziata if they get hungry… Lord, what men! Thank god I stayed single!

The old man crosses paths with her. He hasn’t asked, but he can’t take it anymore:

“Wasn’t your niece coming today too?”

“She has exams or something. She will be here later.” and she adds, susceptible:

“Besides, I don’t need her.”

The old man goes into his room and Anunziata wonders, once again, what happened that day when she was absent and Simonetta took her place, because the girl has enthusiastically talked about Mr. Roncone ever since: about his partisanship, about how intriguing he was… Ever since she started going out with that damn Romano, she thinks every communist is intriguing… Simonetta would deny it, but the Grandfather is communist, Anunziata thinks, and if he isn’t, he should be.

Anunziata understands that her niece gets along well with the old man: she’s as bad as him. Simonetta, she thinks, is up to something unforgivable and it will end up bad; she takes after her Father, the Palermo one. I’m sure she is already sleeping with that big red friend of hers. On the other hand she feels sorry for the old man because he is dying and he knows it, although she likes it more when he is sitting still in his armchair,

147 entrusting himself to God. That would give me some peace and quiet! But he doesn’t stop and he is always joyful… it's not that he laughs a lot; it's his gestures, his tranquility… maybe the disease deceives him. Sometimes the Lord is compassionate… Oh how sad it is to arrive at old age! Give me a good death, Santa Rita!... when my time comes, of course.

There is a knock on the door, and although she hurries towards it, when she arrives the old man is already letting in Simonetta, who plants a kiss on each cheek, scandalizing her aunt.

Because of the rain, this time the girl arrives with an Andean poncho. Beneath it she wears these tight, worn, and blue pants like a mechanic and a long sleeve and lilac turtleneck sweater. She reminds the old man of a page in tights in one of the paintings at the museum, the day he discovered the statue of the two warriors. He is amazed: for the first time he is not irritated at seeing a woman in pants.

Brunettino is making an uproar from his cot. The old man arrives first, and

Simonetta is right on his heels, sending sweet words to the child. Anunziata is overwhelmed and gets back to the tasks at hand. So Brunettino finds himself, like that other day, next to the woman’s breasts, and, as if he remembers it, puts on the same posture, smile, and little murmur of satisfaction.

The old man lowers his gaze towards Simonetta's behind. Wow, what feminine hips, and yet surprisingly innocent, like a boy’s…! That is to say, (the old man hesitates, not really sure what he means) well, yes, like a boy’s; innocent, no, attractive. What is happening to me? The old man thinks surprised. This has always been very clear to me: a woman is a woman and a man is a man, and that's that. The rest is all made up. He starts

148 to remember, uneasily, that day his hands morphed into feminine ones. Maybe babysitting tasks, like doing up buttons and changing diapers, can transform a man?

Simonetta surprises the masculine gaze.

“Like what you see, zío Bruno?”

Her smile and her voice, both naively provocative, calm down the old man: they guarantee that his admiration was directed towards a woman.

“You bet your ass!” he lets out, and they both burst into laughter. And he adds, avoiding the subject:

“How were those exams? Do you think you did well?”

“They weren’t exams.”

The response sounds clandestine, and the old man looks at her intrigued.

Simonetta brings the child in close, and he steps back a bit, fearful that Brunettino, like that other day, will once again untie them with his little arms… Me, fearful?... what is happening to me?

“I lied to my aunt,” confesses Simonetta. “I came from a meeting that is preparing us for the university strike for the detained comrades the day before yesterday… please don’t tell my aunt; her lectures bore me to death.”

They smile, and the old man seals his lips when Anunziata suddenly appears.

“Child, you have not come here to play with the little one.”

Simonetta puts an unwilling Brunettino in the arms of the old man, and leaves while exclaiming:

“One second, auntie. Let me just take off my boots.”

149

Her thick socks, like the other day, appear in the kitchen when Anunziata announces it’s time to eat. The old man insists on eating with them, against Anunziatas wish. She prefers to eat alone with the young woman, although now they can't speak as comrades. The page in her tights moves with such grace and vibrant joy like those girls from Roccasera in the town festivals. Sometimes, when passing the dishes behind her aunts back, she gives the old man a knowing smiling face. Her youthful presence makes lilacs bloom in his old heart.

Therefore, when night arrives, the dinner shared between the old man and his Son, although simpler than the previous days, leads to the same placidity and understanding between the two. In the air lingers a trace of sentimental feminine perfume, and it reminds Renato - who ignores the cause - of Andrea, while it reminds the old man of…

Then, at dawn, the old man in the child's room explains something to Brunettino, or perhaps himself.

I repeat it, my child, women understand nothing, but their surprises are the best in life… And Simonetta is a woman, although I… Does it not surprise you that when she arrived, I thought she seemed like a young man… yet I still liked her? What is wrong with me! Well, with that tight ass… But those little breasts… You will know about that,

Brunettino, and how they tempt a man. Round and a little stiff, right? I like them big, but all are sweet… What beautiful things await you in life, my boy! I enjoy them now, you see, just like you will in the future… and don’t even think about it, just grab what you enjoy like a real man: without cheating, but without shrinking either. When a woman wants to put you under her, you be like the rooster over the hen; when I was your age I was already weaning off the little goat from the mom to suck… well not at your age, but I

150 still couldn’t lift myself off the ground… you take a good drink out of everything, bad steps always come, and what you have not enjoyed in his time you can no longer enjoy in mine. But what are you doing? Don’t open your eyes yet, it's still too early! Don’t cry either, or they’ll discover me… what's that? You want to lean over the railing now?

Don’t, you’ll fall on your head; If you insist, turn yourself around. How sharp you are my child, understanding every word I say! Sure, feet first, place them lightly on the ground, hang in there… Is it because you already want to rule the world, my child? You see? As soon as you let go you will fall sitting down… No, don’t cry! Come, fall asleep in my arms and then I’ll put you to bed. Your first escape, and you're already repeating it… like that, closed eyes, so tranquil… You are so sweet, tough, loving, young, big… my child you are everything! You fill up this old man’s heart to the brim!

151

TWENTY-THREE

This Milan, how treacherous.

The old man is indignant. He went out into the street under the usual Milan sky, taking the opportunity to get away a little bit, and suddenly, the downpour. The cold wind from the lakes, as they say. What nonsense! This is nothing like our Arvo and Ampollino!

He tries to take a shortcut through new streets, but he does not have time.

Although the water doesn’t startle him, it is strong enough to make him take refuge in an open lobby. Opposite of him, on the corner, the street sign: Via Borgospesso. Why does that street name sound familiar?

Minutes go by. At the end of the entrance hall the elevator door opens, and a woman walks out with an umbrella. She is preparing to open it when she recognizes the old man:

“You?... Well hello there! Did you come to see me or just to get out of the rain?”

