by Viola Ardone
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Part One: 1946
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Three
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part Four: 1994
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
A Note on the Lyrics
A Note From the Translator
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part One
1946
1
MAMMA IN FRONT; ME BEHIND. MAMMA STRIDES through the narrow streets in the Spanish Quarter: it takes two steps of mine to keep up with every one of hers. I look at people’s shoes. Shoes with no holes in them equal one point; shoes with holes in them, minus one point. No shoes: zero points. New shoes: I get a star-studded prize. I’ve never had a pair of shoes of my own; I wear other people’s shoes and they always hurt. Mamma says I don’t walk straight but it’s not my fault; it’s other people’s shoes that are the problem. They are the shape of the feet that wore them before me. They’ve taken on their habits, walked on other streets, played other games. By the time they get to me, what do they know about the way I walk, or where I want to go? They need to get used to me little by little; but then my feet grow, the shoes get too small for me, and we’re back to square one.
Mamma in front; me behind. I have no idea where we’re going, she says it’s for my own good. There must be a catch, like when I had head lice. It’s for your own good, she said, and then she shaved my head so I looked like a melon. Luckily, my friend Tommasino got the melon treatment, too, for his own good, of course. The kids in our street teased us, saying we looked like skulls that had escaped from the ossuary at Fontanelle Cemetery. In the beginning, Tommasino wasn’t my friend. One day, I saw him steal an apple from Capajanca, the vegetable man with the barrow at Piazza del Mercato, and I thought we could never be friends because Mamma Antonietta always says we may be poor, but we are certainly not thieves. Better beggars than thieves. But Tommasino had seen me and had taken an apple for me, too. Since the apple had been given to me, and it wasn’t me who stole it, I finished it off. I was so hungry he could see it in my eyes. We’ve been friends since then. Apple friends.
Mamma walks right in the middle of the street and never looks down. I drag my feet and count points so I don’t get scared. I count up to ten on my fingers and then I start again. When I get to ten times ten, something nice will happen. That’s how the game goes. Until now nothing nice has ever happened to me, though. Maybe I count the points wrong. I like numbers quite a lot. Letters not so much. One by one, I can recognize them, but when they’re all mixed up into words, I get confused. Mamma says she doesn’t want me to grow up like she did, and that’s why she sent me to school. I went, but I didn’t like it one bit. For one thing, the kids were yelling all day and I used to come home with a headache. The classroom was tiny and smelled like sweaty feet. And then I had to sit still all day at my desk in silence and draw rows and rows of straight lines. Our teacher had a pointy chin and spoke with a lisp. If anyone copied her, she would whack them on the head. I had ten whacks in five days. I counted them like my shoe points, and I didn’t get a prize that time either. After a while, I decided I didn’t want to go to school anymore.
Mamma wasn’t happy about it, but she said at least I had to learn a trade and so she sent me to collect rags. At first, I liked it. My job was to go from house to house, or down to the garbage dump, pick up old rags, and then take them to Capa ’e Fierro’s market stall. After a few days, I was so tired from my rounds that I even missed the whacks the pointy-chinned teacher had given me.
Mamma stops in front of a gray-and-red building with big windows.
“It’s here,” she says.
This school looks nicer than the last one. It’s quiet inside and there’s no stench of feet. We go up to the second floor, and they make us sit on a wooden bench in a corridor, until a voice calls out: “Next.” Since nobody else moves, Mamma thinks we must be next and we go in.
Mamma’s name is Antonietta Speranza. The signorina waiting for us writes her name on a sheet of paper and says, “This is your last option.” That’s when I think: Okay, Mamma’s going to turn around and go home now. But she doesn’t move.
“Do you whack your students?” I ask the signorina, covering my head with my arms just in case. She laughs and pinches my cheek gently, without squeezing.
“Sit down,” she says, and we sit down facing her.
The signorina doesn’t look a bit like my last teacher. She doesn’t stick her chin out, her smile is full of straight white teeth, her hair is cut short, and she wears pants like a man. We sit in silence. She says her name is Maddalena Criscuolo and that maybe Mamma remembers her, because she fought to liberate us from the oppression of the Nazi-Fascists. Mamma nods her head, but I can tell that she has never heard the name Maddalena Criscuolo before today. Maddalena tells us that during the “Four Days of Naples” she had saved the bridge at Rione Sanità, because the Germans wanted to blow it up with dynamite; in the end, she says, she was given a bronze medal and a certificate. I think she would have done better with a pair of new shoes, because she has one good shoe and one with a hole in it (zero points). She says we have done the right thing coming to see her, that most people are too ashamed, that she and her comrades knocked on every single door in the neighborhood to convince mothers that this was a good thing, for them and for their children. She also says that they had a lot of doors slammed in their faces, and a few curses too. I can believe it because when I go and knock on doors looking for old rags, people often cuss at me. The signorina says that a lot of good families have trusted them, that Mamma Antonietta is a brave woman, and that she is giving an important gift to her son. I’ve never had a gift, except for an old tin sewing box I keep my precious things in.