She says smiling.

The old man greets her, delighted by the encounter. He has often remembered her well, Mrs. Hortensia: Her great figure, her spontaneous care of the boy, her lightly colored eyes under her black hair. Now he remembers, she gave him her address; that’s why the street name sounded so familiar!

“Once again, your pants are soaked,” the woman laughs, “although now it's water instead of mud. Aren’t you cold?”

“I’m used to it. And with you nearby, how could anyone be cold?” He says, multiplying his shameless wrinkles around his eyes.

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She laughs as well. She lets out a hearty laugh, just like a pigeon thinks the old man admiring her round chest.

“What a naughty man you are! A true Calabrian!... Tell me, how’s Brunettino doing?”

The memory makes the old man happy.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t take him out today. He has an upset stomach, and possibly a cold, I think.”

“You're going to be the one with the cold if you stay down here… Come up with me; you need to warm up with a small glass: It is the hora de aperitivo after all.

The old man saunters into the elevator with her.

They go up to her attic apartment, and up there it’s a complete surprise, a complete change of scenery.

The welcome is given in the hallway, as soon as the door is opened, the picture of the sweet Bay of Naples appears at eye level, with the calm Vesubio, but under that valued serenity is fire. With that vision, the old man seems to be lodged in the south, and even more so when he is taken to a well-lit living-dining room despite the overcast sky. A small balcony and a set of windows are home to well-kept plants, and views of Milanese rooftops, among which is the Duomo, with its Madonnia crowning the tallest spire. This attic apartment is like a dovecote above the urban trap; that’s why it's a warm refuge.

Although now the rain is batting down hard on the windows.

The old man relives a sense of security when, during his stealthy war movements, the spy on duty took him to a hiding place where he could let himself fall onto a bed and forget the tense vigilance of every minute. With this on his mind, he settles into the

153 comfortable armchair that is offered to him, wrapping his bare legs in a blanket that does not make him feel old or new, but on the contrary a center of feminine solicitude. The hit of the iron that dries his pants creates between them an old coexistence.

Then, already dressed, he savors the yellow grappa of Gentian, topaz in the glass, embers in the throat, accompanied by a few slices of Graubünden meat turned into southern jerky with just a touch of garlic… What this woman knows… he thinks, she gets me!

Yes, she does get him. She interprets him, anticipates him throughout their talk, while the murmur of the rain rings in the background like a rural fountain… they talk of their country and their lives… that little painting? A scene from Hortensia’s hometown,

Amalfi; a picturesque way up to the Capuchin Convent, with the sea in the background, foaming at the foot of the cliff… The hanging mandolin? Her husband played it very well while she sang. Neapolitan songs, of course! As a young lady she had a lovely voice.

“Since a young lady?” the old man says, “Well that was just yesterday!”

She thanks him for the compliment and continues on… those photographs are of her deceased husband: In one he has on his Navy uniform, in another a round straw hat, adorned with a ribbon.

“Yes, he was a gondolier, Tomasso… And with his mandolin he collected tips from American tourists…! Imagine that: Venetian him and Amalfi me!

They seemed to understand each other well, thinks the old man when he hears her,

Although the man’s face is somewhat boastful… Well, a gondolier has a bad life, a malavitoso… Also, why didn’t she say my Tomasso?... but I will not think badly of him; at least he waged war at sea, that makes him a comrade.

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The rain continues and she invites him to have lunch with her so naturally that it is impossible to refuse, apart from that fact that refusing never crossed the old man’s mind. Anyways it would be too late, since the woman has asked for his house number and phoned that Mr. Roncone will not be coming to lunch.

What a willing housewife! The next thing he knows she is serving him an exquisite pasta. Is it that time passes without feeling, simply breathing at ease?

“In Catanzaro we call the first dish the primo” the old man says, praising the dish and the sugo.

“Well here no, because there is no second dish” she excuses herself. “A little more Grison, if you like, cheese, fruit, and coffee: What I’m offering is what I got.”

The cheese from down south is very delicious. The coffee, fantastic.

“So strong and hot just like usted!”

“And so bitter?” she provokes.

“Usted, bitter? Usted... Well, with all due respect” the old man lets out, “what are we waiting for, let’s address each other as tú - We are country folk after all!”

“I, a countrywoman? The mountains separated me from you all!”

“The mountains united us!”

After all, they brought us together in this nest, he thinks.

As a good Calabrian, the old man disdains the frivolous Neapolitans, but she is so different! After all, Amalfi has its back to their gulf.

The rain subsides without them noticing. Outside is another world. The words languish because in the chair, encouraged by her, he slowly falls asleep. One final nod and he’s there.

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His last thought, before giving in to the drowsiness, is Brunettino cradled in his old arms. He certainly feels as much in his nest as he does in Hortensia’s chair. That explains the happy smile between the child’s rosy cheeks!

Seated opposite, the woman looks at him, hands on her skirt. Her head tilts slightly, and her eyes give away a deep tenderness for that man. Her heart holds unspeakable melancholy; her lips hold the trace of a serene smile.

The old man, sleeping, cannot see this smiling look. But when, at a later hour, he returns back to viale Piave, under some clouds gradually fading into grayish blue, his eyes show - without him knowing - the same tenderness. And his heart feels the same melancholy.

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TWENTY-FOUR

He hears Andreas' key turn the lock. Anunziata and the old man appear in the hallway through different doors. Renato, who picked her up from the airport, enters before Andrea.

While they greet each other, Andrea looks at them and assesses the situation. She goes first to the kid’s room, contemplating her child before giving him a quick kiss. Mrs.

Hortensia would kiss him differently, even if it woke him up, thinks the old man, while

Andrea conspicuously checks the room. Brunettino's plate is slightly to the left on the tablecloth and Andrea shifts it back into place; Anunziata, confused, slightly lowers her head: the irregularity had escaped her.

“May I take off your coat” Renato offers caringly.

A condescending Andrea, as if saying “now you can”, lets him take it off and

Renato hangs it up in their room.

Andrea scours the whole apartment, except for the old man’s room, looking for mistakes. “Well, well”, she repeats, “I am happy to be back home”. She responds to

Anunziata’s slavish questions: “Yes, it was a very good trip. I have excellent impressions of Rome and the Ministry. Dad has so many friends! And Uncle Daniele does too.” In the kitchen she opens the fridge and checks it with a quick glance. “Well, Anunziata, perfect”, she repeats one more time while she exchanges a knowing look with the assistant upon seeing half of a large brown loaf. The old man, who days before would have been irritated by such an inspection, now smiles; after their family dinners in peace, he can now tolerate his Daughter-in-law’s annoying habits.

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Andrea finally walks over to her worktable in the study, and looks through the window at two skyscrapers. After contemplating these two modern obelisks, she sits and becomes still before her papers. Her expression softens; she is back in her haven.

“And this” she asks suddenly and dryly pointing to the corner where, on the little end table, the old man put the day before a small nativity scene.

“Don’t you get it?” the grandpa responds firmly “It’s Jesus’s manger”

“I have decided, in agreement with Renato, of course, to put up a little Christmas tree. It's more practical, more rational.”

The old man pierces his lips. Rational!... Honestly, compared to Jesus, the donkey, the ox, and all the other recognizable figures, what does a tree do for a child?

She can do what she wants, but that nativity set is not moving. And I will explain it to

Brunettino.

“It's getting late for Anunziata” Andrea says after a silence, and she leaves towards the kitchen.

The old man hears her tell Renato, when she passes before their door:

“Wait for me there. Right now I’m coming to unpack.”

Andrea converses a while with Anunziata. Figuring out what happened these past couple of days, surely, thinks the old man. And he smiles mockingly because the biggest event, the miracle, won’t be realized by them: The deep Calabrian coexistence of three

Roncone generations.

Finally Anunziata says goodbye and leaves, while Andrea enters her room, closing herself off with Renato.

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A while later the child wakes up. The old man goes into his room and gets him to sleep again.

Andrea does not leave her room until much later, leaving with a robe on and locking herself in the bathroom. Unpacking the case has taken them that long.

159

TWENTY-FIVE

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Don’t deny it, I can tell these things.” Mrs. Maddalena says with an inciting smile.

The old man admits his annoyance, grumbling. He is quite hurt, betrayed in fact, by the child, who is attracted to the Christmas tree more than the manger.

“It’s natural” says la tarentina, “Your gift sounds too small to be appreciated.”

“Small? But I explained its grand importance to him, and he usually understands these things! Yet he hasn’t even glanced at the ox or the donkey. I spent two thousand

Liras for each, so you better believe they have the most wonderful horns and ears!... The thing is - he explains angrily - is that Andrea doesn’t play fair. She hung on the tree- colored lights that turn on and off by themselves. Of course the child is going to be attracted to it like a lark is to a mirror. And you know what's the worst? After cajoling the child she returned straight back to her papers and that’s that. She doesn't do it to make the child happy or spend time with him, Mrs. Maddalena; she does it just to annoy me!”

A sudden image changes the old man’s mood and makes him smile.

“He is so funny next to that tree! You should see him laugh and clap next to it...”

The old man’s frown begins to creep back. “But he should like the manger better, that’s our thing!”

“Hey, why don’t you try again and get him another gift? Look at everything we bought for Christmas.

The old man, once again, admires this woman who has a solution for every problem. It is understandable that she looks for different ways to liven up her life,

160 because that guy of hers who listens to them is a real ass, and he is called Marino…

Marinello!

Anyways, on the way home, the old man picks up provisions for his secret pantry, and also a package that he solemnly presents to the child as soon as he wakes up from his nap: a small tambourine. The wooden hoop is red, the head is on tight, and the jingles gleam like silver. The old man shakes it and the child, conquered, laughs and stretches out his little hands enthusiastically.

But the tambourine gets under Andrea’s skin immediately.

“That is not a children's toy. He can bite it and cut himself” her sharp voice trills behind his back.

“He won't bite it. Brunettino isn’t stupid!” replies the old man, without turning around and thinking to himself: So you’re allowing those meaningless lights, but not true

Christmas gifts, like the tambourine? In Bethlehem there was no electric light… people these days.

The child makes the old man proud. He brings the jingles to his mouth, smells them even. He hits the drum head enthusiastically, shakes the instrument, and listens to the ring. He shakes the tambourine before the manger with alacrity, turning his back to the lights. And when Andrea wishes to throw out the dangerous toy during a pause in the frenzy, the child holds onto it tightly, and lets out piercing squeals until the mom retires towards the kitchen, defeated, to prepare dinner.

prepare is too generous of a word, thinks the old man. She just undoes a lot of silver paper and plastic placed there to drive up the cost. And inside all of that mess is

161 probably just chemicals, the same type found in a horrendous wine… And yet they insist on calling it a Christmas dinner?

At the table, his fears of a feeble feast are confirmed: Even the soup seems watery. That’s why, at the end of it when they toast with sparkling wine - but, why so serious? Where is the Christmas spirit? - he takes refuge in his memories of past

Christmas Eves: The warm fire in the fireplace, the fragrant fumes of casseroles and roasts, the sharpness of the wine in a jug kissed around, the uproar of people entering and leaving, the homemade sausages and well cured jerky, the hustle and bustle of people grabbing fur coats to go to Mezzanotte mass, Enjoying in the street the cold surge of air on warm cheeks and, on the way back, playing the tumbula around the vrascero with embers crackling on the hearth, singing around the numbers by their joyous names, laughing at the shepherds' maneuvers around the girls who end up singing on their way to bed, with fuzzy ideas and excited bodies, full of more blood and life than wine… more than one Roccaseran, baptized nine months after, will be truly born on Christmas eve!

At dawn, in his bed, Rusca wakes him up by stirring. You didn’t like that dinner, did you? And even if it's sparkling, wine shouldn't go in the fridge!... In Milan everything is cold; I don’t know why Renato would be in such a hurry to go to bed with his Milanese wife.

While trying to appease the snake, he puts on his pants, throws his blanket over him, and as usual, advances stealthily though the hall. He arrives at the crib without a sound: He was the partisan in charge of the most difficult discoveries for a reason. He leans over the little face, that white magnet that sets the full moon every night.

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I should be angry, Brunettino, because your first choice was that German tree nonsense… but you made me so happy with the Tambourine! She was not amused, but she left soon enough. Oh, you are such a good scoundrel, like your grandpa, thank

God!... Who needs Christmas lights? They’re just pointless decor, even if they are colorful, nothing like a donkey…! You’ll see soon enough, when we ride ours… Safer than a horse!

The old man contemplates the stubborn little fist grabbing the bedding, he is moved by that little body so tender and already capable of virile erections. It speaks to the real Christmas, the Notala, Not this boring ceremony tonight. The one over there, where something great is born within and you can see the world with fresh new eyes.

You know, my cherub, he thinks for the boy, On that day we picked on the rich and they couldn’t turn us into the police… Because I started out poor, without everything you had. And more than you will have, because I will not let my Son-in-law milk me dry of everything in Roccasera… I was a child without shoes who went with the others to sing at the windows of the only two rich men in town, the Father of Cantanotte and Mr.

Martino who over time, would you believe it, became my Father-in-law. He almost died of disgust when I took his daughter's hand and they had to marry us. It was funny.