Mamma Antonietta waits for Maddalena to stop talking, because talking is not her strong point. The woman says kids should be given a chance but, to tell the truth, I would be much happier with a slice of bread with ricotta cheese and sugar on top. I tried it once at a party I crashed with Tommasino, held by some Americans (old shoes: minus one point).
Mamma doesn’t say a word, that’s why Maddalena keeps talking: they’ve organized some special trains to take children up north. My mother finally says something.
“Are you sure you want him? Look at this kid. He was sent by God to pun
ish us!”
Maddalena says they’ll put a whole bunch of us on the train, not just me.
So it’s not a school, I finally realize, smiling.
Mamma isn’t smiling.
“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here. This is my only choice, so see what you can do.”
When we leave, Mamma walks one step ahead of me, but more slowly than before. We walk by the pizza stall, where normally I would be pulling on her skirt and wailing until she walloped me. This time, though, she stops.
“Pork rind and ricotta cheese, please,” she asks the boy behind the counter. “Just one.”
I hadn’t asked her for anything, and I realize that if Mamma, of her own accord, decides to buy me fried pizza for a mid-morning snack, there must be a catch somewhere.
The man wraps a piece of pizza as yellow as the sun and as wide as my face. I’m so scared I’ll drop it that I grab on to it using both hands. It’s warm and smells delicious; I blow on it and the aroma of olive oil fills my nose and mouth. Mamma bends down and looks me in the eye.
“You heard what she said, right? You’re a big boy now; you’ll be eight soon. You know the situation we’re in, don’t you?”
She wipes the grease off my face with the back of her hand.
“Come on, let me have a taste,” she says, twisting off a corner of the dough with her fingers. Then she straightens up and starts for home. I don’t ask her anything and set off after her. Mamma in front; me behind.
2
MADDALENA DIDN’T COME UP IN CONVERSATION again. I thought Mamma must have forgotten or changed her mind. But then, a few days later, a nun came to the house, sent by Padre Gennaro. The nun knocked at the door and Mamma peeked out the window and said: “Now what does this penguin want?”
The sister knocked again, so Mamma put her sewing down and opened the door a crack, so the nun could only get her face in. It was all yellow. The nun asked if she could come in, and Mamma opened the door a little wider, but you could see she really didn’t want her there. The nun said Mamma was a good Christian and Our Lord sees everything and His creatures do not belong to their mothers or their fathers; they are all God’s children and, anyway, the politicians want to send us all to Russia, where we’ll all be killed and nobody will ever make it back home. Mamma didn’t say a word. She’s really good at keeping quiet. After a while, the nun was bored and left. So I asked Mamma: “Do you really want to send me to Russia?” She picked up her sewing again and started muttering to herself: “What Russia? Russia, huh? . . . I’d like to see that sister on her own with a child . . . it’s easy to talk when you don’t have kids of your own. Where was that penguin when my Luigino fell ill, eh?”
Luigi would have been my big brother if he hadn’t gotten bronchial asthma as soon as he came into the world. In any case, by the time I came along, I was already an only child.
“Fascists, Communists, they’re the same to me; just like priests and bishops,” Mamma went on, because she doesn’t talk much to other people, but she does talk to herself quite a bit. “Up till now, it’s been nothing but hunger and hard work for me . . .”
If my big brother hadn’t had the bad idea of getting bronchial asthma, he would now be three years older than me. Mamma hardly ever says his name but she keeps a picture of him on her bedside table with a little red light in front of it. Zandragliona, the nice lady who lives in the ground-floor apartment right in front of ours, told me about it. She says Mamma was so sad, they didn’t think she would ever get over it. But then she gave birth to me, and she was happy again. Well, I don’t make her happy like he did. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be sending me to Russia.
I decide to go to see Zandragliona. She knows everything, and even if she doesn’t, she knows how to make it up. Zandragliona says they’re not taking me to Russia. She says that she knows Maddalena Criscuolo and that those women we saw want to help us; they want to give us hope. Well, I’ve got “hope” in my name because I’m called Speranza like Mamma Antonietta. My first name is Amerigo. Mamma said my father chose my name. I’ve never met him, and every time I ask Mamma, she rolls her eyes like it’s about to rain and she hasn’t had time to bring the washing in. She says he’s a truly great man. I think he must have gone to America to seek his fortune. “Will he ever come back?” I ask. “Sooner or later,” she answers. “I hope so,” I say. Well, that’s all he left me. My name. I suppose that’s something.
Since the news of the children’s train transports came out, the neighborhood is abuzz. Each person says something different: they’ll sell us and send us to America to work; they’ll take us to Russia and gas us; the bad kids will be sent off and the good ones will get to stay. Some don’t give a damn and carry on as if nothing is happening, because they are total ignoramuses. I’m ignorant, too, though in the neighborhood they call me “Nobèl” because I know so much. And because I talk a lot. I go around town. I hear stories. I stick my nose into other people’s business. No one is born knowing everything.