Nobody dared try and stop me, and so the world turned around, like a merry-go-round, and you have to know how to get on the white horse, the most beautiful, I'll show you…

But the wedding was much later, back when I was a child singing through his window I couldn’t imagine it. We sang him a strina, A Christmas song to ask for coins, and if they took a long time to throw us some, we would insult them and give them the evil eye…

Anyways, all of our songs were such a laugh! Listen to this one:

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Don’t be like the donkey,

That deafens its own ears,

For if you withhold the winery,

Castrated like the ox, you will fear.

But the songs were not really for wine, since there wasn’t even bread in our houses; but that is never confessed, because if it were, they would be the ones pushing us around… We carried tambourines like yours, my cherub, and zambombas, but you don’t know about those yet. We made them ourselves from rabbit skins we found on the mountain and broken ceramic jars… I had a friend who was very good at making up songs… Oh, listen to this one, you're going to crack up, we sang it to a crapiu pagatu e contentu, a consensual cuckold. You will understand it better when you grow up and cheat on people, but they are really tasty lines! The whole town knew it; Okay here it is, try not to laugh too hard:

Your Son is like the lamb,

And you’re like Saint Joseph,

You’re not the man,

Even if your wife’s the hostess.

Isn’t that just pure gold? Don’t you want to believe that crapiu gave us the most money out of anyone? There was nothing he could do but take the joke!

What charm that damn Toniolo had! Wild and handsome, it seemed like he would devour the world. The women devoured him with their eyes, so, at around eighteen, the

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Marchioness took him to a country house of hers for work. Yeah, yeah, good work he must have done for her… it made me envious. But, in that same country house, near

Rome, Toniollo died soon after from malaria. In the meantime, my stars were aligning without me having to leave Roccasera.

To align his stars again, he touches the bag hanging from his neck, because a shadow seems to have thickened over his most precious star, Brunettino. He stands up very alert, in case he has to protect the child, but it ends up being nothing, perhaps a trick of the mind because of another remembered strina, a very different one, so short yet filled to the brim with melancholy:

Christmas eve is coming,

Christmas eve is leaving,

And we will go,

Never to return again.

Have you heard it, Brunettino? And how true it is, but we are donkeys, so we sing it and laugh… Only now do I realize what the song says, because back then I never cared about death. Dying would only be bad if you realized you weren't alive, Imagine! But since you don’t figure it out, what does it matter?... although it matters a great deal now, because of you. I can’t leave you alone in this Milanese trap, you know. I didn’t want to tell you all this, but it has escaped me. Besides, you better get used to the idea: this

Christmas Eve is my last, and if not, surely the penultimate… Don’t rush; I have time to set you on the right path… Well, you’re already on it my little one. We have the whole summer and fall, and I will last as long as you need. As soon as that bastard drops dead,

165 we’ll go there to the land of men, and I'll explain everything to you. Then I will no longer mind dying, because what I teach you you will never forget. You’ll take root and become as tall and straight a tree as I am, Brunettino, I swear.

The old man is silent, because after promising this golden future, grief strangles him and weighs down his eyes… Despite trying his best not to, he breaks into a sob…

I would have liked to seen you grow up into a man: valiant, handsome and loved by many… I would have liked it so much!

In this instant, the miracle takes place. The little eyes swing open, black, two inscrutable deep wells with the deep water of a decision. Suddenly, like when the old man stood up against the worrying shadow, the little body moves, uncovers itself, and lets two little legs go over the railing and fall to the ground, and when he lets go of the railing he stays standing and heads towards his sitting grandfather… And all by himself he takes three wobbly steps until he reaches the old, trembling arms!

Arms that embrace him, hug him, squeeze him, and soften around him, that lukewarm wonder. His cheeks are dampened by a few salty drops rolling over quivering lips…

“Your first steps! Towards me! I… I…”

The happiness, so immense that it hurts, floods over his words.

166

TWENTY-SIX

“More coffee, papà?”

Andrea and the old man are in the kitchen having breakfast. Nearby, in the bathroom, the buzz of Renato’s electric razor. After the festivities of the night before, the morning rush resumes. The coffee machine is slow, and Andrea grows impatient.

“Yes, thanks… And stop calling me papà.

“Sorry, it’s just a habit of mine.”

“From now on call me grandpa, nonno.”

Any irritation Andrea felt is now replaced with sheer surprise. How he loves my

Son! Now it's the old man's turn to be irritated, as he senses Andrea’s tenderness towards him.

“What are you looking at? Isn’t that what I am after all? A grandpa, hell!”

Grandpa. The old man savors the word during the dawn, during his post next to

Brunettino. Nonno, nonnu in Calabrian: Sounds like a dull cowbell on the male leader of the herd. Also like a lullaby next to the crib. Nonnu he whispers repeatedly, without waking up the child. He explained it to the snake once:

It's what I am Rusca. I am a Father and Father-in-law, yes, but I am also something so much more: A grandpa. The only one my Brunettino has; while other kids have two and two grandmothers… Yet still more than I had: none! I didn’t know what a grandparent was when I was growing up, and I still don’t really understand it. That’s how I became desgarrao! Oh, and also a man, or course! But you too can become a man, and also… I don’t know, but I feel something inside of me, something new, something

167 more, growing… What?... Brunettino, you understand me… No, perhaps not, because you are like me. A Grandmother would understand, but you only have me… and it’s so nice to hug that little body and hear it murmur like a tame pigeon!... But something soft and tender grows inside me you see… before I laughed at such things. Things of women!...

But now there’s this lamb…

This last idea surprises him and, what's even more, he feels it without being embarrassed. Can it be possible? If I had known before…!

As if pulling on reins, he stops his thoughts in their tracks when he peeks out - as he usually does - into unknown, interior, and rough tracks on which a figure is approaching. But he does not close his eyes at the sudden evocation of Dunka, because those feelings would have been explained by her: she who precisely tried to lead him through the darkness… darkness, manhood… What am I thinking about!... where is this coming from?

And now, so suddenly, Hortensia! How will she spend Christmas? At her

Daughters’ home, surely, beautiful as usual. She has a daughter, Rusca, and even a

Granddaughter. How about that? It seems impossible for such a young woman to be a grandmother… She says that she no longer has a voice. Impossible! She will have sung for them, as they all did the Tarantella throughout Christmas Eve. They must have danced to real music too, not of that junk Andrea plays. Music, a Manger, and no

German trees!

Now, while he drinks his coffee, he ignores the comings and goings of his Son and Daughter-in-law, and keeps ruminating on the plan that he conceived subtly last night. Would it be right to get Hortensia some flowers? And which ones? Just imagining

168 himself walking down the street with a bouquet, like one of those bachelors, makes him nervous. But he has to do something, after all her little kindnesses, besides just visiting her at these parties… He remembers then that in the gardens there is a florist’s kiosk and from there it is only a little walk to via Borgospesso: It is decided.

That is how, later, he finds himself going up her apartment's cramped elevator with a bouquet in hand. He is wary, as always, that this box will get stuck in the chimney… He has already buzzed her from the doorway, and she invites him up. Now, he waits for her on the attic landing.

As always: clean, simple, lively. And furthermore, welcoming him with astonished joy:

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Please, come in, come in.”

The old man clumsily offers her the roses, which according to the florist, were the most appropriate. She takes the roses to her face, taking them in.

“They’re splendid!... usted…

“Hey, enough of usted. Tú. Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks, Merry Christmas to you too.”

She offers her cheek, and he kisses it. It smells better than the roses. And her hair is like firm silk!

“You like them?” the old man asks, already sitting down, watching her fix the flowers in a jar.

“You know what we women like”

“I suppose” the old man responds seriously, adding: “It's the first time I’ve brought flowers to a woman”

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And it’s the truth; Dunka was the one who offered him flowers. But the woman is in disbelief, and turns to him, her eyes filled with seriousness behind that permanent sparkle, like a calm river on a sunny day. The surprise makes her indiscreet:

“But you have known many women!”

The virile smile is more than enough to confirm it.

“But I never needed flowers.”

She doesn’t dare reply. Instead, she finishes fixing up the flowers, centering them on the table and, without saying anything, disappears for a second and returns with the grappa and a small glass. She asks:

“How was your Christmas Eve?”

“I spent it with my Grandson. Other than that, those two put on a lousy Christmas

Eve… You must have celebrated with your daughter!”

“Me? no I was here alone.”

“Alone?” The old man says surprised, thinking: If only I had known… But I couldn’t have left Brunettino alone.

“Young people: they live their own lives. Well, I did too when I was young.

When I left Amalfi, my father tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn’t give in. There was nothing to do there.

The old man looks at her: What sort of life has she lived? It certainly has been an eventful one.

“And will you also stay alone on San Silvestre?”

The feminine smile becomes more prominent.

“Not anymore, I have your roses.”

170

Now it’s the old man who doesn’t dare reply.

She looks at him: What is this man thinking?... Something beautiful, surely…

Well, why not find out?

“What are you thinking right now?”

“I’m thinking about your hair and how beautiful it is.”

I knew she would have a good laugh at that. The old man rejoices when he hears it.

“Why thank you. It would have been bad advertising to have it messy.”

“Why?”

“I’m a hairdresser. Capera, we say.”

“We do too!”

“Wow, for once there is some agreement between Amalfi and Calabria!... I had my clients; I also bought hair and made them into wigs to sell… I took out some rooms to help in my house.

She continues, interpreting the change in the old man’s expression.

“There were some bad hairdressers, all right; but I never got into any drama like them. Also, the profession was declining, with perms and beauty schools.

The impression of the old man upon being discovered: Is she a psychic? No… it's that this woman isn’t afraid to speak her mind.

“Then they end up with damaged hair. But you on the other hand…”

The woman touches her bun again and accepts the compliment.

“I never curl it, just cut it. If it all turns white that would be nice.”

171

All undone, that’s how I would like to see it, thinks the old man. But he talks about his Grandson, and his rather curly hair.

“And he's walking now! He did so last night, just for me!”

“You must be very happy.”

He does not need to say it; but there is a problem. A child that has started to walk needs a different type of shoe. Andrea, impulsively, bought him ugly ones: She calls them moccasins and they are like sandals.

“My Grandson will not walk around like a shepherd,” The old man declares, drinking the grappa in one swig. “He will dress like a gentleman. He needs white socks and little black shoes that shine!”

This is how the old man pictures gentlemen, and the image has remained with him for some time. One sunday, the old man was hiking down the mountain back to

Roccasera with a baby goat around his neck for the marques, who had recently arrived to hunt with two friends. This is the same marques he would later end up buying his vineyards and chestnut groves from. It was the first time he had seen the car, and a skinny blond boy got out: His white socks peeked out of little shoes that gleamed like mirrors.

By the way, he was shot at the end of the war for being a high-ranking fascist.

“Hortensia… do you believe shining shoes are fascist?”

“What did you just say?” She laughs. “Well I will say boots are better than leather shoes since they support the ankle. Your Grandson will be able to walk safely.”

The old man finds it hard to say goodbye to his ideal choice, but he does realize that boots are better suitable for a man. It's buying them that's the tough part. What kind?

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What size? Where? And what if they charge more based on appearances? Because these

Milanese, when they lay their eyes on a country man…

Hortensia offers to accompany him to the shoe store. Thank goodness! Then it's settled; the boots will be a gift from the Three Kings, although that is not the custom. In order to make it a surprise, Hortensia will keep them until the day before. Andrea is sure to have a cow! They both laugh.

The old man says goodbye, leaving in that luminous little home of hers the deep and shared bond of Brunettino’s secret gift. Agil and cheerful the old man takes the stairs down, reminding him of his days when descending the mountain down to his beloved

Roccasera.

173

TWENTY-SEVEN

And those are the famous women?

Andrea registered him for The Senior Citizen Club, frequented by men and women: according to her.

“Women?” The old man perked up.

“Yes, Women.” Andrea says while forcing a smile.

And now the old man looks and the women in the room decorated with Christmas streamers and, of course, a Christmas tree, slanted to the side. But this time the Christmas lights stay on instead of winking.

Some play cards, others form a group sitting on armchairs and couches, with tea or coffee on nearby little tables. There are men too and they talk animatedly, bursting every so often into a high-pitched chuckle. One of the women has stopped playing the piano, and turns on her rotating stool towards the door, and, like the others, looks at the old man who, next to Andrea and the club director, remains stationary under the doorway. The old man looks at them one by one: Women, huh? Those are just a bunch of old hags!... Dolled up with wavy hair and make up… but hags nonetheless!

The men are the same. There is one standing next to the pianist. Two are playing chess; the only two people in the room who did not turn to look at the newcomer.

“Continue, don Amadeo, your voice is better than ever… Magnificent!... The veteran is a great tenor” The director clarifies for the old man.

Well, she insists that they don’t call her director - “I don’t direct anything; everything is decided by our club members. I am only a modest host, one more

174 companion for you all” - But the old man knows that she is the director: You just have to see her and, above all, listen to her. What an air of authority!

“Oh, when I sang at the Scala…” The old singer jabbered on, bowing in a ceremonial gesture of gratitude. He turns a page on the music stand, and tells the pianist: again, please.

The pianist plays some chords. Then while the cracked voice attacks

Leoncavallo’s Matinatta, the director leads Andrea and her Father-in-law to two vacant chairs, in front of a sofa with two ladies on either side and a gentleman in between.