Mamma Antonietta doesn’t want me talking about her business. In fact, I don’t tell anyone that Capa ’e Fierro, Iron Head, has stashed packets of coffee under our bed. Nor do I say that Capa ’e Fierro comes to our house and locks himself in with Mamma. I wonder what he tells his wife? Maybe that he’s playing pool. He sends me out when he comes. He says he and Mamma need to get down to work. So I go out and look for stuff: rags, remnants, clothes American soldiers have thrown away, dirty tatters full of fleas. When he first started coming to the house, I didn’t want to leave them alone there. I didn’t like Capa ’e Fierro acting like he was head of the family. But Mamma said I had to show respect, because he helps put food on our plates and, anyhow, he knows people in important places. She said he’s a good salesman and that I should learn from him. That he could be my guide. I didn’t answer her, but since then, whenever he comes, I go out. Whatever scraps I bring back home, Mamma has to scrub, clean, and mend, and then we take them to Capa ’e Fierro, who has a stall at Piazza del Mercato. Every now and again, he manages to sell something to people a little less poor than us. In the meantime, I look at everyone’s shoes and count up the points on my fingers. When I get to ten times ten, something nice will happen: my father will come back from America, and I will be the one to throw Capa ’e Fierro out of the house, not the other way around.
Once the game actually worked, though. In front of the San Carlo Theater, I saw a man with such shiny, brand-new shoes that it earned me a hundred points straight off. And then, when I went home, Capa ’e Fierro was outside the door. Mamma had seen his wife on the Corso with a new handbag on her arm. Capa ’e Fierro said, “You have to learn to wait. If you wait, your time will come.” But Mamma said, “Today, you can wait,” and she didn’t let him in. Capa ’e Fierro lit a cigarette and walked away, his hands in his pockets. I followed him because it gave me a kick to see him disappointed. I called out to him.
“No work today, Capa ’e Fierro? Is it a holiday?”
He turned around and squatted down in front of me. He pulled on his cigarette and then blew little smoke circles into my face.
“Well, young man. Women and wine are the same. Either you dominate them, or they dominate you. If you let them dominate you, you go crazy. You are a slave to them. I’ve always been free and I always will be. Come. Let’s go to the osteria. Today, I’m going to introduce you to red wine. Today Capa ’e Fierro is going to make a man out of you!”
“Pity I can’t oblige you, Capa ’e Fierro,” I said. “I have things to do.”
“What could you possibly have to do, young man?”
“I have to go and look for rags, as usual. They’re worth nothing, but at least they put food on the table. Please excuse me.”
I left him there, the smoke rings vanishing into the air.
I put whatever rags I can collect into a basket Mamma gave me. Because the basket gets heavy when it fills up, I started balancing it on my head like I’d seen women do at the market. But carry it today, carry it tomorr
ow, my hair started falling out and I ended up with a bald patch on my head. That’s why she shaved my head, and I looked like a melon. It wasn’t head lice!
During my scavenging, I ask around whether anyone knows about the trains but nobody does. Tommasino says he’s not going, because they have everything they need at home, and his mother, Donna Armida, lacks for nothing. Severe Pachiochia, who commands a lot of respect in our neighborhood, says that these things didn’t use to happen when there was still a king in Italy; mothers didn’t use to sell their children. She says that these days there’s no longer any dig-ni-ty, and every time she says it like that, you can see her brown gums, as she clenches the few yellow teeth she has left in her mouth, and spits through the gaps. I think Pachiochia must have been born ugly, and that’s why she never found a husband, but we’re not allowed to say anything about this because it’s her weak point. That and the fact that she doesn’t have any kids. She once kept a little goldfinch, but it flew away. We’re not supposed to talk about the goldfinch either.
Zandragliona also never married. She’s still a signorina. Nobody knows why. Some people say she couldn’t decide among her many suitors and ended up on her own. Everyone says she’s quite rich and doesn’t want to share her money. Some say she once had a fiancé but he died. Or that she had a fiancé, but then she found out he was married. I say they’re all gossips.
Only once did Pachiochia and Zandragliona agree on something. That was when the Germans came all the way up to our street looking for something to eat, and our two neighbors put pigeon poop in the casatiello pie saying it was pork rind, which is a specialty of ours. The soldiers wolfed it down and said gut, gut! to Pachiochia and Zandragliona, who were poking each other in glee and laughing in their sleeves. We never saw the soldiers again, and there was never any punishment.
MAMMA ANTONIETTA HASN’T SOLD ME. NOT YET, anyway. But then, a couple of days later, I came home with my basket of rags and found Maddalena Criscuolo at the house. I said to myself: “Here we are. They’ve come to buy me, too!” So, while Mamma is talking to the lady, I’m spinning around the room like I’m half-crazy or something, and whenever they ask me anything, I either don’t answer or I stammer and dribble on purpose. I’m trying to look like I’m brain-damaged so they won’t want to buy me anymore. Who would be so dumb as to buy a cripple or a stutterer, huh?