“I don't need to introduce you to them, because it's not necessary here: if you are a member, you already know each other. Our rule is spontaneity, free affective impulse, isn’t that right?”

The three heads on the couch nod repeatedly. The director-host smiles. In fact, everyone here is smiling besides the old man. And Andrea too, who watches him uneasily.

“I’m Ana Luisa,” says one of the old women, at the same time that the other declares herself Teodora. Both have to repeat their greetings because of the confusion.

The second time doesn’t work either, because the man in the middle lets out a burst of laughter that ends in a coughing fit. The third time however is successful, as they almost shout their greetings to the old man.

“Ignore them, friend” the old man lets out as soon as he can speak. “Those aren’t their names, they're just messing with you. They're a pair of jokesters, jokesters I tell you, hee hee…”

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Both the ladies join in with the raspy laughter after that, and the catarroso gives the newcomers a flamboyant wink. At the back of the room the Mattinata is cut off and the dry thud of the piano lid lets everyone know of the indignation of the interrupted artists. The director gets up to appease them, and then the laughter on the couch halts when the catarroso wraps both arms around the feminine waists next to him. Suddenly dignified and stiff, the ladies shake off such arms with the same gesture of disgust.

“Don’t you start, Don Baldassare” Ana Lusia says, or maybe Teadora.

“Learn some manners, how ‘bout you” Teadora says, or maybe Ana Lusia

“Whoever doesn’t appreciate my art can leave. That's right, they should leave!”

The offended tenor repeats in the background, amid the soothing whispers of the director who, finally, after achieving her calming purposes, returns to the new member of the club, just as he is being questioned by don Baldassare.

"And which quinta are you from buddy"

“I was totally useless! I’m actually deaf!” cries the old man, exasperated by that eye in front of him that constantly winks. He shows his teeth in a forced attempt to smile and then heads towards the door. Andrea follows him, as does the director who tries to explain.

“Poor don Baldassare is unfortunately not all there, but we can’t close the doors to anyone… this is a public, municipal club, you understand... But the rest of the members are all very nice people, very nice indeed.”

Andrea manages to get his father-in-law to visit the other facilities lauded by the director: "Here we have the library… good afternoon, doctor, we won’t interrupt you… a great selection, so many good reads… the living room with the television, a very

176 comfortable space… Here we have the auditorium, very spacious isn’t it. We give many lectures here… very interesting… sometimes we play movies here too, or put on our own theatrical plays… Look, a month ago we put on Vestir al desnudo and received great criticism for it. Do you like Pirandello, Mr. Roncone? Actually, do you mind if I call you

Don Salvatore? Here we use first names, it's more spontaneous… But do you like

Pirandello?”

Finally they find themselves back in the lobby, where a mural reads: The House of

Joy, To Laugh is to Live. The director starts to say goodbye to them. Andrea, although disheartened, admires the old man's prudent silence. She does not know that it is due to pure shock. Since he entered, the old man has been wondering if all these people are real, if there are humans that really live like this. Not even being Milanese can explain something like this. He is speechless, and that is why he shares no words. Only at the end, he asks hesitantly:

“Are they all like that”

“Like what?” asks the director, raising her limpid aquamarine eyes. Andrea shrinks inwardly, waiting for the insult.

“So… old and stuff”

The director's frankness shines.

“What a thing to say don Salvatore!... There are no old people here, dear sir; we are simply part of the third age. The best age, if you know how to live it. Come back and see for yourself: We’ll teach you.”

Walking ahead Andrea laments her failure. She had been under the illusion that, with the Club so close to home, the old man could go frequently and not pamper the boy

177 so much. All his pampering is impeding on the boy's proper education. Therefore, she is dumbfounded when the old man says he will visit again.

“Maybe other people will be there next time” the old man clarifies with that indecipherable look that he sometimes casts, narrowing his astute eyes with a hint of a smile. Because the old man suddenly sees this club as a means of escape. In the afternoons, with Andrea inhibiting him, his only time to slip away is Brunettino’s bath.

But now with the club, he has an excuse to leave and see Hortensia.

And so what if they find out he reproaches himself. I do what I want. True, but it's not just about going out. It's also about tricking Andrea. This idea calms his spirits, convincing himself that nobody controls him.

178

TWENTY-EIGHT

Have we been here before?

The old man ignores it. Up on the mountain he never gets lost, but here… Today all the streets look the same, like in a labyrinth, through which Hortensia guides home without hesitation. The shoe stores are all confused as one, although in some they ask questions, in others they come to see boots that his guide rejected and the majority of them they did not go past the window, going round and round from one to the next among so many other hurried last-minute shoppers, shifting through the traffic.

Finally they buy some boots in Mondoni, the first shop they entered: It is

Hortensia herself who, triumphantly, makes the old man notice it.

“I already knew that these were the best. But, if we didn’t look at the others, we might have missed something cheaper right around the corner.

The old man does not really agree, but he had been happy throughout their thorough expedition, happy even when he felt lost, because then he got to hold hands with Hortensia. It's a pleasure to accompany her: She wraps herself up in a pretty gray leather jacket and wears good boots. Overall, she has taken hold of his arm and the old man feels the elastic firmness of female skin on his elbow. She boasts:

“Look at how men stare at you.”

“They look at the both of us.”

“At me? If anything it's because of my old fur coat.

“They look at your stature and walk.”

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“Yes, good mountain legs. I would beat all of them to the top of a high mountain… and you, aren’t you tired? Because what a lasting job I have given you!

“Job? We women love to go shopping. And you needed the best boots you could find - at a good price too!

A good price? The old man spent the last of his savings on those boots. And that wasn’t even enough to cover them; Hortensia, who would rather contribute than buy a cheaper pair, lent him the last 600 Liras.

“Don’t bring it up: it's for the kid, and he deserves the best. And it's the best, let me tell you. I know these things; I worked six years as a saleswoman at Almacenes

Lombardía, when I was a widow with my little girl… Come on, it's fine, you will pay me back later. It’s what friends do.

“But it will be awhile. I have run out of money.”

He says it so seriously, almost mournfully, that she can’t help but let out a laugh that echoes under the vault of Galería Vittorio Emanuelle, where they have taken refuge from the incipient drizzle. Also, it's already turning dark. People turn their heads, and he smiles. How could anyone resist that jovial face, those white teeth. But immediately he becomes angry:

“Damnit! The land and livestock, but that bloodsucker of a Son-in-law is late in sending me money. When he calls, I yell at him, but I can’t do anything about it... and at my Daughter-in-laws house I don’t want to ask for money.

“There's no rush, don’t make that face: People are going to think we are fighting - but there’s something else on your mind, isn’t there?

“Well I would like to…”

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“Don’t tell me, I already know. Now you want to invite me to have a drink. Is that it?”

She’s a psychic, he thinks to himself, as he suffers for not being able to invite her himself as she deserves. Just as they had stopped in front of a posh cafe.

I can read him like a book, Hortensia thinks, happy with the idea that this man can’t hide anything from her. To her, he is as transparent as a boy. She adds:

“If it is, invite me then. Come on, don't worry about the money. Think of it as taking a loan out of a bank and then paying it and the interest back later on.”

“Ah yes, the interest. Alright, let's go” the old man says joyfully accepting her offer.

She takes his arm again, but only to let it go. It's the man who leads her through the revolving door towards a small table under a low light, sitting next to her on a velvet couch. Hortensia becomes full of pride when she observes, once he has regained command, the country man speaking to the waiter without faltering, with elegance, while ordering a tasty appetizer. Enough, enough, what are we going to do with all this food? she protests grinning, but she does enjoy the food greedily when it comes out, especially the cake. Time flies on that island of intimacy they created in the middle of the city bustle.

“Oh my, it's so late!” Hortensia exclaims looking at her watch. “They're probably worrying about you back at home!”

“They think I’m having fun at some low-life casino.”

“You didn’t tell them we were going out together?”

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“The little boots are a secret, remember… also” He adds gravely “I don't want to hear your name in Andrea’s mouth.

I am your secret, she thinks delighted. She warns:

Do you realize that we have celebrated San Silvestre together? Because I don't drink anything at home anymore.

“That's what I wanted. Are you happy?”

“Very, I think I ought to thank San Francisco… Will you accompany me?”

“To the church? Church isn’t really my cup of tea you see...”

But naturally he gets up with her anyway and helps put on her jacket. He understands why refined people do it this way: It's like hugging the one you love.

The drizzle has stopped. On Via Manzoni she explains that she doesn’t usually go to mass either, but she does go to Sant’ Angelo, to see San Francisco, the saint she likes, especially when she knows there are no priests preaching, because she doesn’t believe in them… They walk some more, paired up in silence, when she exclaims:

“You can even see him without entering the church: Look at him.”

“Who”

“San Francisco”

In the plaza there exists a small octagonal water structure, like the basin of a fountain, but without any central spout. Leaning on the parapet is a friar gazing at a little bird on the other side. Both figures are bronze, but the human attitude is so natural, there from the street, that the simple conception of the artist moves precisely because of its humility. The yellow light from a streetlight ripples vaguely with the water, infusing the bronze reflections with life.

182

“You already know, Burno; he spoke to the birds… I always think that Saint

Francis likes that statue.

He spoke to birds? The old man cannot believe that birds are in this world for us to talk to them. But he imagines Brunettino with a small sparrow in his hands, sure that the child would talk to it. That’s why he loves this fountain. Also, of course, he is walking next to Hortensia, who minutes later introduces him to the church.

A single nave, like in Roccasera, and almost empty, but still open for New Year’s

Eve. Hortensia advances determined toward a chapel on the side and sits on a pew that allows her to see the image of San Francisco. In the altar of the small chapel two lit candles quiver before a Madonna. On the front wall, a blackened big picture.

The old man contemplates the profile of the woman by his side. It has the same tender simplicity of the statue, with that straight hair pulled back, that relaxed nose, those serene lips. The old man likes that she doesn’t mumble her sentences; just one thing that makes her unlike the beatas. But so many other things make her the complete opposite as well: she embodies her inner peace and satisfied fullness, with her two hands on her skirt and the slow rhythm of her chest. Now a surprised sigh escapes her, more blissful than troubled. The old man feels perturbed, as if he was violating an intimacy, and diverts his gaze towards the painting.

His vision, already more accustomed to the twilight, makes out Saint Christopher.

Water up to his knees, leaning on a stout staff, the saint looks at the child on his shoulders, holding on to him with his other hand. Between the waves, sinister shadows like fabulous monsters can be seen, but the saints countenance shows nothing but pure ecstasy as he contemplates Jesus. The old man, without realizing it, reproduces the

183 expression because the child reminds him of Brunettino, holding the world up as if it were a ball.

But my Brunettino is sharper, more cunning. This bambino is painted like the rest, stupid. It’s easy to see he is afraid of falling, grasping on to the guy’s hair… Come on,

Cristóforo, hold him better! Don’t get the poor thing wet!

Hortensia, alerted by the whisper, turns to look at the old man, surprised to see him move his lips in a prayer. But it does not last long, and he becomes silent, struck now by the impression that he should remember something. What could it be?

When he closes his eyes to remember it better - it is surely something from many years ago - he finds himself in Roccasera, in the parish church. The same, prudent steps, creaking doors, crackling of candles… The same smell of wax and humidity. But this other memory does not lead him to the lost memory. Is it buried somewhere in my lost world, my childhood, back in Roccasera?

Time starts back up again. They get up, go out into the street and return towards the nearby via Borgospesso, which they left behind on their pilgrimage to Sant’ Angelo.

The cold worsens, and she gets close to the man and they walk faster…

They say goodbye at Hortensia’s doorway.

“Happy new year.”

She offers him her cheek, and he takes off his hat and kisses both. When he leaves, after seeing her enter, he takes with him a softness on his lips, a brush of hair on his forehead, and a serene profile in his memory.

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TWENTY-NINE

New Year’s Eve at home is torture for the old man because, after his snack with

Hortensia, he is forced to try Andrea’s dishes that she has painstakingly prepared, scrupulously attending to the recipes of her Libro del hogar. The excess made Rusca stir, who keeps biting healthy flesh. The old man just wants to go to bed, but his daughter-in- law has decided that they should spend the entirety of New Year’s Eve in front of the TV, like all of Italy. The old man puts up with it until midnight when, secretly, he takes a sedative recommended by the professor for sharp pains.

After the celebration and the kisses he retires immediately to his room, when he starts to talk to the -, and opens up the sofa-bed, but he can’t sleep. He knows that the medicine will make him drowsy, preventing him from waking up at dawn, and because of this he decides to see Brunettino before, as soon as he wakes up. Zso when the noises in the bathroom stop and his Son and daughter-in-law head to bed, the old man grabs his blanket and moves cautiously towards the child’s room. There he kisses a sleeping

Brunettino delicately, and wishes him a long and full life, leaning over him like the branch of a willow tree. Then he sits himself on the ground, wraps himself in his blanket and leans against the wall, his customary guard position.

The blanket is precisely what unearths the memory which he couldn’t quite pin down since he started to flutter his limbs in front of San Cristobal. In vain he rummaged through his old childhood world, because the memory did not pertain to him, but to another San Silvestre, and a pillar in a public fountain. The scent of the blanket is not only of his pastoral childhood, but also of his partisan adventures, and that scent tears the

185 veil, bringing forth a memory forged only four years ago: that San Silvestre, in which he met Dunka so dramatically.

Suddenly he relives everything: His surprise in the cafe when he saw his link was a girl and, then and there, the smell of danger, the most opportune escape, the shot that hit him in the side, and his trick of misleading the gestapo by hiding in the basin of the monumental fountain, Immersed in the water like San Cristobal… The woman guiding him valiantly though the unknown city, until she brought him to a hiding place of the resistance, where only then did she allow herself to tremble with fear. How could he have forgotten about the unforgettable: Saint Silvestre that led them to Rimini. I carried it so deep inside, just like my heart, that, as they say, I forgot it was even there.

Memories now cradle him, a melancholic wave of embers and ash, past and present mixed together and together with the sedative, he soon falls asleep, like nights without wolves guarding the sheepfold. The child wakes up and even sits up suddenly, maybe waking up from a bad dream; but when he recognizes the curled-up old man, a smile forms, and like a satisfied kitten, he closes his eyes , changes his posture, and falls back to sleep.

There are dreams, however, floating in the bedroom, conjured perhaps by the singularity of that night split between two years, and they infiltrate like visions in the sleeping old man. A woman with bright colored eyes - just as fast as they turn green they fade to gray - She drags him by the hand vertiginously through a labyrinth of alleys, and it is an agony to follow her because she is missing a boot, and then later, bleeding, and then they no longer run: They find water around their necks, their backs against the wall, in front of dark statues that are lit up by powerful lights revealing the cubby face of a

186 mocking cherub… then, he does not know how, his hair is very long and the woman is combing his hair, slowly, very slowly, or maybe it is someone else forcing him to be still, and the comb continues down his body and scratches him, digs in, rips through his belly causing the strange comber to laugh as if the pain were a joke, and gives him a talking bird, which perches on his shoulder and becomes heavy, more and more, and it bends him, even though he is leaning on a study crook... no its the arm of the woman, the hairdresser, or the other one if there even was another one? He does not know, he becomes restless…

Fortunately, despite the sedative, wakes up in time to return to his room before the married couple wakes up. Then he sleeps well into the first day of the new year. Andrea, without class for the holidays, confesses to having been scared.

“Humph! It's because I slept well. Maybe I drank a little too much last night. I don’t remember.”

Andrea is surprised: The old man did not taste the wine. But before she can clarify this the child starts to scream in his room and the Grandfather runs to enjoy the first infantile graces.

187

THIRTY

Andrea had not believed the old man’s words, but he left at five for The Senior

Citizen Club. Apparently, he must have made some friends, because it’s nine and he still has not returned.

“Look, let's just eat now. It won’t take long.” proposed Renato.

“What if something happened to him?”

“To who? My Father?”

His Father is capable of overcoming anything, but Andrea insists:

“He’s old.”

True Renato thinks sadly. And not to mention… But he is always so firm and content that they forget his disease. His deadly disease.

Andrea telephones the club, but the director has already left, and the receptionist is unable to confirm that the new member, Mr. Roncone, is here… No one answered the call over the microphone, but that's apparently normal. Those old-timers never listen, the employee explained scornfully. Andrea and Renato look at each other indecisively.

At this moment they hear the key in the lock. They hear cautious steps, as to not wake up the child, and in comes the old man with an air, indeed, of having enjoyed himself. He vaguely apologizes and they express their concern.

“Hah! What could have possibly happened to me.”

Renato smiles: it's true, nothing at all. The old man continues in a good mood, talking off his fur coat.

I had a stupendous afternoon. Absolutely brilliant”

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Andrea, stupefied, goes into the kitchen to serve a dinner that's already set. The old man displays a splendid appetite and drinks a little. Renato and his wife look at each other in amazement. Already in bed, lights out, Andrea cannot take it anymore:

“Truly, your Father…” she sighs “I don't get him. I don't get him at all. It’s like he's from a different planet.”

The old man’s planet, that afternoon, had been called Feliz Año Nuevo! - the title of the popular show varietés offered by the city in a portable theater installed in Pizzale

Accursio. Hortensia had invited him there and they settled among a crowd of kids, vets, and people of their age. Now, in his bed, the old man is replaying his joyful day, and remembering all the different acts. The couple on their bikes that were falling apart what an ass she had, that wench, the magician who sawed his skinny assistant inside a box only to appear in the audience, the tarot card reader (but this is always a trick), the trapeze swingers with the poor boy doing somersaults, the ballet that came on stage between the acts showing beautiful pairs of thighs… But above all Mangurrone, the famous Mangurrone, the superstar with his jokes and funny sketches… Mangurrone, encore! people chanted, Man-gu-rro-ne Man-gu-rro-ne, and Mangurrone reappeared with a different characterization to offer another to his dead and respectable Milanese audience…

The old man stifles a laugh when he remembers that act where Mangurrone convinces a showgirl that she has transformed into a cow and shows it by caressing an imaginary tail and putting her on all fours to milk her - The man imitated it well, you could understand that he understood milking! - and falling into the audience's view, a

189 white stream of milk appeared to flow into the bucket placed under the girl, while she mooed for show.

How did he do that? Mangurrone even got an audience member to come up and try the authentic cow milk… But he saved the best for last: Mangurrone shouted that he felt transformed into a bull and got on all fours behind the showgirl with obvious intentions. The girl trotted out, and he followed, in a madly applauded exit.

“You must have really enjoyed the show. I love hearing you laugh like that!”

Hortensia said.

“That guy is great!... maybe he seizes the young woman on stage and… go figure!”

“What things you think of!”

“Things of life! Goats are not disgusted up there in the mountains. And sorry.”

Hortensia looked at him kind-heartedly:

“You laugh like a child”

“Just how one ought to laugh” He answers, looking her in the eyes and slowly stopping when he perceives in them such joyful tenure, so much vital clarity…”

The perfect mother for my Bruenttino! The old man sighs now in bed.

What mother’s arms!

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Fotheringham, Alasdair. “José Luis Sampedro: Economist who became an Inspiration for Spain's Anti-austerity Movement”, in The Independent. 29 May 2013. Accessed 13 December, 2020.

Nabokov, Vladimir, and Maxim D. Shrayer. “Nabokov: Letters to the American Translator.” Agni, no. 50, 1999, pp. 128–145. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/23007782. Accessed 2 Apr. 2021.

“Spain’s ‘Indignant’ Hero Sampedro Dies”, in The Local. 9 April 2013. Accessed 24 October 2020.

Sampedro, Jose Luis. Escribir es vivir. Debolsillo, 2007.

Sampedro, Jose Luis. La sonrisa etrusca. Random House, 1985.

Venuti, Lawrence. The Translation Studies Reader 2nd Edition. Routledge, 2004.

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